Finding Hope When It's Hard - When Pleading For Normalcy

Jesus, it’s dark, and I am really seasick. My life is feeling like that old fishing boat of Peter’s, and this year is too much like the trip you took with him and the disciples in the storm (Mark 4:39-40). I am barely afloat, and we are nowhere near shore. This year we have endured the lingering illness and death of a twin brother and ravaging weather events that left no one untouched. We are relocating away from winter in a few days. It sounded like such a good idea in January, but another death in September and all the legal responsibilities that follow don’t take into account the brain-numbing impact of that loss. We are being asked for paperwork that I can’t find. Grief and managing emotions and obligations both need strength and courage and trust. Jesus, I am drained and weak, and my hand and voice shake reaching out to you. This is taking all my strength, and I don’t have much left. Everything that needs to be completed before we leave is in piles and boxes all over the house, waiting.

It’s dark and I’m wide awake, still unable to adjust to the time change. I’ve lit a candle, and the flame stills me. Watching it helps me remember that You are here. It is a little flame yet it fills the room. At least in this moment, focusing on You, I feel normal. I’ve been asking You a lot lately for normalcy. Life has been so challenging for so long, I can’t remember what normalcy is anymore. Is it order? Calm? Routine? Being able to find things? Being able to plan and have that plan work out? What am I asking for?

Peace, Mare. Be still!

Breathe, slow and steady. Focus on the candle flame…be…still…with Me

Yes, I’m a lot like our ritual loving, younger son. I am surprised by the memory I am seeing. About 30 years ago, the surgery I needed in early December had me planted on a chair with my foot up. How would our young family’s “normal” holiday preparations happen with me laid up? Friends gave us the gift of a day to help decorate. There were boxes everywhere. The kids were outside playing but Ryan, our 6 year old, was intensely, rummaging through the boxes until he found what he was looking for. His stocking. He put it on the nail where it always hung, looked at it quietly and then ran out to join the others to play. He found his stillpoint and all would be well. This memory reminds me even now that all will be well again.

These few moments of contemplative prayer are holding me. I feel a growing sense of courage and humility to face the day. I need both, Lord. My image of myself as in control, efficient, organized lies somewhere in the piles that surround me. I again find my stillpoint, like my son Ryan did in hanging his stocking. It is in the small flame lighting this dark room. It’s You bringing light and warmth to my heart.

One of the gifts I continue to receive from the Spiritual Exercises is a deep, personal connection to the liturgical year. I’ve lost count of how many times I am surprised, comforted or challenged as I notice how my life is mirrored in the Mass readings. Relying on this has helped me hear the invitation to come closer to Jesus and allow Him to share what He wants to experience with me. The readings may change, yet they are constant in the stillness within the gifts they offer. I rely on them and am always grateful.

It is dark now and I am looking forward with hope to the day when this piece will be posted. We will be in North Carolina, we will be unpacking our new lives and resolving lingering obligations. The liturgical year will have ended yesterday in the celebration of the feast of Christ the King. In the dark of now or in the light of then, my stillpoint is under His banner. It is there I ask to stand and live and serve. I don’t know if there was a lighthouse along the Sea of Galilee, but Peter and the others could see Jesus in the darkness. Centuries later, Jesus is the flame in my heart that lights my way. He is my stillpoint.

In spite of …or perhaps because of…the challenges in this past year, I am looking forward to Thanksgiving. Cooking the meal as my mother did with my children and grandchildren and sharing it with them and new friends will be our own liturgy of gratitude. Even now in the dark, weeks before that day, I am deeply aware and grateful for the healing and many gifts I have been given.

When nothing is “normal” and I am shaken to my core, time in contemplative prayer with my small candle flame reminds me that Jesus is my stillpoint. The liturgical year will begin again and will keep supporting me.

It is dark now but the sun will soon be rising.

Peace, Mare…be still.

Going Deeper:

• Psalms of Assurance: A Psalm of Courage by Gretchen Crowder
• Consolation Beyond a Smile: Alignment by Mary Ann Gessner
• Pray with the following scripture verse: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness can never extinguish it.” John 1:5
• Read Nature As a Holy Teacher: Darkness Is Not Dark for You by Beth Knobbe

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Photo by Mary Ann Gessner

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Mary Ann Gessner

Mary Ann Gessner has worked with all generations as an art teacher, in Nursing Homes as Recreation Director, Social Services and Admissions Director and Administrator. She was the Director of Admission with a focus on international student recruitment for St. Johnsbury Academy in Vermont and holds a BA in Studio Art and Art Education from the University of Bridgeport, CT and a M.S.A. from St. Michael’s College in VT. Since retiring in 2015, Mary Ann has enjoyed the gift of time to nest, quilt, and cook. This gift of time led to Ignatian Spirituality in the Inner Chapel and Becky’s Overwhelmed No More retreat and the 19th Annotation of the Spiritual Exercises. Mary Ann is an Ignatian trained spiritual director in private practice, an Interfaith Chaplain and is applying her love of storytelling as a writer. Her two sons have moved gracefully into their adult lives with their families. Mary Ann and her husband still live in the log home they built almost 50 years ago in the woods of Sheffield, Vermont.