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quotas

Posted on by dailypax

“Careful, you may have used up your quota of miracles.” he whispered, with a deep regard and care for my trial.

Is it possible to indeed use up my quota of miracles? Is there such a thing? Does God keep track of the number of times He has helped, or provided in my time of need? Does He keep count? Could there possibly be an end to His grace, His love, and His mercy?

As though God were dispensing a commodity, something that could be used up. A natural thought, yet a wrong thought. Wrong because it misunderstands the nature of God.

He cannot limit Himself, for He is grace, He is love, and He is mercy. These are not things He gives away, they are the things that make up His being. He cannot run out of Himself.

Limit-less is He,
without boundaries,
without measure,
without tally or score.
Frivolous, spendthrift,
totally in love with me.

 

Bareroot Faith

Posted on by Lisa Marion

It’s that time again, time to prune my roses and select new bushes from the myriad of bareroot roses available this time of year. I’ve decided to add the new John-Paul II rose. A fragrant pure white rose with 5” blossoms. Bareroot roses are usually sold in January and February, which is their dormant season. They come packaged in plastic bags with their bare roots packed in sawdust. A healthy plant will have 3 or 4 bare canes protruding out of the bag. These ugly barren canes will eventually blossom and become a beautiful rosebush.

I remember when we first started our rose garden. We had lived in our home about 2 years and decided to tear out all the existing shrubs in the front yard and plant 12 bareroot roses. The whole family worked several days: digging holes, measuring fertilizer, opening bags, discarding sawdust and arranging the bare stocks. We attracted the attention of a neighbor boy, Chris. He sat and chatted with us each day. He was so curious about what we were doing. As we finished up that last day Chris said, “Can I ask you why you planted all these sticks in your yard?” It never occurred to me that Chris had never seen a bareroot rose being planted. He must have thought that we had lost our minds.

I began to explain how bareroot roses work. Chris’ young face revealed to me that he did not have enough life-experience to believe my “bareroot theory.” I encouraged him to watch the sticks over the next 5 months. I tried to support my “theory” by telling him I had planted sticks before and they do, in fact become roses by spring. As I reflected more on our conversation it struck me that faith is like planting bareroot roses. It is only with the knowledge of who God is and what he can do that we can faithfully carry on, looking for the eventual blossoms – even in the darkest, dormant seasons of our lives.

I remember one such period in my life, I’ve had many. It was early on in our marriage, my husband had an awful accident. The doctors didn’t think he would live, let alone walk or ever work again. During that time I struggled with suicidal thoughts and was prone to panic attacks. We lost everything in a matter of months – everything, our car, or home and our source of income, not to mention the toll it took on my young husband’s health. I took on a second job while he recovered. I rode a bicycle to and from work. Many times shopping at the market and somehow struggling home with milk and bread.

Throughout that year it was the faith of others that got me through. My parents mostly, they kept encouraging me, praying for me. I had never experienced the deep, deep feelings of isolation that engulfed me during those days, I was only 23. I wish I could tell you, I turned to God and I felt his presence along side me … I didn’t. I had no choice but trust those who knew God and knew that he was there – even though everywhere I looked there was little to no evidence of his presence or existence. What I experienced was just a small taste of the isolation that Christ felt in his last moments on the cross. His final words calling out, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matt 27:46)

I’ve come to understand that faith isn’t a “program” just something to follow to make hardships disappear. No, faith is what keeps me connected to God. But faith, just like everything else that is important to us, takes work. It takes discipline, a commitment to things that will grow our faith. Things like regular prayer and Bible reading, seeking God’s direction in everything, being connected to a church that will keep you accountable, and surrounding yourself with people of faith.

Odd, but at difficult times, it’s my spiritual disciplines that I want to abandon first. The natural thought is “Well, this isn’t working. There’s something more that I should be doing.” But it is during those times that spiritual disciplines are most important. Faith isn’t the end; it is a means to an end. The End is a closer relationship with God. Faith is what allows us rely on him, to get through those dark times – and emerge on the other side stronger and better prepared for the next challenge that life brings. Christ called out to God in those last moments; did God deliver him from the cross? No – God permitted the pain and sorrow because he had something bigger in mind.

