Tuesday, March 6, 2012

On Barricading, Boxes and Crying Strangers


“I don’t wanna be here I don’t wanna be here I don’t wanna be here.” Thus the refrain running through my head as I sat in church this past Sunday. I didn’t walk in with this feeling of geographic discontent, but it hit pretty quickly and just kept growing - I was suddenly and irretrievably peopled-out. I kept imagining a me-sized box sliding down over my head, barricading me from everyone else. I might have tried escape, but I was hemmed in on both sides by people at the ends of the pew. I closed my eyes, working on the toddler-worthy assumption that “if I can’t see you then you can’t see me,” and wished the world away.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw a woman in the pew in front of me - a visitor, I knew, since she had introduced herself during the welcome. And she was crying. This is not as outlandish as it may seem, since this was a service about healing physical and emotional wounds, but there she sat, this stranger, crying.

“Go to her,” I heard in my head. Ignoring that with some alacrity, I promptly closed my eyes again.

“Go to her,” I heard again, and this time I gave fight to whatever part of my better nature was prompting me: “She doesn’t know me from Adam, she doesn’t want some stranger hanging around her when she’s feeling vulnerable, she’s probably craving solitude right now just as much as I am.” Eyes still closed.

“Go to her,” reaffirmed the obnoxiously placid yet insistent voice, heeding my objections not at all.

Oh, fine.

I crept out of my pew, sat down beside the crying woman I didn’t know, and after checking with her to see if it was okay, put my arms around her. And I just sat with her as she cried. Eventually she started telling me of her sorrow, and eventually I found myself crying with her, and there I sat for the rest of the service.

She was visiting from out of town and I’m not likely to see her again. I have no way of knowing if I ministered to this woman or not, but I do know that she ministered to me. In sitting for just that moment with her sorrows and brokenness, I was called for just that moment to recognize and let go of mine. By sitting with a crying stranger, I felt the touch of healing.

2 comments:

  1. Wow! What a powerful posting! You truly do have your finger on your spiritual pulse for you to hear it so strongly despite your desire to fade into a box on your head. Me, on the other hand, I have felt the spirit/divine (whatever you want to call it) so lacking from my life lately. It seems these days that everything else has taken front and center stage: my health, work, relationship issues. I try to carry love in my heart for the people I know to be suffering, for my sometimes not-so-nice thoughts, etc. I want to be open to the divine, but I believe the spirit is rather silent for me. I read in Mother Teresa's bk how she struggled for years b/c she did not hear God's voice. Yet she persisted to be an example of love to her dying day. I'm not expecting to hear God's voice - maybe just a sign that I am part of something larger than myself. But if Mother Teresa can go on, then I must be able to take comfort in the appreciation of friends and strangers alike. And according to Buddhism, as soon as I desire something more, I will not find that happiness or release from desire.

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    1. Thanks for the comment. Maybe the spirit isn't silent so much as speaking to you in different ways, such as through Mother Teresa's book.

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