Shame is that terrible, private feeling that something is wrong with us—that we are somehow defective as a person. That we are irreparably damaged. That if anyone really knew what we were like we would be rejected.

A part of the experience of shame is the fear of being found out and exposed. We want to run and hide and protect ourselves from exposure to other people’s judgement.

Many of us start accumulating shame in childhood. Sometimes the roots of shame involve abuse, neglect or significant trauma. But shame can also be rooted in less intense experiences. Shame can be created if a child is told she is irresponsible or stupid when he spills his milk or brings home grades that don’t meet a parent’s expectations. Rather than being taught how to clean up the spilled milk, or helped in ways that might allow for greater success in school, a kind of character assassination takes place which leaves a child believing terrible things about herself.

Shame can also be formed when a child’s basic needs for secure attachment, nurture and attention are chronically unmet. When our longings for relatedness are not met, the basic human need to love and to be loved can feel shameful to us.

Unfortunately, accumulated shame does not just go away as time passes. Unless it is addressed directly, we carry shame with us. Sometimes it may seem dormant, but in times of stress our shame can float to the surface of our lives and complicate things. For example, a diagnosis of a serious illness can be a trigger for feelings of shame. Being told “something is seriously wrong with you” can feel very much like the old shaming message of “you are defective” or “you can’t do anything right.” And when a serious diagnosis is public information we can feel very vulnerable and exposed. As a result it can be difficult to sort out our responses to the current crisis from our responses to old, accumulated shame.

The good news is that anytime shame surfaces there is an opportunity to experience healing of the experiences and beliefs that have fed the shame.

When Jesus faced death by crucifixion, we are told that he “endured the cross and scorned the shame” (Hebrews 12:2), Jesus endured the pain. That is, Jesus did not avoid the suffering, but instead, he went through the suffering. But he rejected the shame. All the shame that others were attempting to heap on him had no power over him. Jesus did not accept the shame others were trying to put on him. He was being treated as a person with little or no value. But the message of shame, “you have little or no value,” was a lie and Jesus refused to accept it.

We tend to do the opposite of what Jesus did when faced with suffering. Jesus accepted suffering and rejected shame. We tend to reject the suffering—we deny it, run from it, tune it out—but we tend to embrace the shame as if it were the truth. Shame, however, is a lie. None of us is ever “less than.” None of us are unlovable, beyond repair, or worthless. We are loved and cherished by a redeeming, healing, saving God. And none of us is in the wrong for longing for love and connection. This longing, although it may be painful at times, is a gift from God. It is a gift that keeps us moving toward relationship with God and with each other.

I experienced moments of shame for having breast cancer. I had feelings of being somehow “less than” women who did not have breast cancer. I had thoughts of being “marked” and “unlucky” and inferior because of this diagnosis.
When I remembered the women I know who are breast cancer survivors I could see that I was being entirely irrational. These women are some of the most beautiful humans I know.

The most important thing for me was not to figure out where these feelings of shame were coming from. The most important thing for me was to let them go.

Years earlier I had decided to practice an unusual “giving up” for the Lenten season. In some traditions it is common to make some kind of personal sacrifice in the weeks leading up to Easter that will help keep us mindful of Christ’s sacrifice. I had given up desserts and chocolate on previous years. But this time I decided instead to give up my fear and shame. My sons were young at the time, and when I talked at the dinner table about my plan they asked, “You aren’t going to feel any fear or shame for seven weeks?” I told them that was not my plan. I expected to continue feeling fear and shame. My plan was to stay aware of these feelings and to do my best to release them to God as soon as I was aware of them. I wasn’t planning on examining them and analyzing them. I simply was going to tell God, “I am feeling fear or shame, and I release these feelings to you.”

I did this practice of letting go of fear and shame for seven weeks. It changed something in me. Of course, I still experience these feelings, but I am more aware of them, and I can release them more readily.

When our family went to family week at the addiction treatment center where our son was being treated, they taught us to discard shame using a physical gesture of throwing our hands in the air and saying, “I release this shame, this shame does not belong to me.” This was close to what I had done for seven weeks. Sometimes I did this outwardly with a physical gesture. Sometimes I did it inwardly. A physical gesture such as this, which symbolizes the release of shame, can be a powerful way to reinforce our growing willingness to let go of shame.

Letting go of shame is important because shame leads only to destructive places. Shame keeps us focused on how bad we feel about ourselves, and thus less aware and open to others. Shame keeps us immobilized because it is based in the belief that we are hopelessly beyond help. Shame pushes us to isolate because we feel too exposed. Shame feels so terrible that it opens the door to rage. We cannot stand to feel so terrible so we lash out at ourselves and we lash out at others.

