Shell Shock

I followed a link on Facebook one day to listen to Patrick Stewart talking about domestic violence.  He was answering a question at a star trek convention when a woman broke down thanking him.  He talked a bit about how abusive his father had been to his mother.  At the end, he mentioned that he was coming to realize that his father potentially had some residual affects from war.  Back then, it was called shell shock.  I instantly knew what he was talking about.  He was talking about all of the families who had been severely affected upon a father's return from war.  I know this first hand.
More recently, he did a segment on "Who do you think you are?" in the UK.  They had historians walk Mr. Stewart through many of his father's experiences.  In one segment, his voice cracks and he says something that has stuck with me.  He wondered what it would have meant to his family for his father to be honest with them about his experiences.  What if his father had just tried to explain the unexplainable?  In his voice, I found an ache.  I think it is the ache of any child who really wants to love his parent.  Perhaps, he had found a way to do it decades after his death.
My favorite local author, Pat Conroy, talks about his father's death in his latest book:  "Death of Santini."  I think Mr. Conroy had some of the privilege of trying to work out some things with his father before he died.  However, Pat Conroy's father never seems to relent in his book.  Even on his death bed, he taunts his daughter.  He seemed to refuse any opportunity to explain the unexplainable.
This brings me to some of my deepest questions.  Is it possible to find true Healing in this world?  Or does it usually wait until one of us dies?  Is it just easier to make our peace with someone after they are gone?
Once, I heard a story of a woman.  Her husband of 55 and half years had just died after a long battle with Alzheimer's.  She had very rarely been affectionate to him.  Most of the time she was verbally assaulting him.  She rose one morning to find he had passed over in the night.  After things settled down, she asked her son and daughter in law to leave her to have one last conversation.  She sat at his bedside and told him all of the things that she loved about him and thanked him for being so good to her.  These were the words she could never say to him on earth, but somehow she could after he had left.  It was just her way.
Sometimes, I think it doesn't matter when we say things.  It doesn't matter when we realize, when we forgive. Hopefully, we keep getting led towards finding peace, maybe even reconciliation.  I think some people might insist that his happen after a death.  I think that maybe I am starting to come to terms with that.  I wonder if there really is only so much work we can do in these bodies and these stories of our lives.  I guess all things must come in their own time and own way.

Marked

A few weeks ago, I went to the Cathedral for worship.  It was Ash Wednesday, and I was in the middle of a bit of a melt down.  I miss the Liturgy.  I miss the Seasons of the Church.  The beginning of Lent needed to be marked in my spiritual calendar.  I was limited because I needed a mid-day service.  As usual, the Cathedral becomes my answer for these types of issues.  She has many services to meet most needs.
Upon sitting down in a room full of relative strangers, I made my way through many feelings.  In that space, there were several people involved in my ex-communication.  They had been a part in a most humiliating experience for me.  I sat there thinking:  "Everyone here thinks they are better than me".  Forgive my rotten grammar, and forgive my own projection onto a group of people.  But, it is my true feeling.  I had my own list of facts to back it up.  Those people think they are better than me.  It doesn't help that I always feel my financial status among those people wearing nicer clothes.
I marched my way through the service because I find truth in it.  I find comfort in the words about bringing people back into community.  It is the time when those with notorious sins are brought back.  The Bishop spoke of this exact line during our initial meeting.  He said that notorious meant well-known.  My sins had become well-known.  In my words, I had been publicly marked.
Sitting in a large group of people, I began to feel that I had been the only person marked this way.  I feel, in many ways, that I carry a stigma.  Somehow, I feel I carry this mark for all to see.  Yet, I know I have a place in this space called church.  I know that I am welcome here and simply a child of God.  Just sometimes, it feels lonely.
As with any good Worship service, there comes a time of transformation.  For me, the Ash Wednesday service expresses that outward transformation like no other service.  You see, we all walked up to the altar rail and had someone smudge us with ashes.  For a few brief moments we look at every one's mark.  We become equal in the eyes of all mankind.  We are all marked.
There was a real moment of comfort in realizing this for me.  I went from feeling like I had been the only person marked to looking at an entire room full of people marked.  All of these people who think they are better than me, answered the call to pray.  This entire community allowed themselves to be marked and confessed their sins.  We did it together, in community.  Maybe I am wrong in thinking they are better than me.  Aren't we all just trying out best?  However, those marks fade, and we tend to get back to the world of busying ourselves with keeping up our appearances.  Yet, once a year, we practice our Faith in this way.  This is why I love the Liturgy.
I managed to journey through many of these feelings leading up to the Eucharist.  This solemn occasion filled a very ornate church with stone faced clergy.  We all seemed to be caught up in the reverence of the Ashes, sin and penitence.  I brought my kids up to the rail and as I reached for the chalice, the unthinkable happened.  It spilled all down my arm!  Instantly, I remembered my great-grandfather's book that explains how the wine and wafer change molecularly to the blood and body of Christ.  I panicked trying to make sure a drop was not left behind.  I've never had anything like this happen before, and I took me out of my own head and experience.  As we walked away from the altar into a small chapel, I began to laugh.  I laughed with my belly in a way that loosened all of my fretting and worry.  It was a beautiful moment as I realized that God is with us, around us, in us and even on me!
This particular service took me from depths of despair to soaring in laughter.  I sat in the pew and started licking my arm, wondering "What does one do?".  I bowed my head and laughed some more.  I wonder if the people behind me thought I was sobbing.  If only they knew!