This week in Lent

Matthew 11:28–30
“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

From A Room Called Remember by Frederick Buechner
To be commanded to love God at all, let alone in the wilderness, is like being commanded to be well when we are sick, to sing for joy when we are dying of thirst, to run when our legs are broken. But this is the first and great commandment nonetheless. Even in the wilderness — especially in the wilderness — you shall love [God].

I recently told a friend, “Nothing will make you pray to Jesus like having a baby.” And it’s true. Not always in some profound way, but often like “Dear God make him sleep” and “Lord have mercy, I don’t know if I can keep nursing him with all these teeth,” and “Keep me kind, keep me sane.”

In these weeks of teething, rocky sleep, and small but strong opinions, parenthood is breaking me, sapping me of what I thought I had to offer, what I knew, what version of self there was before, what capacities for accomplishment were wrapped up in my life and work. I’m deep down in my bones and deep down in my spirit tired. I haven’t done laundry, much less checked in with God beyond those stretched-thin mama pleas for present grace.

In the above passages, two of this week’s readings for Wednesday Eucharist, there was so much deep acceptance for those stretched-thin mama pleas for present grace. The difference between my tired efforts and the efforts of God in me is blurred, brokenness and wholeness together all at once. In the Ash Wednesday liturgy we are reminded, “to dust you shall return,” and I am dust and dirt, all broken up and low, and at once rich and full of life, more promising and complex than meets the eye, nurturing the next things in myself and in S.

Term Papers

In conclusion, S., aged five months and one week, has grown two teeth and suffered his first cold over the last week and a half. This has resulted in an incredibly grouchy attitude to the detriment of my schemas of meaning-making and resulted in a sense of alienation from, rather than connection to, my larger community. He wants to nurse every hour and a half, refuses to be consoled with anyone but me, but yells at me just the same. We could, in fact, be construed as the parishioners who are brought into unwilling Eucharistic solidarity through the breaking of a body (his) and the ingesting of a body (mine).

Incidentally, it takes approximately forty-five minutes to: settle him into an adequately distracting activity; use the restroom; fix a cup of coffee; answer a text message; settle him into a new adequately distracting activity; and sit down at the computer. This hour and a half circuit routine has extended into the nighttime hours. My sense of belonging to larger community constructed framework of time has also been demolished. I am trapped in a cycle that eliminates any semblance of futurity.

I am in need of a profoundly embodied and communal sacramental grace to move me through the transformation of this theodicy, so it is in the spirit of theological praxis that I request that you waive the additionally required 5 pages for this essay.

Copaiba Vitality for S., Clarity for Mama.