Pastoral Thought--October 19

As a parent sometimes there are moments when, despite our best intentions, there is just nothing that we can do in the moment to fix the situation. Certainly pain is present in what we witness, but that pain is unreachable at times. So, our only choice could be to dwell in the silence of the moment with the other person. I had that experience this weekend. Let me explain. . . .

I arrived a few minutes before 9pm to pick up Emma from work on Saturday. I always arrive around this time, even though it is unlikely that Emma will be out of work promptly. I have my audiobook to enjoy and that suffices in the moment. Every night when I come to get her, I recline the seat a ’notch’ and wait. Sometimes she is out around 9:10pm and sometimes its 9:45pm. I never know when she will be done and so I must arrive early and wait. 

This evening Emma came out around 9:15pm. I could tell by the way that she walked that something was wrong. Shoulders pitched a little forward she walked quickly toward my truck taking small, fast, steps. She made no eye contact with anyone as she came to me. 

My ‘hackles’ were up instantly. How dare anyone hurt my baby girl! That is always my first response. . . I can’t help it. . . She climbed into the truck and would not make eye contact with me. 

“Emma, what’s wrong,” I asked secretly deciding whether a co-worker or customer was at fault and then deciding how I would resolve the issue. She did not respond to my question with anything except, “I’m fine. Let’s go.” So we went. . .  

The drive home was very dark and very silent. She cried and sniffled all the way. About half of the way home I stopped asking her what was wrong. Instead, I made sure that she had enough tissues to clean her face as she wept. By this point, I was no longer seeing ‘red.’ I was sad. I knew she suffered in such a way that her words would not express her pain adequately. And so, I silently wept with her as she told me her story. I wanted to fix it; its my self-appointed job as her dad. I wanted to correct the behavior of someone else; set them straight. But that was not possible. 

We drove in silence together. Emma sniffling and dabbing her eyes lightly every few feet. 

As I drove I thought of the words of Chet Raymo. He wrote: 

"There is a tendency for us to flee from the wild silence

And the wild dark, 

To pack up our gods

And hunker down behind city walls, 

To turn gods into idols, 

To kowtow before them and

Approach their precincts only in the official robes of office.

And when we are in the temples, 

Then who will hear the voice crying in the wilderness? 

Who will hear the reed shaken by the wind?”

I wonder if perhaps the proper response to the suffering and conflict of our day is not to decide who is wrong and therefore who needs to suffer (as I was doing early in my encounter with Emma). What if I don’t need to offer any judgment. Instead, what would it look like to dwell in “the wild dark” with that other person in their moment? For when we dwell with them in that way, are we not more attentive to what is happening around us—or who is around us? 

Blessings,

Rev. Derek