Although I never presume to know the mind of God, I have learned that I can trust him, trust that he has something bigger in mind for me. I look back at that dark time in our marriage and I can see that God was at work and present. It gives me assurance and I can rest in the knowledge that he is present, regardless of how things might appear or the isolation that I feel. Just like my rose garden, there may only be sticks this winter, but I know I will have roses in the spring.

Deep Flooding and Deep Nourishment

Posted on by Lisa Marion

The flooding started shortly after I arrived. It was odd to see the water slowly rise all through the surrounding pecan orchard.

“Flood irrigation” she said. “They gradually flood the entire orchard floor, and it slowly and deeply waters the roots of the trees. It’s a very old farming technique.”

I’m fascinated by how much I don’t know. Flooding on purpose. As the days pass, I see the water level rising and reaching far and wide throughout the entire perimeter of the retreat center.

I wonder if this flooding helps me understand some of the deeply traumatic seasons of my life. I have felt the weight of flooding. Flooding that felt like drowning. So much on me, a flood of needs amid true lack. Desperate moments alone. I have seen hard things. Things you’re not supposed to see. Things you never share with anyone because the reality is too real.

The deep flooding provides a consistent watering. An odd modality of nourishment. I don’t think I like it, but as I continue to think on this “very old farming technique” of irrigation I begin to understand how the flooding in my life has led to this deep consistent experience of nourishment at my roots. I still don’t like it, but I understand it. And I’ve learned that God knows exactly how much flooding I can endure, and how much flooding I need.

As I walk around the grounds, I see the water almost reach the road. Along the surface of the ground, I notice small plants also benefiting from the flooding. Small patches of green proudly poke up through the water. It makes me think on those who have watched me struggle through my own flooding and have taken courage.

Near me I can see into the water, it is a bit muddy and small bits of nature float along. Yet in the distance the flood water takes on a clean shimmer, almost blue. A smooth blue shine, a glassy surface of light blue.

Blue? I think, why blue amid the vivid green trees with their strong brownish trunks. Then I see that the blue is reflection of the sky. The water reflects the heavens. My heart is lighter, I take moment to thank God for the flooding I’ve experienced, and I rest in the message of life around me.

 

Midway Through Lent

Posted on by Lisa Marion

Well, we’re halfway through Lent. I’m finally hitting my stride (with lowered expectations of myself). I’ve participated in over 35 Lenten seasons. Each one is different because I am different. I have succeeded some years and failed miserably in others.

Years ago, I gave up my opinion for Lent. When I share this with people, I usually get a giggle or a raised eyebrow. As funny as it seems I was surprised how much mental space was freed up in conversations as I stopped formulating what I would say next. I found myself truly listening to the other.

I tried to give up my opinion again this year … that hasn’t worked too well. Sigh.

I remind myself that my Lenten disciplines are not for God, but for me. They are a means to an end, but not the End itself. The goal is to use these spiritual disciplines to bring me closer to God, remembering His mercy, and experiencing His love.

At this halfway moment I wanted to share a sermon I found years ago while on private retreat in Conyers, GA. The sermon is an encapsulation of a longer piece called “On Loving God” by St. Bernard of Clairvaux. You can read the sermon here.

I encourage you to stop at this Lenten halfway mark and read it reflectively. Let me know what you think. I hope it will bring you the same comfort I found when I read it for the first time.

As always, I wish you peace.

~ lisa 

 

p.s. The original piece can be found in this archive. It is spiritually rich, but thick and translated from French. https://archive.org/details/on-loving-god-by-saint-bernard-of-clairvaux

Perfection

Posted on by Lisa Marion

“Everything is perfect, but there is a lot of room for improvement.” – Shunryu Suzuki Roshi

Curious how this Zen master’s quote summarizes the tension of being a Christian.

We strive for perfection; it’s in our DNA. The reality is, we are already perfect, in God’s esteem. As God is outside of time, He is experiencing all the different versions of me. I’m stuck, living constrained by time. I experience each moment in comparison to the last and in expectation of the next. I live in my mistakes without taking the past or the future into the consideration.

God on the other hand is experiencing me in light of the arch of my entire life. At once He’s witnessing not only the mistake, but what led me there and how it will resolve. He sees me changed by His mercy. He sees the old lisa and the new lisa and the perfected lisa in eternity. And He is pleased and loves all the in-between lisas.

