Although I love doing lectio divina, this time it was difficult for me, because the word rejoice kept getting in the way. Nope. Wrong word. Not during Lent. I was looking for something more somber, in keeping with this season of Jesus’ suffering and death. But no matter how hard I tried to make a different part of the passage jump out at me, I could imagine it only as 7-point type, a size that even a 20-year-old can’t read without glasses. And yet when my mind went back to rejoice, I kept seeing that ill-fitting word as colorful, illuminated calligraphy on a grand scale.

Rejoice during Lent? Is that what God was inviting me to do?

I had two prejudices that made me want to resist that invitation. First, I rarely hear the word rejoice any more, except in a Sunday-morning sermon and other formal contexts, so I don’t often expect whatever is being said about it to be something I can relate to. In everyday American English we talk about being happy, and we might talk about feeling joyful. But not really about “rejoicing.”

My second prejudice is that Lent is a time that we are invited to become more aware of our own weaknesses, limitations, and sins and draw closer to Jesus, who loves us deeply, forgives us, heals us, and changes us. That’s a lot to be thankful for and to anticipate being joyful about on Easter as we celebrate the Resurrection. The idea of experiencing joy during Lent, though, didn’t quite work for me. I already find it too easy to avoid my sins without getting the wrong kind of help from Scripture. Besides, if I’m increasing in my awareness of my sinfulness during Lent, isn’t that “a time to grieve,” as the preacher in the book of Ecclesiastes says?

Part of my struggle with being joyful during Lent is no doubt due to some bad teaching I had as I was growing up. In my church youth group whenever we sang, “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart” and I was anxious about an exam I was having the next day, I figured that if I had any joy in my heart it was down too deep to do me any good. And I wasn’t helped by hearing church leaders describe joy as something deep inside you that you don’t necessarily feel. They said we must always be joyful even when we don’t feel like it, and the feelings would follow. I tried that a few times before realizing it isn’t entirely true. Also, people I knew who practiced that belief didn’t seem like real people who could empathize with those who were in distress.

But to avoid being joyful because of bad teaching, and especially when God is inviting me to be joyful, would mean missing out on some good things God wants to give me. So I’ve been contemplating reasons to be joyful throughout this Lenten season. I’ve discovered that one important thing I can be joyful about is the sense of freedom I have as I learn to let go of the things I cannot control.

Now, letting go is a slow, ongoing process for me. I want to be in control, and I want my life to fit my expectations. Although praying the Serenity Prayer often helps me let go of my expectations, prejudices, agendas, and desire to be in control, and helps me give those things to God (for the moment, anyway), old habits take time to break. Sometimes my actions suggest that I’m replacing the line “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change” with my secretly preferred version: “God grant me the serenity to change the things I cannot accept.” But I know that when I try to change things that are not my responsibility, I end up disappointed and frustrated. When I manage to give the responsibility to God, however, I am free. Free from having to measure up to other people’s expectations of me. Free from having to measure up to my expectations of myself. And free from having quite so many things to concern myself with. My burdens become lighter.

And that’s a cause for being joyful. For feeling joyful. So joyful that I want to laugh.

I do believe we can experience grief and joy at the same time—grief over our sinfulness and joy over the freedom that God is creating within us. Or at least we can experience them within the same season.

May you discover reasons to experience joy during this Lenten season.

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Barbara Milligan was the associate editor of STEPS magazine for the last eight years of its life (its final issue was published in 2009). She is also a spiritual director and the author of Desperate Hope: Experiencing God in the Midst of Breast Cancer.

“Spirituality & Recovery” is a new blog, cohosted by Barbara Milligan and the Rev. Dr. Kim Engelmann, pastor of West Valley Presbyterian Church, in Cupertino, CA. Kim is the author of Running in Circles: How False Spirituality Traps Us in Unhealthy Relationships (IVP, 2007).

A few weeks after I was diagnosed with cancer, a music CD arrived in the mail from a friend. Several years earlier this friend had been told she had ovarian cancer and needed surgery. It turned out to be a false alarm, but she’d had a deeply significant spiritual experience through her ordeal.

This music had been a great help to her and she wanted to share it with me.

One particular track on the CD caught my attention. A single female voice, without accompaniment, sings with quiet strength. The music and words are simple. “Into thy hands, I commit myself. Into thy hands, I entrust all I am and all that holds my heart. Into thy hands, I commit.”* These words are repeated over and over by a growing chorus of voices.

The lyrics speak about surrender. Not about giving up. Not about resignation. But about a surrender to love.

Like many of us, I mostly want to believe that I am in charge of things. I want to believe that I have the power to manage just about everything—including my health and my life. I want to control what I cannot control. The truth is that I did not give myself life. I do not sustain my life. My life—every moment of it—is a gift. It is given to me by a creating, giving God.

When I try to control things that are out of my control, I create needless stress and anxiety for myself. But when I acknowledge that my life—each day, each breath—is a gift, I can begin to entrust “myself…all I am and all that holds my heart” into God’s loving care.

Trust, it turns out, is not an easy thing to do.

It is not easy to trust a God we have not seen. It is not easy to trust that God is loving enough or powerful enough to take good care of us. It is not easy to open our clenched fists and let go of all we want to control.

Many years earlier I struggled with other difficult issues including trying to find ways to heal our strained marriage. As I prayed for help and guidance, a simple image came to me. In this image I saw life as a large, quickly flowing river. I was in a small boat, floating on this river. There was no way to steer the small boat. My instinct was to try to reach up and grab onto the branches of trees that hung over the water. I wanted to stop what was happening. I wanted to be able to take charge of what was going on. But it wasn’t possible. The branches were out of my reach no matter how hard I stretched. The situation was pretty clear: I could either keep trying to find a way to take control of things that I could not control, or I could recline in the boat, allow myself to rest and experience the ride.

