Luke 15: 11-24
Roger Lynn
September 16, 2018
It began with stomach cramps and what we thought was a severe case of acid indigestion. Fast forward a month and my world was turned upside down and inside out as I stood in the corner of the hospital room holding two of my daughters while the doctors quietly declared that my wife was dead. Trauma comes in a variety of forms and has its roots in a myriad of causes. Sometimes we can see it coming, and sometimes it catches us by surprise. But regardless of the details, when it finds its way into our life it has the power to completely undo us. Nothing is ever quite the same again. There is no going back to the way things were before. The only choice is between being lost and being found, between staying broken and being healed.
In Jesus' parable about the father and the lost son, the son finds himself in traumatic circumstances. While it is true that they were self-inflicted circumstances, that doesn't really matter when it comes right down to it. We can pass judgment and say he got what he deserved, or we can join Jesus and rejoice at the ways in which healing unfolds. I won't try to speak for you, but as for me I'd rather join Jesus in rejoicing. It just sounds like a lot more fun. The son finds himself far from home, out of money, out of friends, and seemingly out of options. He is lost and he is miserable. Trauma has paid a visit to his life. It wasn't what he thought would happen. It wasn't how things were supposed to be. But there it was nonetheless - he is alone eating supper with the pigs. And then something remarkable happens - something that can only be described as pure gift. Seemingly out of nowhere it occurs to him that he wasn't always lost and alone, and maybe, just maybe he doesn't have to stay lost and alone forever. He can reach out and ask for help. His initial plan needs some work. He's still trying to pretend that he can somehow piece back together some version of his former life. But in this initial moment of insight none of that matters. The details can be sorted out later. For now what matters is that something other than the trauma has at least momentarily entered the picture.
Anne Lamott wrote a book a few years ago which she titled, “Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers.” That could easily be a formula for moving from trauma to healing. And it begins with a cry for help, when we reach out beyond ourselves and admit that we cannot handle it on our own. The prodigal son in Jesus' parable remembers the love of his father and reaches out in hope and faith, trusting that his father's love might be there still. In my own life, as my wife lay in her hospital bed, and then in the days following her death, I remembered that I was surrounded by the love of my community of family and friends. In absolute desperation I reached out to them in utter vulnerability because I knew that I could not survive such a loss on my own. Help! It is such a simple and yet powerful word. And sometimes we find that we can only give voice to that prayer when it is forced from our lips by the weight of circumstances which threaten to overwhelm us completely. Only then can we begin the journey back from our brokenness towards a new wholeness. Only then can we find healing connection, with ourselves, with our community, and with our God. As long as we remain lost in our dark isolation we will remain cut off from the resources necessary to bring us once again to new life. We cannot do it on our own.
The second of Anne Lamott's prayers is “Thanks!” It is such a vital and vibrant prayer, and it can be such a difficult prayer to offer, particularly when the trauma is fresh and we are feeling so completely undone. But it is so important for paving the pathway which will allow healing to find its way into our lives once again. It need not be big or extravagant or grandiose. Indeed, it will likely be impossible for it to be anything other than small, especially in the beginning. We might not even notice at first. But oh what a difference it can make. Soon after Veronica landed in the hospital, as I reached out for help from my community, I began to write using an on-line journal called Caring Bridge. It provided an outlet for me to give expression to what I was experiencing and served as a conduit of support for my friends. In reviewing those journal posts later I was surprised to discover how frequently expressions of gratitude made an appearance. I remain convinced that those small bits of thanks prevented me from becoming lost in the darkness that was swirling around me, threatening to consume me. It was gratitude, in concert with the support of my friends, which kept reminding me there was something beyond the darkness and the loss that I could trust and rely on. It was the light that began to guide me home.
A close cousin of gratitude is celebration. In the face of trauma it is tempting to believe that there will never again be anything worth celebrating. Which is why it is so important to practice it anyway. As with gratitude it need not be anything grand. Maybe it is just a momentary smile at the way the morning sun glints off the dew on the grass. Maybe it is a quiet “thank you” for an unexpected moment of peace in the midst of an overwhelming day. It might not even be something that we initiate. The prodigal son had the celebration thrust upon him in a completely surprising and unexpected way. But big or small, planned or unexpected, gratitude and celebration can be gifts of grace that open a doorway through which healing begins to flow.
And finally we arrive at “Wow!” When you first utter the “Help!” prayer, “Wow!” is not even something you can imagine. When the storm clouds of trauma are completely blanketing the landscape of life, it is all but impossible to envision a day when the sun will shine again. But just because you can't see it or imagine that it is true does not really matter. You don't have to know how the story will end when you are at the beginning. The prodigal son couldn't possibly envision the grand barbecue that was waiting for him when he picked himself up from the pig trough and took his first faltering step towards home. There in that hospital room, as I stood with my daughters so lost in grief, I couldn't imagine the next three minutes, so there was no way I could see three years down the road to a time when I would find myself gobsmacked by the presence of another amazing woman who would land in my life as a gift of pure grace.
Healing from trauma is a journey and it can only be experienced one step at a time. We can't force it and we can't do it alone. Sometimes all we can do is whisper “Help!” Occasionally we can manage to say “Thanks!” And eventually, with faith, and trust, and the support of our community of family, friends, and Sacred Presence, we might even surprise ourselves with an unexpected shout of “Wow!” From pig trough to banquet, from unspeakable loss to new love, from whatever trauma you can't even begin to imagine to healing that seems impossible to even hope for - every step along the path is part of a sacred journey. It is at one and the same time both a pathway wholly and completely unique and one which we share with countless other who have trod it before us and who will walk it long after we are gone. No one can walk it for us, but it is far too perilous to walk alone. And therein lies the hope shining in the midst of the darkness - we do not ever have to walk it alone. In almost every case there is someone who will gladly and graciously accompany us on the journey. And even if no one can be found, we will always and forever be surrounded by the loving presence of the Sacred.
Trauma will leave its mark and we will never be the same afterwards, but healing is possible. “Help! Thanks! Wow!” can be our prayer. Thanks be to God!
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