In His eyes I am already perfect, yet I am constrained to only see me now. Perfect, yet with a lot of room for improvement. HAH! The rub. I am not to smugly sit back and rest in this state of other-worldly perfection, no.

I have work to do. Ridding myself of ego, of pride, of selfish ambitions. Daily trying to become more Christlike. I must remember in this difficult and confusing work; I am already loved, as I am.

So, lisa – put your head down, there is a lot of room for improvement. Work out your salvation with fear and trembling but remember your eternal worth.

Unconditional Love & Unconventional Forgiveness

Posted on by Lisa Marion

Recently my Spiritual Director passed away. He was a wonderful example of Jesus with skin on. He was a lover of the many people who visited the abbey where he had lived for over 50 years. He was an incredible mentor to me and loved me through a multitude of difficult situations. I miss him deeply. As I reflect on his death I am saddened by three things; the loss of this gentle man to the many who sought his help, my own loss of a wise and compassionate Spiritual Guide, and most importantly, I don’t want his wisdom to die with him. With that end in mind, I have set my heart to do my best to share the Wisdom of my friend Fr. Francis.

2015 left me in mourning. My husband of 34 years had lost a five-year battle with alcoholism. Found by a stranger, alone, and dead. The struggle was over. During those years my life had been hijacked by his destructive behavior. When I finally stepped aside to let him find his way, my life then was hijacked with guilt and shame. I had tried to stay strong, to remain at his side, as a dutiful Christian wife, while he struggled. However, the more I tried to help him, the deeper and deeper I sank into depression, confusion, and self-loathing. Surely with love I could find an answer to his problem. It became increasingly obvious that my love could not save him, and my helping was not – helping. When he died this illusion of failed helpfulness led me deeper into depression. Only now, there was nothing that I or anyone else could do to help. He was done. It was over. He was dead.

A small sense of relief led me down a path of more guilt and shame, it was almost too much to bear. I’m thankful my faith tradition offered me an opportunity to release the weight of these obsessive thoughts in the Sacrament of Confession (or Penance as it’s officially called).

My confessor, Fr. Francis, is two hours away. Two hours that provided me the opportunity to examine my part in my husband’s descent into alcoholism and death. Alone in the car I could formulate an extensive list as to why I was responsible for his death. The conflict between being a “good Christian wife” and trying to live a life with boundaries caused me so much agony.

“You should leave him.” Came as the battle cry from many, several among the clergy.

“Okay, yes, I should leave him.” But the real part, the part of their battle cry that caused me the deepest pain was the question,

“Where does it say in the Gospels that I can abandon this very sick man?” The battle cry was quieted, they could offer no answer.

As I arrived my confessor greeted me with his usual hug. A warm, comforting embrace that gave me the feeling of protection from a source outside myself.

“I want you to hear my confession.” I quietly whispered in the safety of his embrace.

“Okay.” Came the gentle reply whispered almost as quietly as my request.

Silently we walked to the abbey chapel and made ourselves comfortable in the wooded confessional room. Armed with an extensive list of my wrongdoings (formulated in the 2-hour car ride) I began, “Forgive me Father …” He interrupted me. “Lisa,” taking my hands into his he said, “Simply say you’re sorry for whatever part was yours.” Stunned by his kindness I said, “Lord, I am sorry for whatever part was mine.” He continued gently with the grace-filled prayers prayed after confession, and we were done. Grace and forgiveness for “whatever part was mine.” I couldn’t believe it was that easy.

It is a cunning lie that those who love an addict feel that – somehow – they’re to blame. That somehow, they were not smart enough, not quick enough, not crafty enough to solve the problem for the one they love. A wicked and powerful lie. Yet, in his compassionate wisdom Fr. Francis officially, lovingly, and somewhat unconventionally released me from the grips of this lie. He could have easily insisted I recount the sorted details of this painful season, sending me back to hating myself for not rescuing the one I loved. I had spent years examining my actions and inactions, constantly beating myself up. With love and gentleness and without more self-flogging, I was released from guilt and shame. Fr. Francis was truly the physical presence of a loving God to me during a time of little comfort and less love. A gift.