As I stayed with this image and stopped trying to grab onto the passing branches—as I allowed myself to sit back in the boat and relax—I had a growing sense that the boat was actually God’s hand carrying me. It was God’s hand carrying me through life. All of life. Both the smooth places and the white-water rapids.

The same God who made me, the God who sent Jesus to reveal God’s amazing love, the God who gives me breath, this One is carrying me. I am in God’s hands. I am safe. I am held. So I can stop all my controlling and striving and thrashing about. I can entrust myself and all that holds my heart to God’s loving care.

We are not meant to live in reliance on our own strength, brain power and willpower. The entire adventure of life is meant to be lived in reliance on our Creator. Life is meant to be an experience of communion, even union with God, in which we open ourselves to God—to the One who is Wisdom, Love, Grace, Guidance, Peace, Life, Light and Joy. Life is meant to be an experience, not of going it alone, but of going with God.

This image of resting in the palm of God’s hand—the “letting go and letting God” experience—could imply a kind of passivity. But there is nothing passive about surrendering to God’s love. Surrender does not mean we do nothing. It means that we do everything in reliance on God.

The practice of “letting God be God” is a kind of surrender to love that requires an ongoing, daily practice. My experience is that when I am anxious or afraid, I always want to take back control. The times I most need to entrust myself to God’s care are the very times I instinctively try to control what I cannot control. I have found that anytime I am anxious or angry, I need to stop and open my hands and heart in prayer. Anxiety and anger have become signals to me that I need to be honest with God about all that I am feeling and to entrust myself, my fears, my needs, my resentments, my concerns, my requests to God’s care.

What I observed after being diagnosed with breast cancer was that I would frequently tense up. If I would pause to pay attention to this, I would usually find that I was anxious about the next event—the next test, the next surgery, or the next set of results that were coming. I was bracing myself. I was resisting the ride. But when I was able to reconnect with my dependence on God, it was as if I was able to lean back and rest again in God’s loving hand.

Anytime we are afraid or in distress, we can allow ourselves to stop and hear God saying, like a loving parent: “You don’t have to be afraid. I am right here with you. Tell me what you need. I will help you.” Then, as trusting children, we can surrender. We can say “Okay” and let go and entrust ourselves to God’s good care.

When you don’t know what to do…practice surrender.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What thoughts and feelings do you have about the image of surrender or of resting in God’s hand?

2. What things do you find most difficult to entrust to God’s care?

3. What helps you to rest in God’s love and care for you?

* Monica Brown, “Into Your Hands,” from Holy Ground: Mantras and Chants for Reflection and Prayer, ©2000 Emmaus Productions, www.emmausproductions.com.

When we are faced with difficulties in life, we need support from friends and family. We also need God’s help. Perhaps the most direct way to open ourselves to God is through prayer.

Prayer can be many things.

Prayer does not need to be long or complicated. When we are afraid or distressed we need to be able to talk to God directly and honestly. When we are experiencing difficulties, we need the freedom to pray in ways that are urgent and to the point. During difficult times our prayers may come in short gasps: “Help!” or “Show me what to do!”

Sometimes even praying short, urgent prayers can be more than we can do. Sometimes we have to rely on others who are praying on our behalf. And sometimes we have no words and have to let our prayer be the prayer of resting silently in God’s loving arms.

Many years ago, our oldest son dropped out of high school and started using drugs. I was in a state of codependent panic much of the time. A good friend prayed for me and asked God if there might be some message she could pass on to me. My friend had a strong sense of hearing God say one word. “Rest.”

When my friend relayed this word to me I was startled. Our son was not doing well. I was distraught and afraid. I was in full-alert mode, ready 24/7 to do whatever needed to be done. But the invitation was to rest.

Over time I have come to see the invitation to rest as an invitation to a very deep kind of prayer. It is the prayer of trust. It is the prayer of a young child who is afraid or overwhelmed and finds comfort and strength by curling up in their parent’s loving, protective arms.

The way this kind of prayer has worked for me has been very visual. I see and feel myself as a small child, held in Jesus’ arms. Sometimes I sit quietly with this image, allowing my body, my heart, my mind and my soul to be at rest. And sometimes I carry this image with me as I work or drive, allowing this silent prayer to soothe and sustain me.

Long before I was diagnosed with cancer, I helped lead a cancer support group. There were times when a group member would comment that they just could not pray. They felt too sick, or too exhausted to pray. Often they would report that their experience during these times was of being held by grace. All their lives they had been striving hard to pray “right” and believe “just right” in order to please God. Now all they could do was be. All they could do was rest in the reality that God was with them, that God was caring for them. And in this way they came to experience God’s love and grace in ways they had never been open to experiencing before.

It is my practice to write in a prayer journal almost every day. This writing is personal, private and honest. I tell God what I am feeling, what I am needing, where I see myself failing, what I am grateful for. I invite God to show me more about ways in which I need to be corrected or healed. I ask for wisdom and guidance for my day. I give myself, my day, my worries to God. I share my gratitude for all the gifts I have received. And I express my love and affection for God.

Pouring out my heart to God in this way helps to keep me more honest and more grounded. And it helps me stay in a place of humility. Prayer is an act of humility. It is an acknowledgment that we are creatures—that we are dependent on our Creator. It reminds us that we are not God. It reminds us that we are not in charge.