When hard times come, feelings of shame often surface—feelings of being worthless and unlovable. We can let these feelings go. They do not belong to us. We are valued. We are loved.

When you don’t know what to do…let go of shame.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What shame are you feeling in relation to the difficulty you are experiencing?

2. What other shame are you aware of?

3. Practice letting go of shame, throwing your hands in the air and saying, “This shame does not belong to me.”

4. Ask God to help you reject the shame you feel and to be open in new ways of resting in God’s love.

Difficulties in life bring out the best in us. And the worst. This was certainly true of my experience with cancer. I prayed and practiced surrender and took in the love and support of others and of God. And I was resentful and jealous and reactive.

The resentfulness, jealousy and reactivity were not pretty. They were dark and disturbing. This darkness needed my attention. It needed to be acknowledged and healed.

Scripture offers us tools for attending to our dark side. Scripture teaches us to invite God to search us and to show us our hearts, our anxious thoughts, our offensive ways (Psalm 139:25-26). It also teaches us that confession is an important part of our healing. (James 5:16).

God is not surprised by the darkness of my responses. God knows that my self-seeking and selfishness will show itself on a regular basis. And God has provided not only forgiveness but practical help and healing. God offers to reveal my offensive ways to me and to help me tell the truth about them so that I can be healed.

The book Alcoholics Anonymous provides some practical tools for attending to our resentments and fears. These tools can be helpful to anyone whether we are struggling with an addiction or not. In Step Four of the Twelve Steps we are given guidelines for making a “fearless moral inventory,” in which we explore our resentments and fears. And in Step Ten we continue taking daily inventory of our resentments and fears and we continue to make amends when we have wronged another person.

When I found myself reacting to the diagnosis of cancer, I used the tools of inventory taking. I began by praying that God would reveal my anxious thoughts and offensive ways. And then I wrote down what or who I was resentful towards. And why. I wrote down the ways I believed I was being hurt or threatened. And then I asked the question suggested in Alcoholics Anonymous: “Where was I being selfish, self-seeking, dishonest and afraid?”.

The following is some of my inventory about my resentment towards friends who didn’t respond just the way I wanted them to respond.

Where am I being selfish?
I think it is all about me, ‘I have breast cancer, pay attention to me,’ is what I seem to want to demand of my friends.

Where am I being self seeking?
I am seeking attention and sympathy, but not too much sympathy, everyone has to get it just right. I am also seeking approval for how I am handling this.

Where am I being dishonest?
I am deceiving myself in thinking that others need to pay extra attention to me; I am deceiving myself that there is a good way, as opposed to a bad way, to be coping with a difficult diagnosis; I am deceiving myself that I need to prove myself to my friends in some way; and I am forgetting the truth that I can rest in God’s love and care no matter what I am feeling or needing.

Where am I afraid?
I am afraid that I am not handling this well and that I will lose the respect of my friends.

I also wrote inventory about my resentment toward the cancer itself.

Where was I being selfish?
I acknowledged the terrible thought that “I would rather this was happening to someone else instead of to me.”

Where was I being self-seeking?
I would rather be the helper than the one being helped, because then I could feel more in charge of things, and feel like I have something to offer, rather than feeling out of control and vulnerable.

Where was I being dishonest?
I am believing the lie that I am in charge of my health. And I am believing the lie that I should somehow be immune from this kind of human suffering. I am also believing the lie that I don’t have a lot I need to learn from this experience.

Where was I being afraid?
I am afraid the cancer might return. I am afraid of the procedures and the surgery. And I am afraid of being afraid.

After I wrote this inventory, I talked to God about what I had written and I talked to at least one other person. This was helpful. It relieved me of some of the burden of pride and pretense. I experienced some relief from the feelings that accompanied these selfish, deceitful, fearful thoughts. This is consistent with the teaching in 1 John 1:9 that when we confess our sins we are forgiven and purified. Later, in this same text (I John 2:8) it describes the “darkness passing” and the “true light shining.” This is what I experienced when I took my inventory and shared it with both God and another person. I felt the darkness passing and the light of God’s grace shining in me—correcting me, healing me, freeing me.

One of the reasons taking inventory is so important is that we tend to wander off the path. We forget who we are, who our neighbor is and who God is. We forget we are loved. We forget we are valued. We forget our neighbor is also deeply loved and valued. We forget that God loves us. We wander off looking for love and valuing in some other place. We get proud, greedy and defensive. We treat others as less than the precious children of God that they are. We forget that we can rest in God’s love and care for us. And, as a result, we make a mess of things.