Have you ever experienced a gift like this? Pure grace and pure love! Sometimes we have to be in a really dark space before any light pours in! What could you let go of if you were in that confessional with Fr. Francis. What could his gentle loving kindness help you release? Can you simply ask God to release you from “whatever part was yours?” Can you believe it is that easy? Can you accept this kind of unconditional love and forgiveness? Fr. Francis truly showed me God’s love at that moment, and I endeavor each day to release the chaos of guilt and shame that tears down my heart. Love builds up, it never tears down. Thank you, dear Francis, for building me up with your tangible expression of God’s love.

A Word

Posted on by Lisa Marion

In the monastic tradition, the beginning of a new year often invokes the asking and giving of a “word.” Unfortunately, my Spiritual Director passed away this year and I’m on my own in the discernment of a word. The last word he gave me was “liminal.” Liminal is about being in one state while transitioning into another. I’m not there anymore, I have transitioned into that new state. Yet the word “liminal” was a gift to open my heart and transform my thinking while I went through a period of deep struggles.

For this season moderation keeps coming to mind. I have always struggled with a lack of moderation. I over fill, I over use, I over share, I drive too fast, I overdo most things, generally being driven to achieve and get things done. My younger sister shares this issue – so I wonder “what happened in our childhood that caused this lack of moderations?”

What is at the root? I look at my teapot. Tea spilt on the tray and my tea cozy is stained with overflowing tea. Too much cinnamon added this morning – carelessly. It’s everywhere. My chronic back pain is from insisting that I do things myself, carry too much, refusing to ask for help. I over cook most food – always, I spill – always. It’s like I don’t know when to stop or why I should. Is there some odd fear of not getting enough? missing out? Is it merely an issue of not paying attention? Or am I just slopping? (as my father always said)

My massage therapist suggests “balance” as my word. But I want to off-load things, most things. I don’t want balance, I want less. So, I asked Siri, “define moderation.”

She replied in her dry monotone voice: “Moderation is the avoidance of excess or extremes. The action of making something less extreme.”

Actively making things less extreme! Ok, how do you do that? Maybe I do have some control over this. “Avoidance of” and “the action of.” To avoid and to take action. As I’ve been musing with this idea, it is curious that the word moderation showed up in a reading in church a few Sundays ago.

                “Let your moderation be known unto all mankind.” Phil 4:5

To be known for my moderation. That’s a lovely thought, but it will take some work. So, in we go – a deep dive into original languages and other translations.

The original Greek = epieikes; seeming, suitable, equitable, fair, mild, patient, and gentle. Humm, gentle. Not a word that I usually use to describe myself. Other English versions of the Bible translate this work epieikes into graciousness, forbearance, considerate, gentle behavior, gentle spirit, and simply gentle.

A tall order from someone who struggles to NOT overfill her tea pot. But as this word persists in my consciousness, I will embrace it. This will involve slowing down, being present, and working to avoid excesses and extremes. I’m not sure what this means, but I know this is possible with the help of a loving God who does desire moderation for me. A gift for a new year, help to become more moderate, to become more gentle, ultimately to become more Christlike.

What about you? Have you mused on your word for the next season? Reach out to someone who knows you. Those in our lives often know what we need before we know ourselves.

 

Resolutions for the Illusion We Call 2025

Posted on by Lisa Marion

I don’t like categorizing a year as being a “good” or a “bad” or recounting “who we lost this year.”

Years are illusions. The marking of a “year” is a construct devised by a Supreme being who exists outside of “time.” A gift to help us carve up the tyranny of time that we are forced to sludge through. We mark the beginnings and ending of seasons with dates. We bracket them between January and December.

These months back up to one another separated by this illusion, like the Bering Strait. One side of the strait is the US the other side is Russia, and a whole day separates these two countries. They are a continuation of the same land mass, but to us they remain separated, in an illusion, like December and January. We want to compartmentalize the years and the good or bad things that the “year” brought us. In a way I think this is where the idea of “seasons” and “not forevers” helps us frame time – it is a gift. When the year brought good things, we celebrate and move forward hoping the trend will continue, but if the year brought bad, disrupting things, we turn our backs on December looking to the hope that January will bring – sorry December, you’re so last year.