This kind of dependency is not easy for most of us. We live in a culture that values independence, self-sufficiency, doing for oneself. We minimize the reality of our deep interdependence, as neighborhood communities, as national communities and as a global community. And we minimize our dependence on God—for life, for breath, for help and care of every kind.

Many of us struggle with deep shame for having a need we cannot meet by ourselves. Being dependent and in need of help or support feels shameful. This kind of shame often has its roots in childhood experiences of neglect or abuse. If our needs and natural dependency were not responded to with support and respect, we may have come to the conclusion that it is a bad and shameful thing to need others or to need God.

The truth is that we need each other and we need God. God does not shame us for our needs, instead God welcomes us and all of our needs.

An exercise that has been very helpful to me when I have gone through difficult times has been to read through the Psalms. This was especially powerful for me during the years when I was processing the raw pain that I carried as a result of childhood trauma. The Psalms helped me find the words of need and longing that my shame wanted to hold back. The psalmists do not hold back anything out of shame. They pour out their hearts and souls to God. The fear, the anger, the need for help of every kind, the longing for relationship with God, the gratitude for God’s love and care, the joy. It is all there.

The psalmists teach us that we can “call on God in the day of trouble” and that God will respond with the love, the strength, the compassion and the help we need.

Whether our prayer is a gasp, an outpouring of our hearts, a quiet resting in God, or a simple trust that others are praying for us, it is a blessed thing to pray.

When you don’t know what to do…pray.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What is it like for you to pray when things are going smoothly?

2. What has it been like for you to pray during a time of difficulty?

3. What are you most needing from God today?

On the evening of September 11, 2001 my husband and I watched Gwen Ifill of PBS interview Mr. Rogers. Gwen was asking Mr. Rogers to give people advice about how to talk with their children about what had just happened.

That day we had watched images of commercial jets flying into the Twin Towers in New York City, eventually collapsing the enormous structures and killing thousands trapped inside. We were shocked. We were horrified. We were traumatized. And so were our nation’s children who saw these images playing over and over on television.

Mr. Rogers said that when he was a child and something very difficult happened, his mother would suggest that he notice all the helpers. And so one of the things he suggested that we do for our children (and ourselves) was to gently ask the question, “Have you seen a lot of helpers lately?”

A lot of helpers. That is what we need whenever we are experiencing something that is scary or that threatens to overwhelm us. We need a lot of helpers any time we are faced with a serious difficulty in life.

Helpers come in lots of forms. Family members. Friends. Professionals. Strangers. People close. People far away.

And the help they each offer is unique. Each one comes with their own special gift to give us. Some will be good listeners. Some will pray. Some will have experiences of their own to offer. Some will send cards. Others might email or phone. Some are skilled professionals who will treat the problem. They each come with their own precious gifts. Gifts that tell us that we matter, that we are not alone, that we are loved.

Our work is to receive these gifts of support and care. As simple as that sounds, it is often difficult to do. Receiving support and care from others requires honesty and humility. We cannot receive while we are pretending that we are fine. Receiving requires us to acknowledge our need for helpers.

In my roles as a nurse and as a therapist I am a professional helper. I know from personal experience that professional helpers are sometimes especially resistant to being on the receiving end of love and care. There are many reasons why it is difficult for professional helpers to stay open to receiving care. When we are in the role of helper we feel okay about ourselves. We may feel in control. We may feel competent or capable. All of these feelings are more pleasant than the feelings which come when we are needy or afraid.

It is not just professional helpers who have difficulty with receiving help from others. We all do. Whether we are a professional helper or not, the good feelings that come from giving and doing and looking good are easier for us—and less threatening to our pride. So, any of us can hide behind our giving and doing for others. And we can, tragically, do more harm than good when the primary drive behind our helping and giving and doing is to bolster our own sense of value.

Being on the receiving end of help and care is not easy for most of us because when we are in need we don’t feel in control, we don’t feel powerful, we feel that we don’t have anything to offer, or we experience ourselves as less than competent. Instead, we feel our need, our dependency on others, our powerlessness, our vulnerability.

Receiving may not be easy for all of these reasons. But receiving care and support from others is good for us. It offers us the gift of humility. And it offers us the opportunity to experience in practical ways that we are valued.

What is particularly significant is that this experience of being valued does not come because of something we are doing. The experience of being valued when we are most in need of support is the experience of being valued simply because we are. We matter. Others care about us.

This is a very powerful gift. It is a gift that gives us the strength we need to get through each day whatever the difficulty we are facing. Sometimes we will experience this strengthening spiritually, sometimes emotionally, sometimes physically.

While I waited in the preoperative area for my second surgery, I listened to music and took long, slow, easy breaths. My heart rate which is normally about sixty beats a minute was showing on the monitor as only forty eight beats per minute. So at a time when it is common to be anxious, the music and slow easy breathing and the prayers of many others were all keeping me in a peaceful place.

There were, however, a few moments before my husband was allowed to join me in the preoperative area during which my peaceful state was interrupted with a rush of anxiety that made me feel a bit dizzy. I suddenly experienced a need to have someone I knew and loved physically present with me.

When my husband was able to join me, he pulled up a chair next to the bed and took my hand. At that moment the peace returned and stayed. Even when he wasn’t actually holding my hand, when he was simply there with me, I felt physically supported and emotionally comforted.

Both of my surgeries took place during the Lenten season. Lent is the seven weeks between Ash Wednesday and Good Friday—a time when I usually reflect with greater frequency on the gift of Jesus’ life and death. For the first time I felt like I got a small glimpse of what it might have meant to Jesus to have a few loved ones close by as he died. I suspect that he was deeply comforted by their presence. I imagine that he felt held, in some way, by being able to see their eyes and hear their voices.

