Lectio
“The kindly, loving Mother that witteth and knoweth the need of her child, she keepeth it full tenderly, as the nature and condition of Motherhood will. And as it waxeth in age, she changeth her working, but not her love.”
— Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love
Meditatio
I woke up early for my daughter’s birthday. I wanted to make her a special lunch to take to school. I decided to make her a toasted and pressed ham, egg, and cheese sandwich, and to give her a slice of carrot cake as an extra treat. I prepped the sandwich and put it in a hot pan, and then covered the sandwich with another heavy pan to press it down. While it cooked, I prepped my lunch for the day. And then I smelled it. The bread was burning.
I turned to the stove, lifted the top pan, and, as I flipped the sandwich, my heart sunk. It wasn’t burnt to the point of being inedible, but it was definitely cooked past the point of “golden brown and delicious,” as my daughter and I like to say. And I neither had the ingredients nor the time to make a new one, as the last bit of cheese was now stuck to this not golden brown and delicious bread.
In that moment, I was overcome by a deep, inexplicable sadness. In my mind, I knew it was just a sandwich, but in my heart, something else was happening. Somehow this burnt sandwich on my daughter’s birthday cracked something open inside of me and I was nearly in tears.
I shook it off and continued packing her lunch. I cut the sandwich in half, packed it up, and got her some snacks to go with it. Then I saw the carrot cake in the refrigerator, and cut her a small slice to take to school as a treat, but as I tried to transfer it into a container, it crumbled to pieces, and so did I.
All I wanted was to make my daughter’s birthday special, but nothing was going right. I couldn’t even make her a sandwich without burning it or cut her a piece of cake without it breaking apart. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was having an emotional breakdown in the middle of my kitchen.
As I pulled myself together and attempted to figure out what was really going on, I suddenly recalled how hard my mother tried to make every birthday and holiday special, not only for me, but for everyone, and how often it went wrong, not in some magnificently tragic way, but in little ways that somehow, for her, overshadowed all of the effort and intention that went into it.
In that moment, my heart became hers. I stood alone in my kitchen in my mother’s shoes, as my mother, feeling what I imagine she felt when, with all of her love, optimism, and enthusiasm, and her great desire for others to feel and receive her good intentions — to feel loved, seen, and appreciated through and by her — the brokenness of the world refused to cooperate and stood between her and the world of loving care she was attempting to create and draw others into.
Somehow, in this experience, the burnt sandwich and the crumbled piece of carrot cake became okay. I was doing my best with what I had to work with, just like my mother did her best with what she had to work with, just like we all do our best with what we have to work with.
This is how healing happens. Healing does not happen neatly. It does not happen in the ways we hope or expect. It does not happen in our high achievements, our perfect execution, or our flawless, blameless, or well-planned moments.
Healing happens in our brokenness. It happens at our bottoms, in moments of utter powerlessness and hopelessness. It happens when we least expect it and in ways we wish it would not. It happens at our lowest, most flawed, and least prepared. It happens when and where we can no longer run, when we are confronted with that which we would rather not face, and when we are unable to turn away from the shadows of our own making.
Healing happens when and where we are broken open by the everyday things we once took for granted, but somehow, through grace, the light of God shines in and out of that brokenness.
Oratio
You come to me
in ways I least expect
out of the corner of my eye
a glimmer
a glimpse
a tear unforeseen
an inner movement
a shift of perspective
right when I felt safe
and certain
you arrive unannounced
to greet me unaware
I do not turn away
I am changed in you
shaken free
from all that is not you
Contemplatio
Whose imperfect love are you still learning to receive?
Related Scripture
“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NRSVCE)
For Further Reading
If you enjoyed this post, you may also like No Secular Moment: Karl Rahner and the Sacredness of Ordinary Experience, which explores how every moment — including our most broken and ordinary ones — has its origin in God’s loving self-communication, poured out as the very life we so often take for granted.
Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity.
Wrestling With God.
Returning To Love.
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