March 29, 2020. Sunday. Grief. Sadness. Day 18 of Quarantine.
My heart has been heavy for the past 24 hours. Maybe it’s only when we stop, slow, rest that we’re actually able to feel the pain that’s been stirring inside us. Ouch. But maybe it’s also in that place of pain that Jesus finally shows up to meet us. God enfleshed in human skin, familiar with every emotion inside us. God in the boat, sleeping (sleeping?!) alongside us. He knows this pain, this ache, this sadness. He’s not surprised or ashamed by it.
I was the one who decided to climb into the boat with Jesus. No one forced me. I think I said “yes, sure, I’ll hop in,” when I was a teenager, hoping it was a choice that would be good enough to get me into heaven. Heaven sounded like a nice place, at least one most members in my family also seemed to be aiming for. But it wasn’t until much later in my life that I heard myself say yes to this invitation in a new way, very well knowing that following Jesus into a boat didn’t guarantee a life of super-spiritual serenity, no promise of pain free existence. Quite the opposite actually. This time, I sensed my “yes” would likely take me to a cross day after day. The text is pretty clear, Jesus’ words plainly instructive: give up your own way, take up your cross daily, and follow me. That call to follow has taken God’s people directly into darkness, straight into wilderness, to places every bone in our body would rather not go. But something in me desired to follow then and still desires to follow now. I can’t quite explain it.
So here I am. In a boat.
During a Lectio Divina practice this week, I noticed with new eyes how the disciples willingly chose to follow Jesus into a boat to trek across a lake, despite (I imagine) storm clouds on the horizon. (Matthew 8:23-27 NIV) At this point, the disciples would have already heard much of Jesus’ teaching and witnessed him performing many miracles—healing the epileptic and paralyzed, casting out demons, and curing leprosy for example. (I suppose had I been in the disciple’s shoes I would have followed Jesus too. He seems like an upstanding and trustworthy guy by human measures, and who wouldn’t want to be around someone who can eradicate disease at the touch of a hand?) Yet, as the wind and waves began breaking into the boat, the men were knocked off their feet with fear—mainly, fear of their own death. (“Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!”) Had these men already forgotten the miracles? (Have I?) Of course, Jesus calms the storm, the disciples are saved, and the men are amazed. Jesus has proven to be a Savior once again.
Like the disciples, I’ve felt my human vulnerability in new ways these past few weeks, painfully aware that: (1) the seemingly calm waters are about to get much choppier and (2) the boats of my neighbors seem to have a lot more holes, some buckling at a much quicker rate than mine. If I’m honest, that’s the source of my pain. On one hand, it’s the anticipatory grief spurred on by my brain’s ability to imagine countless unsatisfactory future scenarios, and on the other hand it’s guilt—which requires no further explanation. I know I’m not alone in these feelings and yet somehow I’ve convinced myself that I’m alone—in these feelings. This is where spiritual practice meets reality for me and why I’m convinced that the only way out of our suffering is through it, and the only way through it is in the disciplined practice of prayer, contemplation, and time alone with God. As I sat still in silence this morning, swimming deeply in feelings of grief, I meditated on the image of sleeping Jesus in the boat. I was in the boat too, having a panic attack. Suddenly, a smile appeared across Jesus’ face and with eyes still closed he said, “Megan, why are you so afraid? You’re with the Creator of the universe. Sit back down, take a deep breath, and come have a nap with me.” In my imagination, I cozied right on up next to Jesus and we slept together like siblings. Then he said, “I’m glad you’re with me in this boat,” and something in me was healed.
It feels risky to share this encounter because it seems so personal. Yet I have to trust that when we’re willing to share the ways God meets us personally, He can do what needs to be done to make the message universal. So I share this experience with that hope and expectation. Like you, I have no idea how this crisis is going to shake out, and I certainly have no idea how to live and move and be more than one single day at a time. What I do know is that moments like these—wrought with suffering, frustration, sadness, and uncertainty—are opportunities to open towards new, deeper ways of living. I’m reminded how much I need to anchor to a bigger story, one that assures me that physical death on this planet is merely a window to new life. And it really helps me to believe in a God who meets his people in skin and bones, fully incarnate and present to all the joys and burdens of human existence. That might not be the same reality for you and, if that’s the case, I still hope this reflection offers a glimmer of something alive in your own experience. (I would love to hear about it actually).
I’m aware that despite a morning filled with blue sky and birdsong there’s rain in the forecast for this afternoon. At the same time, I know that the impending storm is precisely what the Spring buds need to mature to their fullness. My husband is outside planting a garden as I type this, which seems like the silliest, most perfect thing one can do during a global pandemic. May the whole earth grow and be filled with glory. That’s my prayer today.