It is hard to describe the physical comfort that comes from the quiet, loving presence of another person. When the surge of anxiety hit me before my husband joined me that day, I felt for an instant like I might somehow physically fly apart. It was a strange sensation. When my husband came and sat with me, I felt physically held together.

Experiences like this are, I think, a reflection of our deep connection with one another. None of us exists alone. None of us can live life alone. We need each other.

I felt such gratitude for every kind word and gentle touch offered by the many health care professionals I encountered. The smallest kindness can touch deep places inside us when we are so vulnerable.

I kept every card people sent me. I even kept a few voice mails of love and support. I knew that I needed to drink in these gifts. I needed to take in this sweet soul nurture from those who offered themselves to me at a vulnerable time.

My prayer is that the deeper opening that this crisis created in my heart will stay open. My prayer is that every day I will be freed to humbly, joyfully remember my need for the support and care of others. My prayer is that I will be given the grace to receive all the love and support that is offered to me each day, whatever the day may hold.

When you don’t know what to do…take in support.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What support have you been offered during your times of difficulty?

2. What is it like for you to take in that support?

3. What do you need to do to reach out for further support?

After I was diagnosed with cancer I felt everything. I felt fear. I felt shock. I felt grief. I felt shame. I felt numbness. I felt resentment. I felt jealousy. I felt anger. I felt gratitude. I felt peace. These feelings seemed to come and go of their own volition.

Sometimes the feelings were intense. Sometimes they were mild. Sometimes they stacked up on top of each other. Sometimes they came in confusing combinations—like gratitude and grief at the same time.

There were times when I had the thought: “I am not doing this very well.” I think this idea came when I was caught up in a feeling that I did not like. Or when I felt ashamed of a particular emotional response. I knew that my work was to stay honest about all of these feelings—and to find a way to share them with God and with a few trusted friends.

I say this was my work because it did not necessarily come naturally or easily to me. I resisted many of these feelings as they came unbidden into my heart and mind. My work, therefore, was to keep asking God for gifts of humility and courage to acknowledge whatever I was feeling.

Sometimes I found it helpful to view my feelings as visitors who were knocking at my heart’s door. They came asking to be acknowledged and to be given a voice. They needed to find expression and to be embraced. When I was able to invite them in and listen to them they enriched my life, offered me clarity, brought me wisdom, and showed me where I needed correction.

As I prayed for the humility and courage to acknowledge my feelings and invited them in as valued visitors, I found myself expressing a wide range of emotions. There were times when I wept. Times when I wrote in my prayer journal about my fear or shame. Times when I confessed my resentments and jealousies. Times when I expressed my gratitude for the gifts I was receiving. And times when I rested in the surprising gifts of peace that came as part of the process.

One of the things that we tend to dislike about our feelings is that they are not always rational. We feel things that don’t make logical sense to us. For example, my feelings of jealousy towards people who were experiencing good health—whose lives were not suddenly disrupted and out of their control—this jealousy certainly felt irrational to me. Similarly, my feelings of fear seemed irrational. The type of cancer I had was 100% treatable. It was even sometimes called a “pre-cancerous condition.” But our feelings do not go away simply because we try to dismiss them as irrational. On the contrary, the more we resist them because we don’t want to feel them, the more they seem to lay claim on our attention and our limited energy.

The danger is that our dislike of the irrational nature of many of our feelings can lead us to ignore or deny them. This can be very problematic. When we ignore or deny our feelings we cannot learn from them. Pushing our feelings away robs us of important opportunities to learn about ourselves, to seek support and to make needed changes. Feelings may not be rational but they have a logic of their own if we are willing to listen to them and explore them.

We do well to become like little children when it comes to our feelings. The goal is not to become children who are out of control with their feelings, but children who know it is okay to simply feel what they feel and to find ways to talk about those feelings. Such children are able to be vulnerable with others. They are able to get the help and support they need.

Recently our grandson started preschool. He is a very social child, so mostly he loves preschool. With one exception. For the first two weeks he cried every time he had to go outside for recess. He told us that he was afraid that he would be left alone on the playground when every one else went back inside.

While I was talking with him about this fear one day, I started to say what probably several other adults had already said to him. I started to say, “You know, your teacher won’t leave you out on the playground.” But as soon as I started to say this he stopped me. “Don’t say those words!” he interjected. So I stopped and started over. “I am sorry you are feeling afraid each day on the playground,” I said. “Thanks,” he responded quietly.

This was a helpful reminder. When we are experiencing uncomfortable feelings, we do not need or want to be reminded that our feelings are irrational. We do not need to be talked out of them. What we do need is empathy, support and care.

Empathy with my grandson’s fear opened up additional conversations. We were able to talk together about what might help him feel less afraid. Talking more about his fears, thinking of resources and strategies available to him, and acknowledging his courage seemed to calm his fears and eventually recess became the enjoyable time it was meant to be.

And so it was for me. When I felt the build up of grief and I allowed myself to cry with my husband, I was able to experience the amazing gift of comfort. I was always soothed and strengthened by this gift. And I was able to know deeply that there was nothing in this life or in death that we cannot face when we are supported, loved and comforted.

When I paid attention to my jealousy and took inventory of my resentments, I was able to face the dark thoughts inside me. The pride, the self-serving, the lack of trust, the self deceit all came forward for me to see and acknowledge. Facing and confessing these dark thoughts and feelings to God and a few others, helped me to experience the sweet breath of God’s grace flowing into me, loving me and releasing me.