Years as “gift?” God established them as such when he created the world. On the 4th day “God said, ‘Let there be lights in the firmament of the heavens to divide the day from night; and let them be for signs and seasons and for days and years.’” … for signs and seasons. So, I ask, “Lord, what signs and seasons will I experience in 2025? What will you show me, and what will I experience?” I assume things (good and bad) will happen to me. This passage speaks nothing of goals or dreams, only the expectation that there will be signs and seasons. These are things I have no control over, as I know from my 60-odd years of living. Yet wisdom has taught me, I do have control over myself. To that end I set these objectives – loosely – for myself in the illusion we’ll call 2025.

In 2025 I want to be kinder, I want to pray better, I want to write more, I want to meet my obligations with cheerfulness, I want to work, deeply on the projects that matter, and I want to say less and love more.

Reviewing this list, I think I’m being a bit optimistic. Maybe I should reflect on what I don’t want to do in this next season. Are prohibitions easier to keep than objectives?

In 2025 I want to STOP engaging in negative words about … everything and everyone! I want to be known as a person who never utters a negative word. This must start with my thoughts; therefore, in 2025, I want to STOP engaging with negative thoughts. I want to see and seek the best in everyone, in every situation, and in every encounter. No matter where I find myself. I want to see others as God sees them. I want to understand the backstory of people. God has an advantage on me here, in that He already knows the backstory. So, I will actively set my judgments aside and trust Him – asking for His wisdom as I attempt to grow in love for others.

If I can rid myself of these two things I believe I will become more Christlike in the season to come. What a lovely thought. That indeed will be a “good” year.

Seven Things [not] to do this Holiday Season

Posted on by Lisa Marion

My social media feed is full of creative projects, recipes, and shiny holiday craft ideas. I’m intrigued at all the stuff of these imaginative people. Yet all these ideas muddy my already busy life and full schedule. Perhaps this season is a time where less might be more. So, I’d like to share some of my own creative ideas for this season, of things NOT to do. I hope they give you the space you need to have an intentional holiday season.

  1. Don’t Say “Yes” to Everything, Give Yourself Permission to Say “No”

Politely say “No thank you” to something, anything. A party, a gift exchange, or the premiere of a movie release. This hardly sounds right, especially in this season of gatherings and activities. But there are only so many hours in the day, and a limited number of days to accomplish everything. In a season of running here and there, accepting every invitation and activity is unrealistic. It is ok to turn down an offer. Give yourself to intentionally evaluating how you will spend the precious time you have.

  1. Don’t Have Expectations

Let’s be honest, people don’t always behave as we would wish them to, especially during the holidays. This year, try and accept everyone as they are, without the expectation of them being different – if you know that certain aunt is going to say something unkind, do not be disappointed when she does. You could beat her to the punch by saying something nice to her. Find the peace that comes from within. Don’t allow another person’s behavior to disturb your holidays … If this tactic is not practical, revisit #1.

  1. Don’t “Should” on Yourself

My holidays are often full of my own sharp self-critique, expectation issues again. I obsess on how I could have done better. My mind is full of “shoulds.” I “should have” spent more money on his gift, or I “should have” sent my Christmas letter earlier, or I “should have” shopped in October. The season demands a lot, be gentle and accept yourself as you are, not as you think you “should” be.

  1. Don’t  Try and Do Everything, Let Go of Something – Anything

I remember the year I stopped sending Christmas cards. I had ordered a huge batch of those clever postcard-photo things. They never went out, and I discovered that NOT sending mass Christmas cards did not cause any harm. And it was one less thing I “should” have done. Find something on your list that you can let go, and let it go (cue annoying “Frozen” music here).

  1. Don’t Forget the Reason for the Season

I know a trite, overused phrase, but it is a good one. Remember the first Christmas was a simple one. A young woman bore a sweet warm child in a humble stable. The couple had each other and not much more. We recently celebrated St. Nicholas Day. I mused, “What would this Godly man, a Bishop actually, think of the crazy commercialism that now characterizes this blessed season?” As Christians we should not only remember the “reason” behind the “season,” but we should take the time to think on the gift that Christ is, not only to us, but to the lost and dying world. This reality should be reflected in all we do and say.

  1. Don’t Be Extra, Exercise Moderation

I have NEVER regretted using moderation, whether it’s in drinking, eating, shopping, or talking. I will exercise moderation by not expounding more on this simple principle.

