Saturday evening, instead of our regular Saturday worship, we instead planned a Thomas Mass. Basically, this means that instead of there being a sermon, there are instead a handful of stations for worshipers to visit, to interact with the day's lessons on their own, and to encounter God in a different, more hands-on way than listening to a sermon. These services, when we do them, are quite beautiful. At Saturday's, we had a prayer wall set up where people could post their prayers, we had a station where you could explore your faith journey through creating art with the assistance of a visual artist from the congregation, we had a station set up outside to burn prayer doves and watch the smoke rise up to God, we had a station for confession where you would place glass stones in the font as a symbol of reconciliation, and then, as we always do for these services, we had a station for anointing and healing.
When I write the words "anointing and healing," and then also include the phrase "laying on of hands," I shy away a little bit. It's hard to put those words out there and not evoke images of crazy televangelists or other suspicious sorts of faith-healing images. Really, the healing station is mostly about being prayed for. The laying on of hands is a symbol of care, and a gesture of blessing, and for us, it is a practice executed with a very ancient-faith vibe to it. And the anointing is a beautiful reminder of baptism. I have been on the giving end of healing stations like this. I have also been on the receiving end.
Saturday night, I floated from station to station, smelling the smoke in my hair from the fire outside, observing our artist-in-residence at work, participating in stations and sneaking quiet moments for reflection and prayer. As much as I knew that I was a prime candidate to visit the healing station, I really didn't want to. A friend encouraged me to do so, and I felt my shoulders tighten in resistance. "It's too close," I told her. But she encouraged me nonetheless. I went back outside by the fire for a few minutes, fussing with the volume on the music that was playing and tossing a few more doves into the flames. And then, despite every uncomfortable feeling in my heart and bones, I found myself in line for healing.
When I approached the kneeler and stooped down, my colleague (the senior pastor) asked me what he should pray for, and I couldn't formulate any thoughts other than to say "you know." Which is true. He knows about my previous loss, and about this one. He knows about the journey to come. He hugged me and we both got choked up, and then he prayed. I remember very little of the prayer, to be honest. It was a prayer for children, for this deep longing of my heart. It wasn't a prayer for physical healing, which was fine. I'm feeling good and strong and normal these days. It wasn't exclusively a prayer for emotional healing, which was fine. I wouldn't even know what prayer I'd want someone to offer for that. It was a prayer for the journey; for the time we've spent trying, for the time we will continue to spend trying, for the hope of a family.
I cried through the entire prayer.
And when I stood up, I'm pretty sure that I went back to the garden and fiddled with those darn doves again, mostly because no one was out there and I needed a moment to be out of the public eye. It was a strange feeling, giving in to the need to be healed, and to do so in a crowded sanctuary where it felt like everyone was watching, even though I know they weren't. Most of the congregation knows at least a little of my story - the surgery part of things that took me out of commission for a week. But somehow, kneeling there for healing, it was as if I confirmed and solidified what they knew. It felt like telling them all again for the first time.
I didn't much focus for the rest of the service. Had a few moments when I got teary for no apparent reason. Had a very sweet friend from the congregation come over and give me a huge hug during communion and offer me words of comfort. Had some very lovely people give me very lovely hugs and well-wishes after the service. But really, I felt nothing but awkward. I didn't so much need to let my vulnerability hang out there for all to see, you know?
I am a serious jumble of emotions right now. Physical healing is going well. So now there is room to try to figure out what I'm feeling, and I truly have no idea. When I cried during worship on Saturday, I don't know if I was crying over the pregnancies I had lost, over the trauma of surgery, over the news about the surgery and our prospects for conceiving, over the stress and fear of starting IVF, or the possibility of IVF not working and the possibility of not being able to have children. I have no idea. Maybe those tears were for all of those emotions.
But whatever tears they were, they were tears that I wasn't ready to share with others. I left the service feeling brutally exhausted, embarrassed, vulnerable, and totally awkward.