When I felt afraid and ran like a little child to God’s loving arms, I was able to feel the compassion and empathy of God. I was able to remember that I was not alone. I was able to know again that God shepherds me, guides me, helps me. I was reminded that even when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I do not need to be afraid, because God is always with me.

From the gifts of comfort, soothing, strengthening, release, forgiveness, grace, reassurance, compassion—all of which were the result of expressing what I was feeling—came the experience of deep gratitude. And from the gratitude, came moments of a deep, quiet joy.

No matter what the difficulty, our feelings lead us back to our need to become like little children. Humble. Unashamed of needing help and comfort. Capable of weeping. Capable of laughing. Capable of saying, “I am sorry.” Capable of learning. Capable of giving and receiving gifts of love. Capable of joy.

When you don’t know what to do…feel what you feel.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What are some of the feelings you have been experiencing?

2. What feelings do you have about these feelings?

3. What might each of these feelings be “saying” to you?

4. What are you needing to do in response to your feelings?

Knowledge is power. That is what I was taught as a twenty year old nursing student. We learned to empower our patients wherever we worked by sharing information with them. Whether we were preparing people for a procedure, or for a surgery, or for having a baby, or for living with a chronic illness, one of our most important tasks was to educate people about what to expect, what choices they had, what was going on in their bodies, how to speak up for themselves, how to get support and how to take good care of themselves.

Perhaps it is because of this early training that one of my primary coping skills is to gather information. When I am faced with a difficulty in life, I gather as much information as I can so I can make informed decisions.

Because of the Internet, we now have a great deal of information at our finger tips. It is a wonderful thing. I had five days of waiting between the time I was told I had been diagnosed with cancer to the time I was scheduled to see the surgeon. During that time I read a lot.

I tried to go to the more reputable sites for information. There is a lot of misinformation on the Internet and I did not want to needlessly add to my anxiety. I also tried to read for no more than thirty minutes at a time in order to avoid information overload.

The reading yielded some helpful information. First, my particular diagnosis was considered by many professionals to be pre-cancerous. The reason for this is that ductal carcinoma in situ means that the abnormal cells are contained inside a duct gland. Because the abnormal cells have not spread to the surrounding area it is not considered to be a full blown cancer. This meant that my life was not in immediate danger. And it meant that I would probably not have to undergo chemotherapy.

I also learned that in spite of the fact that this was considered to be pre-cancerous it was still serious. It seemed that there was good reason to believe that these abnormal cells—which were contained in a duct gland—could break through the wall of the duct gland and mutate into a more aggressive kind of cancer if left untreated. This meant I needed to have surgery. These cells had to be removed.

Finally, I learned that the choices that were usually offered to a woman with this kind of cancer were to either have a mastectomy or to have a lumpectomy followed by five to eight weeks of daily radiation treatments. A mastectomy, of course, would mean losing a breast. Five to eight weeks of daily radiation treatment would mean fatigue, possible skin burns, some impact on the lung—although probably small—and a daily disruption in my schedule. This information was all very sobering.

All of this research helped me know what I was facing and what I was not likely to have to face. It helped me go to the appointment with the surgeon with a bit less anxiety and with more informed questions.

Having some information about whatever life challenges we are experiencing can help to reduce our anxieties. It can eliminate some of the uncertainties. It helps us better prepare ourselves.

But I needed more than facts. I also needed the kind of information that would give me emotional and spiritual strength. I found this kind of information in talking with women who had been through the experience of breast cancer. Two of my closest friends are breast cancer survivors. They offered information, emotional support, understanding, and the unspoken assurance that I would get through this and that life would return to “normal” again.

What they shared informed both my mind and my heart. They offered me hope and strength. It lit a candle in what felt like a very dark passage way.

I had seen the value of this kind of personal information sharing years earlier when I helped lead a support group for people living with cancer. Group members shared all kinds of helpful information—what to expect during different treatments, how to get through long, difficult nights, how to enjoy life as much as possible while going through such a challenging season. This level of information and support was priceless.

When I was a young nurse in training in the early 70’s, attitudes about talking to people who had life-threatening diagnoses were changing rapidly. Up until that time it was not unusual to withhold information from people about the seriousness of their illness. This information was actually kept a secret from the person who most needed to know. I remember being stunned by the thought that people had once been kept in the dark about their medical conditions. They had no opportunity to get their affairs in order and no chance to say those last difficult, tender good-byes.

Some information is painful. There is a strong instinct in us to resist or avoid news we don’t want to be true. When I first began to remember the traumatic events of my childhood, the instinct to resist these memories was very powerful. I had similar experiences when marital and parenting crises emerged in my life. I did not want these things to be true. I did not want more information about them, I just wanted to make them go away.

We cannot, however, face problems unless we know we have them. Gathering information is empowering because we have a better idea about our choices and about what might be required of us. Gathering information also helps us stay grounded. We need to stay closely connected to reality—whether it is painful or hopeful—because this is what leads to emotional, mental, spiritual, physical and relational health.

This is true of all problems in life—problems in our personal lives, in our families, in our society, in our world. Our work is to keep listening to the truth, and to gather both the difficult and the hopeful information about that truth, so we can bring needed correction and healing to our lives, our relationships and our world.

When you don’t know what to do…gather information.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What information have you gathered about your situation that has been difficult to learn?

2. What information have you gathered that has given you greater hope and strength?

3. What might help you gather information without creating information overload?

Keep Breathing. These words stood in bold lettering on a card I gave a close friend. She had just received some painful news and was very distressed. She told me several days later that she carried that card with her everywhere she went so she would be reminded to take a few slow, deep breaths several times a day.

