On Falling and Being Held
The place you would fall becomes
in falling
the place you are held.
~David Whyte | Millennium
It’s an easy mistake to make to believe that once you’ve lived through something enough to write a book about it, that you’re somehow on the other side of it. Even though you know better. Even though you know there is no actual other side of it. This is the fragmentation of this pandemic season—your brain knows something terrible is happening, and even as you acknowledge this, there is another reality playing at the same time.
There is the reality that in many ways, nothing has changed, you’re still homeschooling, you’re still doing laundry, still making dinner, talking with friends through screens—but then it hits you— now, that’s the only way you’re talking to them. And then you remember that there are no dance leotards, riding breeches or Taekwondo uniforms making their rounds in the washer because those things, are canceled.
Everything has changed.
And just like that, the other reality squeezes you. Things are different. Things will never be the same again. Not the old way, not like they were. The losses will leave their mark. You are being transformed—into what—you don’t yet know.
We meet at the labyrinth in the rain. We do not greet in our usual way. We do not hug. We do not touch each others arm or shoulder. We walk together, apart, to the place where we will pray. As we walk I remember that we had planned to walk a different labyrinth on retreat. We had planned to sit across a table, we would have hugged.
The tears well up quickly, and I cannot stop them.
A couple of weeks ago, when images of empty grocery shelves started appearing on social media and in the news, a persistent squeezing began in my chest. And a familiar memory surfaced. I’ve been here before.
My friend and I stand together, apart, at the edge of the labyrinth and gracious listener that she is, she hears my confession. I cannot keep it back, it spills, my tears fall, and the rain begins in earnest.
Pandemics, like other tragedies, work like a trowel in the soil of our hearts. If we are awake to it, the tilling happens. If we are not numb, the sting of what is unearthed shocks us into new places of awareness.
In the thick of grief, loss and assault, our gods are tested. (1)
I tell her about the anxiety that’s choking me.
On a scale of 1-10, my baseline is a 6, I say.
She listens without judgment. My chest feels so tight I can’t discern whether it’s anxiety or illness that’s seizing me. This season is unearthing a host of things I’ve buried. Things I thought I’d overcome, forgiven, forgotten, surrendered…
My life is a flagrant testimony of God’s abundance, but I realize at the edge of the labyrinth, that I am living with the belief that God is too small—not enough—
Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress
my eye is wasted from grief; my soul and my body also. (Psalm 31:9)
We pray in the rain, together, apart, and I step into the labyrinth feeling the cold and the rain, and the widening of my lungs with each breath, with each step. I let God all the way in, and only then do I realize how closed I’ve been to Him this whole time. How I’ve been holding clenched fists, a fearful heart, tight lips.
These moments of sharpened awareness of our own fragility come as an invitation. It’s here in the thick of trouble where we can experience God’s presence. (2)
As I walk, I listen. What I hear are birds, a few cars, the breeze ruffling pine limbs above me and my own breath coming back to me.
What I do not hear is condemnation. Disappointment. Frustration.
As I walk, I remember the Jesus who weeps, the God who is patient, the God who holds and heals and rescues. I remember the God who hides me in His feathers (Psalm 91:4).
I remember what is True.
Near the middle of the labyrinth I look down at my feet and notice the moss tucked between the stones. It’s bright and blooming, and it feels like a gift. God knows how much I adore moss, how it speaks to me of resilience and faithfulness, how it grows in hard places how it endures the trampling of feet, how it springs up in the darkness. In this tuft of bright-green life, I hear God reminding me of this. Reminding me of His faithfulness, and my own resilience rooted in Him.
Tears of grief over my wandering, turn to tears of relief.
For you are my rock and my fortress; and for your name’s sake you lead me and guide me; (Psalm 31:3)
Unhurried I walk out of the labyrinth with rain soaked boots and tear-stained cheeks breathing deeply for the first time in days. I’ve counted my losses, I’ve laid bare my contempt, I’ve confessed my fear and in this I am reminded that He has seen my affliction and known the distress of my soul (Psalm 31:7).
But you heard the voice of my please for mercy when I cried for help (Psalm 31:22).
In falling, we are held.
In surrender, we are saved.
I know this.
In fear, I had forgotten this.
In prayer, I remember.
[ Quotes (1) & (2) taken from Everything Is Yours, How Giving God Your Whole Heart Changes Your Whole Life]
Some additional resources I’m finding helpful this season
The Book Of Waking Up by Seth Haines
The Allender Center Podcast (Particularly the episodes entitled, “Love and Courage In A global Pandemic”)
The Presence Project Podcast by Rev. Summer Joy Gross
Everything Is Yours, How Giving God Your Whole Heart Changes Your Whole Life by me. It’s a humbling experience when God invites you to remember where you’ve been with Him, and uses your own history to minister back to you.
