...reflections anticipating pascha.
I am Lazarus, and with him I wait in darkness. Waiting for the voice of Christ calling: come forth!
I am the prodigal, who daily wanders far from my inner home, but who is winding my way back in holy moments as well, trusting in a Holy Father full of love who waits for me.
I am Saint Mary of Egypt...quietly in the desert. I'm still in the "first seventeen years" that are described in her hagiography...still in the hard part. Learning to pray. Have not found peace yet. Just a longing.
And an exhaustion. I am exhausted. I'm tired.
Physically...I've been in a hard fibro cycle for at least a couple of months now, with no let up in the pain and exhaustion or one or the other. I try to bear up under it. I try to say "no" and set boundaries, and plan my life in such a way that I won't end up at the end of my rope at the wrong time or in the wrong place. Mostly I do OK until about 6 pm. Then I'm just useless. I don't know HOW I'm going to handle the evening services this week. Maybe I just won't.
Emotionally...I'm dealing with my daughter's dx, and trying to learn how to best help her. And other health stuff going on amongst my kids. Overwhelmed. That's how I feel. Who would have thought I'd have a "special needs" kid or three? Can I please rewind to those naive years when I thought I was strong and that breastfeeding would prevent every ill?
Spiritually...I"m there. But in a quiet, desperate "I have no energy" sort of way. I am just a lump of clay and I"m OK with that. But conversely I'm plodding along, doing what needs doing each day. Growing. Somehow I"m growing...I think.
I go and sit in Church, when I can, and it washes over me. I pray when I can. Sometimes I'm too exhausted to even move my lips. So I just sit. Sometimes I"m too exhausted to hold myself up on the pew, could'nt even contemplate standing. So I go lay down on a couch in the nursery and stare at the photocopied Icon of Jesus hanging on the wall to remind the kids of a long past Sunday school lesson. It's good enough. I quietly pray the Jesus prayer and wonder if my exhausted utterings reach higher than the ugly dropped ceiling where my gaze mostly lands.
I feel like the widow with the mite. My little paltry alms are nothing. And yet they seem to require so much from me that it's pathetic.
I am Lazarus and I"m waiting for Pascha. I am Job, and I"m sitting on the ash heaps.
Yet will I praise him, my saviour and my God.