  1. Don’t Skip Rest

It is tempting to stay up late to wrap gifts, or address cards, or complete a project, or clean … but overextending oneself can lead to fatigue, which can lead to illness and irritability. It seems counter-intuitive, but rest might be MORE important during the holidays. Don’t skip the time your body needs to renew and refresh itself.

Talk Less, Listen More

Holidays are wonderful, but not for everyone. Perhaps this is true for you. We all have expectations and unspoken desires. These get pushed aside with all the hustle and bustle. Allow yourself to step away from all that chaos. Stop and listen to those around you. Give them 100% of your attention, be fully present in each moment. The best gift we can give is ourselves and our genuine interest in the other. Yes, even if it’s your mean aunt.

Before the chaos fully engulfs you, take an intentional 30 minutes to reflect on these “Don’t Dos.” Look at the simple questions below. Go further and set a timer, get out a journal, and turn your phone to airplane mode. Be still and listen. The holidays will come and go, and they will become the fabric of our memories. Accept your limitations this year and create good memories. I’d love to hear what resonated with you. Email me if you want to chat about it.

  1. What are my goals for this holiday season?
  2. Where do I KNOW I will struggle?
  3. What will I do, intentionally overcome or avoid this barrier?
  4. Which of Lisa’s ideas resonate most with me? And why?  

Sabbath Rest

Posted on by Lisa Marion

My faith has been deepened by allowing Scripture to engage my imagination. The idea of a Sabbath Rest following the awful events of Good Friday has always fascinated me. I hope you enjoy my thoughts on that first Holy Saturday.

It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning. The women who had come with him from Galilee saw the tomb and how his body was laid. Then they returned and prepared spices and ointments. On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment. Luke 23:54-56

Whose idea was a day of rest anyway? She thought. Remembering it wasn’t that long ago that he healed a crippled woman on the Sabbath and in the Temple too. That really angered the priests. The silence in the room was deafening, looking at the other women in the house she couldn’t understand how they all sat so still. The preparations had been made, yet the awful events of the previous day tortured her mind, as did the smell of his blood on her. She had stood near his cross and watched it flow, mixed with some watery substance. It splashed all over her and the group that stood together in disbelief. Then it was warm and fragrant, now it was sticky and itched. The dryness made her rub her arm without thought, some relief. But there would be no relief from the images and sounds that ran wild in her mind, the heavy dark wood, the sound of the hammer pounding, those thorns, the blood. It all caused her to tingle inside. Once the preparations had been made, there was nothing to do but “rest.” The slow movement of the sun kept them caged, prisoners of the ancient rest. Each woman left with her own sorrow to bear. No one had slept. Someone sobbed all night long, she tried to muffle her sorrow, to no avail, they all felt the same deep anguish and silently mourned with her.

She had had many sleepless nights, but the loneliness she once suffered was gone. Although surrounded by faithful friends she could almost hear those cold hollow voices, teasing her again. Would her “darkness” return? Was this new circle of friends enough to sustain her? Had he taught her enough to make it on her own? Could any of them make it without him? How was it that those hypocrites had won? What went wrong? She shook her head to lose the thoughts – Sunrise, the time would pass, and she would be free to go to him and fulfil the ancient customs of preparing his body – at least her hands would be busy and hopefully her mind wouldn’t wander. Being busy might prevent her doubts from engulfing her. The waiting was miserable. They barely got him in the tomb before the sun had gone down. The walk back to the house was wretched – at least they knew where he had been laid. She felt sorry for the men. She had been a witness to what happened, although it was awful at least she had been there for him. Unlike the men who had to hide – but she was a woman, and one that could easily go unnoticed. Finally, her infamy worked to her advantage. It was painful to watch him die, but maybe her presence brought him some comfort. The men wouldn’t have that consolation. For the first time she thanked God that she was a woman.

Her thoughts drifted back to his lifeless body alone in the dark, cold tomb; unprepared, rotting. Nothing could be done until the Sabbath passed. She waited for the sunset. She used to dread the sunset – the darkness, the loneliness. In the darkness she was alone, so much confusion. Hands and faces; strange men and their reproachful eyes. Their sweaty foul bodies near her, on her. The humility, the clicking tongues. The dark voices and shifting shadows, and there always was the overwhelming dread of lost memories. Her days were full of scornful looks and uncertainty of what had happened during the night. But he had delivered her from all that. If she could get through this day, she would have the opportunity to serve him, again, to honor him, lovingly devoted to caring for his body. It was the least she could do after all he had done for her … the way it should be. But now – this insufferable Sabbath rest. It was a torturous episode of constrained mourning, sitting, and thinking. The hunger gnawed her insides, no one had time yesterday to prepare food for this Sabbath. Slowly the sun withdrew its light from the sky, the new day began.

