The private office was well-lit, thanks to large windows that let the light stream in. Through the window in the door, I could see the usual movement of the parish office—people coming and going, seeking to submit their intentions for Sunday Mass. It wasn’t cold outside, yet deep within, I felt frozen.
It took years of therapy and spiritual direction for me to finally articulate what lay buried deep inside me. For so long, I had clung to a rigid idea of how my life *should* be, that I failed to perceive just how differently things were actually unfolding.
It was through the guidance of my therapist and spiritual director that I finally reached that pivotal moment—the moment I could give a name and a face to what I was experiencing in my life. And it was anything but pleasant.
On that day at the parish, within that sacred space of spiritual direction, I was finally able to give voice to it:
“I feel buried alive.”
I even borrowed a few lines from a song by the Mexican-American singer Lila Downs:
“I am the queen of the underworld, and my crown is a tombstone.”
In other words, I felt dead, utterly without hope.
Of course, Lila Downs’ song is a celebratory one, honoring the festivities of the Day of the Dead. But the way I expressed it was somber and steeped in pain.
After I had spoken, much to my surprise, the ceiling didn’t come crashing down; nor did a bolt of lightning strike me down and split me in two. I had naively believed that giving voice to my discontent was an act of ingratitude toward God. And naturally, I wanted to be anything but ungrateful.
With all the serenity in the world, my spiritual director waited patiently for me to finish expressing myself. Once I had finished, he looked at me and said:
“Do you know what comes next?”
(I remained silent.)
“Resurrection.”
Given the emotional and physiological state I was in, I never could have imagined that resurrection was even possible. And yet, his words filled me with immense hope. The inner death I had perceived within my life was no longer the end. From that point onward, I went through a period of oscillating between hope, hopelessness, and impatience. I waited for God to act in my life situation, without having the slightest idea of how or when.
How has it been for you during those times when you are waiting for God to act, yet God seems slow to respond?
Perhaps your experience has been like that of Martha and Mary, who sent word for Jesus to come when their brother Lazarus was ill. And Jesus? He took his time.
Did he not care enough about his friend Lazarus to go immediately?
And a dialogue with his disciples seems to reveal that—once again—Jesus’ loving genius focuses not on the illness itself, but on the glory that is revealed through it.
Yet, at the same time, he does not deny the illness; he does not deny the pain. Jesus enters into the feelings of Martha and Mary, so deeply, in fact, that the Evangelist shares with us that Jesus wept.
Jesus does not deny illness or death. So much so that he heals the sick and raises the dead. Sometimes he heals them the moment they stand before him; at other times, he takes his time.
In your case, does it resonate with you that some part of you might be dead? Perhaps your weariness, pain, need, or disappointment is so profound that you perceive it as nearly impossible for your situation to ever change.
If the Spirit leads you, share with Jesus the Carpenter that area of your life where you feel or believe yourself to be dead. And perhaps you will remember that, even though Jesus took his time, he will surely find you.
P.S.: We can hear the story of the raising of Lazarus in the readings for the Fifth Sunday of Lent, Year / Cycle A.