In the daily adventures of life, taking inventory of our anxious thoughts and offensive ways makes it possible for God to heal us and free us. God restores us to our right mind. God reminds us who we are, who our neighbor is and who God is. We, who were confused and lost, are found again. And, we are told, that when the lost are found, there is always great rejoicing in heaven.

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

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. Ask God to reveal your resentments, especially in relation to the difficulty you are experiencing.

2. Who or what are you resentful toward? Why?

3. Ask God to show you, in relation to your resentments, where you are being selfish, self-seeking, dishonest or afraid.

4. Share what you have been shown with God and at least one other trusted person.

5. Ask God to continue to free you from your resentments.

The first responses I received when I told people about being diagnosed with cancer were usually responses of shock and compassion. I felt tenderness from most people. And I was soothed by that tenderness.

Within days, however, I wrote in my journal that I was feeling that somehow too many of the interactions I was experiencing about my cancer seemed “off.” People could not say the right thing or have the right tone. People didn’t call or send cards. Or they did. Either way, I might have some reaction. I even wrote in my prayer journal that I realized I was reacting negatively to other peoples’ expressions of sympathy. I didn’t like hearing or seeing their sympathy. Perhaps it made my cancer diagnosis too real. “Something is wrong with me,” I wrote.

I was emotionally raw. I was riding on emotional white water rapids. I was suddenly uncertain about many things I usually took for granted. And I was afraid.

When we are faced with a scary situation that continues for some time, we often become reactive. We cannot always talk ourselves out of this reactivity, but it is helpful if we at least know what is happening. Being aware that we are raw and reactive can help us to be more mindful and more prayerful about how we go about expressing our reactivity.

People who are recovering from addictions of various kinds are at risk of relapse. Some people believe that when a person is hungry, angry, lonely or tired they are at even greater risk of relapse. This can be remembered with the acronym, HALT. The idea is that a person will be less likely to relapse if they halt and pay attention to these basic concerns. People are reminded to get something to eat when they are hungry, to get some quality rest when they are tired, to make a phone call or go to a meeting when they are lonely, and to take responsibility for their feelings when they are angry.

I think this wisdom can be applied to our tendency to react when we are distressed or afraid. Not all of us will be tempted to pour ourselves a drink, but we might do something just as counter productive. We might tell people off, or withdraw from people who care about us.

Before we attack or withdraw, we do well to HALT. Then we need to take care of ourselves. We need to eat, rest and connect with someone who is supportive. We also need take responsibility for our reactions. We need to remember that we are raw and we need to remind ourselves that the people we are reacting to are people who care about us, even if they are not able to always express that care in ways that are helpful to us.

There were a few times I told myself to sleep on it, before I told someone how “hurt” I was. If the sleep didn’t calm my reactivity, I spent time asking God for wisdom. I asked God to show me whether this event was something I needed to let go of or whether it was something I needed to talk through with the other person. Only once or twice was there something that needed to be talked through. Mostly, I needed to ask for grace and comfort from God and let it go.

Many years before being diagnosed with cancer I went through a long period in which I felt emotionally raw while I came to terms with childhood trauma. I would, at times, be thrown back into the feelings which I had experienced as a child—but which I could not express at that time. During those times of wanting to do the equivalent of throwing temper tantrums, I came across a helpful piece of advice from Thomas Merton. Merton said that we do well to not inflict our suffering on others. It is wise advice. I do not want to inflict my suffering on others.

So, what to do? In addition to using HALT and praying for God’s comfort, grace and wisdom, I found it helpful to remember that self control is a gift of the Spirit. As we invite God’s Spirit to live in us, as we surrender our wills and our lives to God’s care, the life of the Spirit begins to flow through us more freely.

This requires us to practice the basic disciplines that help us with reactivity to any life event. Stay grounded. Keep breathing. Feel what we feel. Pray. Practice surrender. Set aside extra time each day to be quiet in order to practice these basics. In this way we are often able to receive the comfort and correction we need. In this way we can invite God’s Spirit to flow into us and through us, giving us the gifts of self control that we need.

When you don’t know what to do…notice your reactivity.

Questions for reflection and discussion

1. What have you noticed about your own reactivity?

2. Which of the suggestions made here have you tried and how did they work?

3. Which of these suggestions might be especially helpful for you?

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?