Finally, work could begin again, a chance to bathe. The water was cool against her dry itchy skin. The relief was overwhelming. She felt a quiet sorrow at washing his life’s blood off her, but the clean felt so good. Her thoughts drifted back to his body. She wondered if she could bear to see him dead. It was one thing to watch his life’s spirit leave his limp, broken body, but it would be another to see him, cold and stiff. The other women spoke calmly as they dressed for bed. She wasn’t calm, her body was finally clean but the scratchy feelings inside remained. When he died, her hope died. She began to wonder how long it would be before her “darkness” would overtake her. The voices were returning, although dim, she could hear their jarring. They brought back doubt. No! She wouldn’t give into doubt. She stood up quickly and joined the other women as they packed for the morning, the embalming spices and fresh linen, a bit of flat bread, a jar of water. Each of them longed to see him again; but they all knew this would be the last time.

Carefully finishing their preparations, the women readied themselves for sleep. Settling in, her mind drifted back to their first meeting. She could almost hear the warmth of his prayers for her deliverance. His voice pierced the hum of cold voices that had engulfed her for years. His hands were strong yet kind and gentle as he helped her stand. She remembered how her body squirmed and twisted and the groans and growling her “darkness” made as it left her body. She lashed out at him in a voice that was not her own, spitting words of defiance. Then – gone, the darkness departed and all she should see was his face, his strong dark face, smiling at her. This memory brought her deep peace and her body finally rested.

The quiet movement of the women woke her. They all knew what needed to be done, they dressed and prepared without discussion. The sky was still dark but there was enough light to see the pathway. The fresh air was filled with so many smells, smells of life, not of death. The long day of waiting was over. The women glanced back and forth at one another, now the dread of uncertainty plagued them. Someone whispered something about the stone. Who was strong enough among them to move it? No one had thought of that, maybe together they could budge it. As they walked their pace quickened. Another woman heard a rumor that guards had been placed by the tomb. In all their preparation, no one had thought of these obstacles, it didn’t matter. Their one thought was the care of his body, a proper burial. It seemed to take an eternity to get there. It was brighter now, and the pathway was clear. As they hurried along the air was suddenly filled with a loud noise. The ground underneath her feet began to move. More noises, as they came around the last curve in the pathway, they could see the tomb where he had been laid. The stone was already moved, the earth’s movement must have shaken it loose. One of the women reached the tomb quickly. Gone! His body was gone. In panic and disbelief, the women began to sob and scream. They dispersed. Her heart was broken; she felt her chest would burst. Could she stand much more torment?

Without thinking she began to run. She knew where his men were hiding. It was time for them to do something. Down the path, into town, she knew they’d still be in the upper room. She thrust the door open. Her voice was shrill, she couldn’t control her anguish. At her words they jumped up at once. A few of them pushed her aside and began to run. They had also been suffering during the long distressing Sabbath, but now they were free, free to act. They ran wildly to the crypt. It was true, his body was gone. She followed them, hopelessly lost in the confusion.

Weeping, she wandered the garden surrounding the tomb, she was alone again. The murky whispers began to return – the darkness teasing at her vision, lost in utter despair, she stumbled to the ground. Her face and hair wet with tears, she saw someone standing near her. Surely, he must have moved his body or at least seen what had happened. She begged him to tell her where the body was, in her anguish she promised to retrieve him no matter where it had been taken to. She needed to finish what she had set out to do that day, to anoint him, to prepare him for his final rest. If she could only do this one closing act of obligation, she would have lived with a purpose. Even if the darkness overtook her, she needed to find his body and care for it. She fell to the ground lost in her mourning, begging for answers. Quietly a warm familiar voice answered, “Mary.”

If you’re interested in exploring how your imagination can deepen your faith, try my Contemplative Exercise for Holy Saturday by click here.