In Biblical Portraits, there are many readings appropriate for Holy Week. This one read by my son, David Villanueva, tells of the disciple Judas Iscariot. I have always wondered what made him betray his friend. This is my version of what happened.
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I woke in the middle of the night last night, seized with fear. I have no idea what woke me up, but a voice inside me proclaimed loudly, "Something is wrong. Something happened to your sister!" Fearing the worst yet afraid to call and wake them in case I was wrong (I have learned that much), I stayed in bed, said a prayer, and tried to go back to sleep. Several hours later, I decided to go ahead and call. Scenarios played themselves out in my mind. If nobody answered, who should I call? Could I exchange my plane ticket for an earlier flight so I can be with her in her hour of need? I was rather surprised--and very relieved--when she picked up. She was fine--never better. We talked for a few minutes, and I hung up with a feeling both of relief and of frustration. My intuition had once again proved faulty. There are those who can fully trust in their intuition. I am not one of them. I suffer from depression and anxiety, and anything can set me off. I probably had a bad dream last night, and it might have included my sister. Then again, it's possible that it's the simple fact that I haven't seen her in a while and am looking forward to my trip that pinned the anxiety on her. Either way, there was no need for me to have been that way. I have to remember that my feelings aren't to be trusted. I need to rely not on myself but on God for intuition. Now with God, instruction does come, and I always try to follow it. When he tells me to call someone, there's always a reason. I know that there will be someone who needs to talk to me or someone whose voice I need to hear. But how can you tell the difference between your own faulty intuition and God's faultless calling? For me, it's quite simple. My intuition is normally accompanied by fear. But God's calling never is. Sometimes it's gentle; most times it's forceful. I know that he speaks and I trust him fully. So the next time I wake up in the middle of the night, I will remember to judge the intuition. If it is God speaking, I will answer promptly. If it is only fearful me, I intend to go back to sleep. I am not whole. I am not fully healed. When I was in the process of writing my book, I went to my editor and mentor Adam for advice, and he told me that to sell my book, I must have a platform--I must sell myself. He thought that my experience with suffering and my walk toward wholeness would help many others who are themselves on such a walk. I thought he was crazy. Well, not him, exactly. I thought the idea was crazy. How could anybody want to come to me for advice on wholeness? Although much healing has happened, there is still healing to come. I don't know that I'll ever be fully whole--not till Jesus comes, anyway. I have learned how to cope, how to overcome, how to triumph over my various losses--but February still finds me depressed. I am ready for it now, but I am not at full strength from February 8, the day my husband got sick, to February 22, the day he died. On February 23, I am good to go. For most of the month of February, I can do my job, I can laugh and be with people, but there is always something reminds me, something that keeps me from being at my best. Doesn't this demonstrate that I am not able to tell you how to get over things? I was in church today when I began thinking about the rest of the week. This is Holy Week. We begin this day by triumphantly marching into the church, palm branches in hand. But within 20 minutes (thanks, Father Bruce, for pointing this out), we are the crowd, brutally calling for Jesus' death. We continue solemnly on our way until we get to Thursday. In the strangeness of Holy Week time, we are back in the Upper Room, watching as the Lord washes the disciples' feet. The service ends with a tenebrae service. The altar is stripped of any sign of living worship. The Blessed Sacrament is removed from Tabernacle. Finally, all the candles are put out, and the church is left in total darkness. Then comes Good Friday, and the crucifixion. The altar is bare, the Host is gone, there is nothing left of the beauty and the glory that we experienced just the Sunday before--and there is no sign that in just three days we will experience Easter and the Lord's resurrection. That's right--in just three days Christ will appear, pure and whole and with no lingering signs of the trauma that he experienced, right? No, of course that's not right. Jesus came back, scars intact. He could have healed himself--of course he could. Why did he not do for himself what he had done for so many others? Because it's by His scars that others knew him. Yes, I have scars. So do you. But your scars are beautiful to God, and they're meaningful to others, too. It's by these very scars that others will see that you have walked where they are walking, and there is hope for them, since scars are healed wounds. If you can heal, so can they. So yes, Adam. I will continue on the journey--and I will build my platform. I will allow others to see and experience my wounds, and hopefully they will understand through my story how their wounds can become healed and leave scars as well--scars that will bring others to themselves and foster healing. If my testimony can help even one person experience healing, then the scars are all worth while. All of us have suffered. There is no exception to that rule. But all of us have suffered differently. My journey is so different from others' that I they have told me that there is no help that they could give. I'm sure that there are people who are fellow travelers on your road who you feel unable to help as well, simply because their suffering is too great. You have nothing that would compare, and any attempt would be unwelcome. Or maybe you're the one whose suffering is so vast or who pain is so new that others feel unable to help you on your path. My friend in Christ, that is so untrue! You and I are fellow travelers. We have both suffered, and having suffered, we have both walked along the same road. Your suffering is different from mine, yes, but the fact that we have both journeyed along suffering's path gives us the ability to help one another. It is the comfort, not the shared suffering, that allows us a chance to hope. My life verse--well, passage--is 2 Cor 1:3-7. In short, it explains the reason for our suffering, saying that we suffer so that God can comfort us so that we can comfort others with that same comfort. Romans 5:3-5 says that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character produces hope. So if you look at the two passages together, you see that the comfort that we are comforting others with will produce within them character and hope. Hope is so important. I believe that without hope, the heart dies. Nothing can take away hope faster than the realization that there is no one to help--no one to hold your hand on this journey. Don't misunderstand--God is always there. God is always guarding and protecting. But the touch of a hand, the sound of a human voice, the heartbeat of one who cares can make the difference between hopelessness and hope. When I first began my walk toward wholeness, I felt isolated and alone, even in the midst of family and friends. It's not that they didn't care--they did. But my pain was too great. It made them uncomfortable, and they shied away. I admit that I probably pushed many away as well. Walking with someone who has undergone unspeakable loss is not easy, and the people don't always behave themselves. I know I didn't. I was unreasonable and needy, and I couldn't respect boundaries. It wasn't that I didn't want to, but my demons didn't respect office hours. I would call friends asking them illogical things, and they would be unable to respond in the way that I wanted them to. That wasn't the point. I needed to know that they would still pick up the phone, knowing that it was me. I needed to know that they would allow me my rants and not shun me. Most of them did; some did not. Paradoxically, it was only after I found a few close friendships that allowed me the freedom to walk with them and hold on to them that I began to be able to do the hard healing work--the work that has to be done alone. Knowing that I had an anchor made it easier for me to foray into the uncharted waters of wholeness. I would work hard on forgiveness, on feeling love, on feeling anything, and then I would come to a friend's house and unwind. The time I spent with the friend was light after the darkness of self-reflection. The comfort that she provided didn't reflect her suffering. It reflected the comfort that she had received and was passing on to me. Our time together--a time of tea and music and love--didn't just help me to understand what I had to do to "work on it". It gave me hope that a day would come when I no longer had to work on it. And that da did come. You also have the light to give. You don't have to be healed to give it. We are fellow travelers. We walk together. In the walking, we can come together toward the Light. |
AuthorMy own experience in walking toward wholeness has given me many tools to help in the walk. I hope to help you as you begin--or continue--on your path. Archives
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