When we experience a threat of any kind (real or perceived), our bodies have a way of taking over. Our bodies know what to do to prepare us to survive the threat. The “threat alert center” in our brain communicates not with our problem-solving cerebral cortex but with our adrenal glands. Our adrenal glands then set in place a series of biochemical responses that cause, among other things, our heart to speed up, our blood pressure to increase, our muscles to tighten and our breathing to become fast and shallow.

All of this can help us survive an immediate danger. These physical changes help us respond more quickly and more powerfully to an immediate, short-term threat. They help us fight harder and run faster.

But most of life’s challenges are not short-term. Marital conflict, a child’s drug abuse, healing from early trauma or difficult diagnoses like cancer are all threats that can persist for weeks and months and even for a lifetime.

As a result, many of us live in a chronic state of high alert. Many of us live as if we were under constant threat. Tense. Pressured.

We need to slow down the adrenaline surges that are set off by fear. As simple as it might seem, paying attention to how we breathe has been shown to have a powerful impact on how our bodies respond to danger.

Changing our breathing can be a kind of antidote to the constant stress our minds and bodies experience when we are afraid. Whether we are anxious about a life crisis or any of the hundreds of other things we might fear, the simple act of slowing our breathing can make a significant difference.

We cannot control most of the changes that happen in our body when a sense of threat is present. We cannot make our heart calm or our blood pressure go down, but we can slow our breathing. With a little effort, our quick, shallow breaths can be turned into slow, deep breaths. Like my friend who carried that card with her as a reminder, we need to pay attention to our breathing from time to time and slow it down a bit.

The amazing thing about this simple practice is that, when we pay attention to our breathing and begin to take some slow, deep breaths, we are sending a clear message to our bodies and brains that it is okay to relax a bit. It is like sounding the “All Clear” signal. As a result, not only does our breathing slow down but all the other physical and biochemical changes that our adrenal glands have set in motion begin to subside. It can help our heart to stop racing, our blood pressure to come down and our muscles to let go of a little of the tension they are holding.

But there is more. Gently attending to our breathing not only reduces stress on our bodies, it also soothes and nurtures our minds and spirits by grounding us in the present. When we sit quietly, even for a few minutes, and pay attention to our breathing in and breathing out, slowing it down, letting the gift of oxygen flow all the way down to our belly, we quiet our wild thoughts for a time and allow ourselves to be in our body—rather than in our fears—living in this moment, one moment at a time.

When I was working to heal from childhood trauma, I was often anxious. My nights were frequently disturbed by terrible dreams and my days were interrupted by flashbacks. In order to function, I began to practice times of slow, deep breathing every day. Often, I would begin my mornings with time alone to pray. These times usually started with five to ten minutes of slowing my breathing, relaxing my tense muscles and allowing myself to be in the present. Throughout the day I would take short breaks and allow myself a few more slow, easy breaths to calm my nerves. Breathing in this way became a survival tool for me.

It was many years after this difficult healing work that I was diagnosed with cancer. Within a few days, I returned to the regular practice of setting aside time to slow my breathing. I again added extra time each morning to my prayer times. I would begin these times with a few minutes of slow, deep breathing. Sometimes I listened to music as I breathed in this way. Sometimes I sat in silence with my hands open in a gesture of surrender and receptivity. Often I did both. These times were sacred to me. They calmed my mind and body. They helped me to stay in the moment, and they allowed me to experience times of resting in the reality of God’s unfailing love.

As we pay attention to our breathing and slow it down, we can remember that with each breath we are receiving God’s gift of life to us deeply, fully, one breath, one moment at a time, here, now, in this moment.

Because this is such a simple practice, it is easy to underestimate its value. And it is easy to forget to use it on a regular basis. But when we are aware of feeling anxious or tense, we can allow our discomfort to serve as a reminder to take a few, slow, deep breaths and to plan a time in the near future when we can sit quietly for a longer period of time to attend to our breathing.

When you don’t know what to do…keep breathing.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What are you aware of feeling in your body right now?

2. Look at a watch or clock and practice taking six slow, easy breaths over a minute. Then continue for one more minute with this same rate of breathing as you reflect on the gift of life offered to you in each breath.

3. What was your experience as you slowed your breathing and reflected on the gift of life in each breath?

Four days before Christmas in 2006 I had a phone appointment with my doctor. I was expecting to get the results of a breast biopsy that had been done a week earlier. At the time of the biopsy, I had been assured by the radiologist that everything looked normal, but as I sat down at the desk in my office and picked up the phone to call the doctor, adrenaline began pumping wildly through my body.

The receptionist put me through to the doctor immediately. The doctor began joking with me about finally getting the biopsy done (the equipment had broken down, and it had been necessary to reschedule the biopsy). Then she launched into a sentence I did not want to hear: “Unfortunately the results came back that you have Ductal Carcinoma In Situ. I have already scheduled an appointment for you with a surgeon at nine in the morning, the day after Christmas.”

I experienced the strangest sensations as I listened to these words. An image came to my mind of wanting her to rewind and start the sentence again, but this time I wanted her to say what I wanted to hear. I wanted her to rewind so I could hear her say, “Everything is fine.”

While I was working hard to not hear what I had just heard, the doctor was asking if that appointment time was possible for me. She was getting ready to hang up and move on with her busy day. But I was far from being ready to hang up. I had a thousand questions that were stacking and tangling behind the barrier of my disbelief. I asked if she would be available later to talk about this. But we were going into the holiday weekend and she was leaving town for several days. And so, without getting much information about what this diagnosis might actually mean, we said good bye.