Sunday morning, I definitely made sure I looked as put-together and awake and healthy as ever. Dressed up more than usual, actually did my hair, put on a little strategic makeup...I wanted anyone who saw me Saturday, in my ragged and disheveled state, to see a better image of me. A stronger version of me.
Not sure if there are any summary words or life lessons to be taken from my experience. But it definitely shook me that I found myself so uncomfortable with my emotions and showing them. That's not usually a big deal for me. Not quite sure what it means.
When I write the words "anointing and healing," and then also include the phrase "laying on of hands," I shy away a little bit. It's hard to put those words out there and not evoke images of crazy televangelists or other suspicious sorts of faith-healing images. Really, the healing station is mostly about being prayed for. The laying on of hands is a symbol of care, and a gesture of blessing, and for us, it is a practice executed with a very ancient-faith vibe to it. And the anointing is a beautiful reminder of baptism. I have been on the giving end of healing stations like this. I have also been on the receiving end.
Saturday night, I floated from station to station, smelling the smoke in my hair from the fire outside, observing our artist-in-residence at work, participating in stations and sneaking quiet moments for reflection and prayer. As much as I knew that I was a prime candidate to visit the healing station, I really didn't want to. A friend encouraged me to do so, and I felt my shoulders tighten in resistance. "It's too close," I told her. But she encouraged me nonetheless. I went back outside by the fire for a few minutes, fussing with the volume on the music that was playing and tossing a few more doves into the flames. And then, despite every uncomfortable feeling in my heart and bones, I found myself in line for healing.
When I approached the kneeler and stooped down, my colleague (the senior pastor) asked me what he should pray for, and I couldn't formulate any thoughts other than to say "you know." Which is true. He knows about my previous loss, and about this one. He knows about the journey to come. He hugged me and we both got choked up, and then he prayed. I remember very little of the prayer, to be honest. It was a prayer for children, for this deep longing of my heart. It wasn't a prayer for physical healing, which was fine. I'm feeling good and strong and normal these days. It wasn't exclusively a prayer for emotional healing, which was fine. I wouldn't even know what prayer I'd want someone to offer for that. It was a prayer for the journey; for the time we've spent trying, for the time we will continue to spend trying, for the hope of a family.
I cried through the entire prayer.
And when I stood up, I'm pretty sure that I went back to the garden and fiddled with those darn doves again, mostly because no one was out there and I needed a moment to be out of the public eye. It was a strange feeling, giving in to the need to be healed, and to do so in a crowded sanctuary where it felt like everyone was watching, even though I know they weren't. Most of the congregation knows at least a little of my story - the surgery part of things that took me out of commission for a week. But somehow, kneeling there for healing, it was as if I confirmed and solidified what they knew. It felt like telling them all again for the first time.
I didn't much focus for the rest of the service. Had a few moments when I got teary for no apparent reason. Had a very sweet friend from the congregation come over and give me a huge hug during communion and offer me words of comfort. Had some very lovely people give me very lovely hugs and well-wishes after the service. But really, I felt nothing but awkward. I didn't so much need to let my vulnerability hang out there for all to see, you know?
I am a serious jumble of emotions right now. Physical healing is going well. So now there is room to try to figure out what I'm feeling, and I truly have no idea. When I cried during worship on Saturday, I don't know if I was crying over the pregnancies I had lost, over the trauma of surgery, over the news about the surgery and our prospects for conceiving, over the stress and fear of starting IVF, or the possibility of IVF not working and the possibility of not being able to have children. I have no idea. Maybe those tears were for all of those emotions.
But whatever tears they were, they were tears that I wasn't ready to share with others. I left the service feeling brutally exhausted, embarrassed, vulnerable, and totally awkward.
Sunday morning, I definitely made sure I looked as put-together and awake and healthy as ever. Dressed up more than usual, actually did my hair, put on a little strategic makeup...I wanted anyone who saw me Saturday, in my ragged and disheveled state, to see a better image of me. A stronger version of me.
Not sure if there are any summary words or life lessons to be taken from my experience. But it definitely shook me that I found myself so uncomfortable with my emotions and showing them. That's not usually a big deal for me. Not quite sure what it means.
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