The moment my baby boy was born he was placed on my chest where he rested quietly
for the next four hours. We were each attended to with him lying right
there. He gazed at me and blinked but mostly he was still and watchful as
we began the process of seeing one another.
I did not experience childbirth as particularly painful; rather,
intense.intense.intense, and demanding complete focus, relaxation, and
calm. I felt good when he arrived but I was admittedly exhausted. It had been hard work. Very hard work. "Thank you Jesus!" were my spontaneous
words when he finally emerged.
Three days later I stepped into the shower at home and the tears finally came,
streaming until the water ran cold. I
believe tears are one of the body’s deepest languages. There was simply so much to express…my entire
life frame moving from pregnancy to labor to birth in a matter of hours, the
profoundly cellular engagement every nerve of my body participated in during
those hours. There is no way to process any
of it as it happens…you just move through it moment by moment and go about the
integrating work later. But that work happens
on the go, blended with the early days of having a newborn and moving into a
new life. Over the coming weeks and months I would find myself at my wits’
end, depressed and feeling utterly lost.
It seemed nothing was the same and I was unfamiliar to myself. I was tired, yes, although that wasn’t the
hardest part. My baby had a dream temperament but I was in the throes of
an adjustment that felt more like crawling through thick mud at midnight.
There were some very, very dark days. I recall one afternoon when my
sweet babe was barely a month old, sitting with him in the bedroom, tears drenching
my face and thinking, "I have
died. Something in me has died, and it's just going to be this way. Maybe in a few years I’ll come back but right
now I’m just gone.”
Richard Rohr calls the soul the place where the human meets the divine. While my prayer upon my son’s birth was a two
word offering of gratitude, my prayers during the ensuing several months were
one word long. Or less. And some combined with words I rarely use. And there were lots of those prayers. I gave up mascara for the first few months
because I cried so much. I don’t recall
exactly but I think the leaves had turned colors before my husband could leave
for work most days without seeing me in tears. But
trying to feel God in the midst of the blur kept me closer to some semblance of
self-connection even as I felt pretty unhinged.
Often crying was all the language I had, and I used it unsparingly. I had to.
And I couldn’t help but do it. I
had to voice what was going on in some way.
And it helped remind me that I was actually alive, with a sliver of hope
in my heart. My soul was right there.
I don't have strong traditions around Lent, but this year Jonathan and I are
reading through a collection of poetry, one each evening. The poets range
from Alcuin to Anne Bradstreet to
Bob Dylan, and span several centuries with everything from slave spirituals to church hymns to modern
day jazz lyrics. We're loving it. A couple weeks ago I posted a beautiful
piece from Joyce Rupp and this evening I have to share George Herbert's
thoughts on prayer. Prayer can be a bit of a moving target...it's not an
end in itself but it somehow seems prone to gathering moss along the way,
becoming a 'technique' with a list of required elements, and often laden with
expectation. Herbert disallows that. His list is a little more sunny than I’d like
– there are some less “pretty” ways of authentically praying that he doesn’t
mention – but I like it nonetheless. There
have been times when I’ve borrowed ancient prayers and times when I’ve cried
out with a simple “Help” and times
when my heart was simply known to God. I’m
confident we could all add our own lines to Herbert’s list...the varied ways in which people pray is limitless. For me, this sonnet underscores the living
nature of prayer, the breathing of it.
As I reflect this Lent on the past several months, I’m grateful – deeply
grateful – for the voice of prayer, for the intertwining of rest and movement
in life even when it feels stuck, and that prayer, even when all seems as dross,
is yet dynamic as a reach toward hope and liveliness.
Prayer the Church's banquet, Angels' age,
God's breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;
Engine against th' Almightie, sinners' towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-daies world-transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear;
Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The Milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bels beyond the stares heard, the soul's bloud,
The land of spices; something understood.
Prayer (I) by George Herbert, 1633
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©2014 Mindy Danylak (except George Herbert poem)
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