As soon as I hung up, I called my husband who was a few miles away at his office. This was my first time to speak this strange new truth: “I have cancer.” My husband was in my office with his arms around me five minutes after I hung up. I was spinning emotionally and shaking physically. But he held me, and I began to feel more grounded.

A diagnosis of cancer can mean hundreds of different things. I did not know what this particular diagnosis meant. I had no idea about prognosis or treatment. All I knew was that it felt like very bad news.

As I moved through the months of additional testing, waiting, surgery, and more waiting, I found myself repeatedly caught in a powerful and confusing temptation to believe that I did not have breast cancer. In spite of all the doctors appointments and all the conversations and emails with family and friends the diagnosis of cancer had a way of turning into something surreal.

What I noticed was that, when I resisted the truth of the diagnosis, I became more anxious. This still seems counter-intuitive to me. Most commonly we deny and minimize difficult truths in an effort to decrease the discomfort of anxiety, but when I found myself resisting the truth, my anxiety increased rather than decreased. Whenever I started thinking “It can’t be” I lost my grounding and began to return to that original sensation of spinning and shaking. Whenever I would simply state the truth—“I have breast cancer and I need surgery” —I would feel my feet touch the ground again, and I would experience a sense of orientation.

As a result this became a daily mantra: “I have breast cancer, and I need to have surgery.” I would say this several times a day in order to accept this reality and to stay grounded.

I also began to pray each day for God’s help to stay grounded in this unpleasant truth. A diagnosis of breast cancer is a lot to take in. But it was the truth, and staying connected to the truth, no matter how painful or difficult it might be, always leads us toward freedom. Denying, avoiding or minimizing that a problem really exists leads us toward dangerous, unstable places.

During the year that our oldest son was using drugs, I experienced the contrast between the problems that denial creates and the clarity and sanity that staying grounded in reality provides. For too long we ignored what our eyes and ears told us was true. This lack of acceptance of reality—this lack of grounding—added to the problem. Because we denied the extent of the problem, we acted insanely. We acted as if we could reason with our son or as if we had some way to control his choices. It was only when we faced the painful reality that our son’s drug use was beyond our control that we could make healthier choices. It was only when we stayed grounded in the reality that our son needed help which we could not provide that we were able to refocus our attention on getting help for ourselves. This, as many parents in similar circumstances have learned, is a painful process, but getting grounded in our need for help and focusing on our insane behaviors was part of what made it possible for our son to get the help he desperately needed.

All of us would prefer life to be smooth and easy, but life is not like that. At least not for very long at a time. Life is one challenge after another. Often it is several challenges at once. We don’t have much control over the challenges we face but we do have some control over how we respond. A key part of that response is to stay grounded in the truth about each of life’s challenges and problems. Our work is to remind ourselves regularly of the truth of the difficulties we are facing. This is the only way we can feel how deeply we need God’s help and the support of others. It is the only way we will be able to do what is required of us.

When you don’t know what to do…stay grounded.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What difficulties and challenges are you facing at this time?

2. What are you aware of experiencing physically, emotionally or spiritually as you acknowledge these difficulties?

This is a bit surprising considering the central importance of eschatology in the biblical text. Close to the center of biblical faith is the notion that history is not done yet, the final chapters have not yet been written. And the biblical text provides a particular perspective on this as yet unwritten history. I think it could be argued that one of the most common ‘bottom-lines’ of N.T. eschatological texts is “pay attention”. Consider for example:

“Be on guard! Be alert!. . .Therefore keep watch because you do not know when the owner of the house will come back. . .If he comes suddenly do not let him find you sleeping”. Mk 13:32f

“So then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert. . .” 1 Thes 5:6

Eschatology of the N.T. variety is not just some collection of information about the future. The biblical texts assume that we are subject to boredom–to not finding anything in the present that is worthy of our attention. And so, it reminds us to wake up, to stay alert, to open our eyes, to not go to sleep. Why? Because when the really important things happen, they will not be happening in the future. They will be happening in the present. This is a fundamental assumption of the biblical text: God’s actions, interests and purposes do have a history and a future, but if you think they are not happening now, then you are likely to get bored, to become inattentive, to be lulled to sleep. And that is catastrophic for Christian faith.

Probably most of us first experience our boredom as being about something external to us. It is about our circumstances. We say “things are boring”. This is the same kind of tactic we use with anger. Most of us first experience anger as being about someone else. We say: “you made me angry.” We experience the anger as information about you and what you have done, not as information about ourselves. But this disowning of emotion is rarely very helpful. The same is true of our response to boredom. Most of the boredom we experience in life contains important information about us. Why am I bored in situations that are not objectively boring? How can life in a world that is full of the love and grace of God ever be boring? Why do we see ‘empty space’ when the universe is ‘full’?

A more helpful approach to understanding boredom is that taken by Thomas C. Oden in his book The Structure of Awareness–a very helpful book that takes boredom seriously as a theological category. Oden understands boredom to be a kind of anxiety. Just as guilt is a kind of anxiety which focuses on the past and fear is a kind of anxiety which focuses on the future, so boredom is a kind of anxiety that focuses on the present. Guilt, fear and boredom. . .those, for Oden, are the big three.  As with any kind of anxiety, boredom can be either a constructive or a destructive experience. Importantly, for Oden, destructive boredom is fundamentally a failure to see the most obvious of things–that God is active NOW in the world. Here’s just a bit of how Oden talks about the contrast between Jesus’ present-tense eschatological message and the past-tense or future-tense oriented eschatological messages which were more common in his day:

Against the prevailing trend of idealized messianic expectations, Jesus announced: The reign of God is at hand! In direct opposition to those who were bored with present history, Jesus announced: Now is the acceptable time! To those who expected God to change the very conditions of human existence, Jesus announced: God is now with us! To those whose thoughts were fixed upon a romanticized past or an idealized future, Jesus proclaimed, brutally and offensively: The kingdom of heaven is in your midst!

While Oden makes it clear that boredom can be dysfunctional, the dysfunction seems, for our purposes, a bit generic. The experience of boredom which is common during the recovery process, however, involves a very specific dysfunction. It has become increasingly clear to me over the years, for example, that boredom can be what craving feels like for work/ministry addicts. Every addiction involves the experience of craving. If we are addicted and we need our next ‘hit’, then we will be restless and irritable. A key component of restlessness and irritability is craving.  But what does craving feel like? For sex addicts, the experience of craving is closely connected with lust. For gambling addicts, the experience of craving is closely connected with irrational hope. But, for work addicts, the experience of craving is very closely connected with boredom. When not working, a work addict will be bored. Restlessly bored. Irritably bored. I’m not sure this is universally true for all work/ministry addicts, but it sure fits my experience. The adrenaline rush which work addicts experience when they ‘get back to work’ seems like a sure, if temporary, cure for boredom.

Seen in this light, boredom is not just a kind of anxiety. It is a symptom of the addictive process at work in us. At least for work addicts, boredom is part of an addictive cycle: using, consequences, regret, attempts to change, increasing boredom and, finally, using to combat the boredom. The intimate connection between boredom and craving in this cycle is an important feature of the process. Boredom increases craving. Craving increases boredom.

If this is part of the reality of boredom for us, then trying to ‘manage’ our boredom (e.g. by developing better time management skills or by trying to lead more ‘balanced’ lives) will never be an adequate solution to the problem. It will not make the boredom go away. Just as ‘lust management’ might be helpful for non-addicts, it is hopelessly counterproductive for sex addicts. In the same way ‘boredom management’ is rarely helpful for work addicts. Our problems are deeper than that. A solution must begin with the recognition that we are not more powerful than our craving. We will need something more powerful than our own good intentions, determination and will-power. The recognition that we are helpless to do what needs to be done is not usually a recognition that we welcome. But it can be the beginning of a remarkable transformation. . . a transformation that, while it may at times be painful and difficult, will definitely not be boring.

This particular addiction is what might be called approval addiction. It involves people living in bondage to what other people think about us. When you become an addict to approval, no matter how much of this drug of choice you get, you can never have enough. You’ve got to have more and more and more fixes and, like other junkies, you can go crazy when your drug of choice is withheld.

My personal experience with approval addiction began early. When I was in elementary school I used to talk a lot (for folks that know me that will be a real shocker!). There were all these rules about being quiet and studying, and listening that I had a difficult time with. I found the little folks around me fascinating and so I would talk to them all the time. My second grade teacher was not impressed by my social skills. Over time it became obvious that she had her favorites and I wasn’t one of them. I tried to make her like me but it was useless.

One day I was particularly fascinated by the folks around me—and so she pulled me out of class and spanked me. The next day I was determined to do better. By the end of the day she asked me to come forward and she pinned a note on my shirt and told me to make sure it got to my mother. I just knew that it was going to be a glowing report of how much progress I had made in that eight-hour period. I was sure that the note was going to enumerate how in all the years of teaching she had never seen a turn around so inspirational or dramatic. That is not what happened. When I got home I stuck my chest out and told my mom that I got a note from my teacher—I was confident, I was proud, I knew I was loved.

As my mom read the note and as her continence fell, so did mine. The note said that I was a very bad boy and it went on to inventory all my 7 year old character defects. Which, from the length of time it took my mom to read the note, was pretty long.

That is the first time I remember feeling significantly criticized and it crushed me. It took the air out of my sails. This sense of shame bubbled up from the bottom and it made me feel small and insignificant. Criticism still does that to me. I think that there was a part of me that day that determined never to feel that way again—to distance myself, to people please, to manipulate and lie—but to never feel that way again. In a lot of ways the structure and life of my addiction served to numb me from the shame of letting people down. Today I can see the insanity of this logic (doing shameful things to numb my shame)—but it made all the sense in the world to me at the time.

Those of us who struggle with this often have no capacity to hear criticism. We hide from it, balk at it, internalize it, and strike back at the originators of it. When other people’s opinion of me becomes the organizing principle of my life my entire identity is on the line. What happens is that I end up giving people access to my identity that should not have that access. I become what other people think of me. Whether I am a student, a businessman, a stay at home mom, a professional, or unemployed, whether I’m a recovering addict, a Christian, a Democrat or Republican, successful —it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is how I am perceived by my world. If being busy is important, then I must be busy. If having money is a sign of real freedom, then I must claim my money. If knowing people proves my importance, I will have to work my contacts and climb the ladders. What matters is how I am perceived by my world.

I have seen a spiritual principle at work in my sobriety in relationship to this: Living in the gracious acceptance and approval of God will liberate me from the approval addiction. The converse is true too. Living as an approval addict will keep me from living in the love of God.

One of the blessings of the 5th step is the profound experience of grace that is embedded within it. When you and I learn to live honestly before each other and God, when we are able to trust each other with our secrets and shame the grace of God begins to radically liberate us. We can take the criticism of others and instead of reacting to it or allowing it to define us we can place it before God and those that know and love us and see if it “fits”. If it “fits” we can take concrete steps in love to deal with our character defects, if it does not we can set it aside. In this whole process we can stay connected to the gracious acceptance and approval of God.

May you live in the overwhelming, saturating love and acceptance of God.