Mother, behold your Son

The First Sunday of Lent

This week the church begins the season of Lent. Traditionally this has been a time of prayer and fasting, although more people today think of it as the time "you give something up." Most friends I know give up sweets or sodas, while others decide instead to take on a new spiritual practice. These are the modern "versions" of fasting and prayer.

I love Lent. It is my favorite season of the church. I enjoy it even more than Advent. I think this is because I am drawn to the shadow sides of all the brightness.

I am not totally sure why this is, although I frown even as a write it. I don't think that description suits me well; I don't consider myself to typically be drawn to scary or disturbing stories. I am not that kind of dark. What I am is an enigma - because it is true that while I avoid horror movies per se, I seek these biblical stories out. I desire to bring them to the light somehow. I am always fascinated by how many there are and how easy they are to find. I also recognize how this pattern reflects life.

My book club girlfriends always tease me for being a magnet for the not-so-wholesome stories. I love twisted fairy tales; for that matter, I love the "original" fairy tales, the oldest versions that can be found. I love books like A Series of Unfortunate Events and Harry Potter. I enjoy seeing things for what they are. I feel it arms me a bit - for what, I am not exactly sure. But somewhere in the chaos of these dark stories - I find the most incredible sources of compassion and hope. That is never more true than when I read the Bible.

I think this feeling all started for me in 1998. Almost six months pregnant with our first child, we found out that she had died in utero. We found out on March 13, Friday the 13th as it was, and I delivered Delaney in the wee hours of the 14th. It was a devastating, life changing experience which profoundly affected me.

It was right in the middle of Lent.

It so happens that I was also scheduled that year as one of seven preachers participating in a Good Friday service. The service was to focus on the seven last words of Christ. The passages had been pre-assigned. Mine was, "Mother, behold your son." (John 19:26-27)

I could probably just stop there and let you think of how hard those words hit me after losing my daughter.

To make things worse, a well intentioned minister type stopped by to check on me at home. I did not know he was coming across town to do so until he was about five minutes away. I wasn't ready or prepared to share with this man. I was uncomfortable physically and mentally, and now I was playing surprise hostess. As we sat at my breakfast table and talked, his last words to me were, "Well, at least now you have that sermon to look forward to in a few weeks."

That moment is as clear as a bell to me. The last thing I was "looking forward to" was to write and deliver a sermon on Good Friday about a mother watching her precious child be crucified and to be "given" another family. I still remember with crucial clarity the bile rising in my stomach.

I didn't want to write that sermon. In fact, I didn't want to do anything. Yet, somehow or another, which at this time I honestly cannot fully explain, I decided to try to get through it. It was most certainly not because this other preacher fellow thought I should. Rather, I am sure I was longing for a sense of purpose at the time, for something that needed me. The sermon was called "Losing the Future." As it turns out, I still think it was one of the best pieces I have ever written. As I climbed into the pulpit that day, with friends and strangers alike there to listen, I had to manage myself very tenderly to get through those 18 minutes.

What is most memorable to me about the entire event was this. In my homily, I related my story of having just recently lost Delaney. I looked into the crowd of faces and paused. A young couple scooted closer together; the man put his arm around the woman. She looked so profoundly sad. An older woman pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. I remember my own eyes welling, and I had to look back at my notes. It look a great deal of mental energy to breathe through that moment. I knew it wasn't that I had written a masterpiece of a sermon. I knew it was that I was not alone. Although it gave me hope and soothed my lonely spirit, it also broke my heart in two. I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone, and yet, I knew I'd hit the mark for someone else.

Looking back, I realize I made it through, somehow. Through the sermon, and through that life rocking loss. This year Delaney would have been 11 years old. The 13th lands on a Friday, just like it did a lifetime ago. And as always, we will be right in the middle of Lent.

I am drawn in to this time of suffering in the church because I am so grateful for it - not so much the suffering, but the time we have to honor it. I am so glad there is a time when we say, "Grief is okay. It is part of life and if you don't face it, it will eat you alive from the inside out." I am glad we take a look during these days at some of those really difficult stories from Jesus' life. So often we avoid these, looking only for the joy.

Here is the downside of all that unending joy. When life brings storms, and you've been riding on joy alone, you'll absolutely drown in your sorrow. If we are only taught that God is the source of immeasurable happiness, then what does it mean when we feel abandoned and brokenhearted? Is God with us then too? I cannot begin to express how important it is to address this theologically. We need desperately to hear both sides of the coin, and all the rich layers in between.

It is my personal opinion that the Bible gives us many kinds of stories, from all sides of life, if only we open it and turn its pages. We don't have to look far or wide for them - they inhabit almost every single page. I don't see them as something to avoid, but to build on. You are not alone. This is life. You will get through it. Every day is another little step toward healing. Tiny movements. Community. Love.

In other words, the Bible gets it pretty darn right. It shows us all sides of humanity. It connects us to all the saints and sinners gone before us - a great cloud of witnesses indeed.

I am sorry to report this, but I always carry a little sorrow with me. And yet, because of that sorrow, I also recognize I have a greater sense of gratitude and joy. Listen, any day of the week I would trade that intense grief out and have those circumstances happen differently - I will never look back and say, "Wow, it turns out I am glad that happened!" But, with healing and hindsight and time passed away, I can gently ask of myself, "If this is the reality of how things really are, what gifts might I find among these terrible stones?" Some days I come up empty for answers. Other days, I take solace in thinking that my angel might be watching out for my two living angels. And I hold those two a little tighter and kiss their sweet heads.

With deep, deep gratitude.

Suffering is made softer when others stand close by. Light seems brighter when darkness is raised to it and examined. Joy is radiant when sorrow has visited and retreated.

May we have only the suffering we can bear, and enough deep relief that lends us to compassion.

Amen and amen.

In Wisdom,
Brandi Calhoun Diamond