(There have been a few—very few—times in my life when I’ve internally felt that God wanted me to write something. This is one of those times. I’ve lightly edited the post, to remove typos. )
As I write this, it’s 8:00 on Sunday evening. The sun is going down and turning leaves to gold. Sunsets in my part of the world are beautiful. The herb garden on my porch is in shadow. I’m listening to piano music and I’ve just gotten out of the tub, so I’m in my pajamas and a deep pine colored robe that my sister got all the bridesmaids for her wedding last June.
I think everyone has hard months in their year. I know for one friend of mine, it’s February. TS Elliot said that April was the cruelest month. For me—and it’s taken me a few years to realize this—it’s June.
I didn’t really notice this until about three or four years ago, but I was always tetchy in June. I was angry, sad, depressed—I just wanted to be away from everyone. I felt sad for no reason. June was—and is—hard.
But now that I’ve thought about it, I think it’s because it was the month before my transplant. It was a month I spent in the hospital, on the knife edge of death. My body was so worn out that I slept most of the time, and the nurses and doctors didn’t even tell me to eat or schedule PT. Looking back, that was a huge red flag. It was like everyone really knew what was going on but me. I had just finished working my first state budget in the Senate. I thought I was just tired. But really, I was very close to dying.
So June has seared itself on my brain and in my body as a rough month. It was a very prolonged near-death experience and I don’t think I’m being dramatic to say that. I had the daily energy to brush my teeth and maybe get dressed. That was it, most days.
June is a lovely month, with a lot of celebration in it—both my parents’ birthdays, my grandmother’s birthday, my sister’s wedding anniversary, and my parents’ wedding anniversary.
But it’s also really hard for me.
And right now, it seems to be extra hard for all of us.
A former priest from my parish wrote this letter in his parish’s bulletin, and as I read it, I kept thinking, yes. Yes. This is what I’ve been wanting to say and had no idea how to say it.
Normally in this month I ask for—and get—a lot of grace from my people. I usually up my dose of anti-anxiety medication in June. I give myself lots of grace. By the time July rolls around, I feel better.
What I’m suggesting is that we all give each other, right now, lots of grace.
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The reason I chose the art at the top of this post is because when I write here, I write like I talk. I write to you like I would talk to you if you were here at Orchard House and we were sitting at my table having tea or coffee or cocoa. I’m not trying to impress you with my words and logic. I’m just talking, sharing myself with you. That’s what I’m doing now. I’m sharing these thoughts that have been in my heart for the past eight days, and longer.
It is OK to be quiet, to think, to withdraw and not know what to do or what is going on. Jesus did this, often, in the Gospels. I know that’s a somewhat controversial point right now. And I don’t say it to mean stick your head in the sand and pretend everything is fine. Because, Lord knows, all of us have had a really rocky last three months or so. A lot of things aren’t fine.
Give yourself grace. Give your friends and family and neighbors grace. Give space. Take your own space. We do not have to have every answer to every problem right now. If you’re feeling compassion fatigue, I gotcha.
If you’ve ever read The Secret Life of Bees, you might remember the character of May, who felt things so deeply that she had to write the horrors she saw or heard about on a piece of paper and put them in her wailing wall in the backyard. And one night, she felt so much, and was so lost in the pain, that she went into a river and drowned herself.
I don’t want you to drown yourself. I don’t want to drown my own self.
Feeling things is good. Working to change things is good and necessary. As Christians, we are called to be light to the world and salt of the earth. We are called to love. St. Teresa of Avila said that Christ has no body now but yours, and that’s true. We are his body, his millions of bodies, in the world.
But—If you feel yourself being a meaner, harder version of yourself, you might need some quiet.
It’s all too easy in our world to get caught up in the 24 hour news cycle, in social media, in constant alerts. Lord knows I’ve been there, and I do use social media. But I always try to use it intentionally.
One of the things I always want to do, in anything I write or post, is show you that even in hard times, in darkness, God is with us. He doesn’t abandon us. An imperfect life can still have joy.
We have to fight for joy. And we have to trust God, that His promises hold, and that He is going to taken care of us, the way he takes care of the sparrows. We are made in his image—all of us—and we are inestimably valuable to him.
Have you seen Jesus of Nazareth? It’s one of my family’s favorite movies. There’s a scene where someone has asked Jesus some question—I forget what it was—and Jesus rounds on the man, his eyes flashing, and he says “Everyone! Everyone is welcome at my father’s table!”
That’s the truth, y’all. EVERYONE IS WELCOME. EVERYONE IS ALLOWED. EVERYONE IS LOVED AND CHERISHED AND OF INESTIMABLE WORTH.
So, we remember that. We know that. And if we don’t know it, we need to learn it quick.
So, what do we do with this?
What did Gandalf say? “All we can do is decide what to do with the time that is given us”?
Light drives out darkness. Love drives out hate.
Only God can save any of us.
What does God what you to do? What is His call for you, reader? How do you spread light and love into your own little corner of the world?
If the world is “too much with [you], late and soon”, it is OK to step back. Sometimes that’s even necessary. I remember after a really bad clinic appointment, the social worker once told me to go to a bookshop, get a coffee, and then drive home and read.
This isn’t the same as saying, “Ignore what bugs you! IGNORE IGNORE LA LA LA IGNORANCE!”
It’s, “Right now, you are wounded. You are broken. You are sad. You need to do something to stop the bleeding—physical or metaphorical-and heal yourself. Then, and only then, can you go out and face the dragons you need to face.” Someone who is bleeding out in an ER cannot serve anyone, because he is close to death. He needs others to serve him, so that he can live.
Mother Teresa had this written on her “business cards”:
