Lessons from the Desert Fathers and MothersLessons from the Desert Fathers and MothersIn the scrub of the desert plain you will lodge. (Isaiah 21:13)
Living with chronic illness presents an ongoing and unique spiritual challenge. It takes a certain amount of courage to walk the walk as days turn into months and even years. The voice of temptation to give up when the map seems impossible to fathom can catch one unaware, sidling in through the cracks of doubt.
It has come as a great curiosity to me that if I am to cope, I must live in a world of constant redefining. When I read a book about the desert monks, I made a connection to my journey: I understood that the hermits' way of life is only a framework, a kind of scaffolding on which they build the spiritual structure of their lives with God.
Perhaps one of the most important issues I've faced comes from the phrase, "to keep your heart safe." When physical symptoms of chronic illness escalate to levels that are hard to tolerate, the sense of isolation and the unknown can be strong. Thomas Merton describes the hermit's life as uncharted, like a pioneer with no map. That concept perfectly parallels the journey of chronic illness. I never know from day to day how wild or tame my symptoms will be, and this uncertainty creates understandable confusion. When symptoms are severe I have not been beyond contemplating, "What will become of me?" While this is an acceptable and valid human response to the moment, it is not where I want my thoughts to stay.
In fact, the desert fathers and mothers warn against prolonged thoughts such as these, saying that the dangers of isolation of the self can lead to self-absorption, comparison, the inability to go out of oneself to others, and the incapacity for any form of self-transcendence. They describe this as being a prisoner of one's own selfhood, which is a horrifying thought.
This is one of the greatest dangers the chronically ill face, because of the isolating nature of suffering. No one wants to become mired in repetitious thoughts that go nowhere and bring no growth or light. The desert fathers and mothers exemplify the attitude that aloneness can pave the way for purity of heart, sensibility and -- perhaps most importantly -- growth in the understanding of (and compassion toward) human frailty. The simple men and women who lived their lives out among the rocks and sands did so only because they entered the desert to be their true selves in God.
The stories of the desert fathers and mothers renew my conviction that the inner world within the scaffolding of our life circumstances is of the utmost importance. I can think of no greater personal grief for anyone than to look back on life only to discover that there was an outer framework with nothing inside. For that very reason, we must never give up ... no matter how much we must redefine our maps.
God of True Hermits and Contemplatives,
the desert is not always a forsaken place. Rather, it can he a place of hallowed ground where the soul is filled, not stripped.
Listen! my beloved is knocking. (Song of Solomon 5:2)
Sometimes, when you open a door slowly and carefully, just a crack, you can hear a small click as the lock mechanism lets go. Click. Soft sound. The door creaks open. Seeing small truths of the soul can be like that. There's that small click and a thought comes to us, revealed through the light of the inner door that has opened. Sometimes it can be a painful truth that we have to face, yet we feel a certain sense of freedom or relief when we do.
As my illnesses progressed, there were times when I couldn't even handle an hour's conversation with my friends. Symptoms escalated, reducing my ability not only to laugh and converse but to listen properly and respond. At first, my friends said, "Maybe we shouldn't come anymore. It's too hard on you." They would never admit it, but I suspect that they felt sorry for me.
Sometimes I felt as if I just couldn't tolerate not being on an equal communication footing with my friends, not having the stamina for hearty discussions on favorite topics. In fact, there were times when I felt I had failed my friends, although I knew they would never want me to think that. I actually wanted to run down the long, dark hallway within myself, weeping about it. I felt so insecure about what I had to offer. Would I ever be able to make peace with the limitations I faced?
I wrote page after page in my journal, wailing my way through my feelings of loss until, finally, there were no words left to write; I'd written them all. I was tired of repeating myself. When I reached the end of myself, however, a quiet stillness stole over me. As I listened to the quiet, without thinking, I wrote, "I think God is knocking."
Then, using my imagination, I heard an inner voice say, "Joni, you're going to have to make peace with this regret thing." It was like an inner door opening with a small, soft click. I realized that my heartache was holding me back and that if I didn't step out of the long, dark hallway, I wouldn't be myself -- whatever that might be -- for my friends.
As I worked with the regret and faced the fact that I needed to make a change, alternative ways to "be myself" began evolving. I wrote letters to my friends, decorating them with hearts and "smiley" stickers, as my way of not only sharing but caring. I began lighting candles for my friends and making prayer visits to the Great Grandmother trees in the woods behind our house on their behalf. I sent them flowers and small gifts, collected rocks and feathers for them, kept our favorite wine coolers and herbal teas on hand, and created a gathering space for us in a loft overlooking stained-glass windows in my home.
It took time, but as I began adjusting to my limitations, relaxing and healing from the wrenching of my frustrations, I found joy again at being able to feel that I am an important part of my friends' lives.
None of this was easy, of course; I still wish that I was well. Nevertheless, I now know that when I sense a familiar small, soft click, God is encouraging me to step out of my hallway into a new place. Sometimes I can even hear the door creak open.
Oh God of Inner Doorways,
sometimes you have to knock a long time before we hear you in our heart. Each doorway we step through has you on both sides. Why does it take us so long to figure that out?
I cry for help until morning; like a lion he breaks all my bones (Isaiah 38:13)
Years ago horrendous floods wiped out all of my woodland trails, leaving only the central backbone path. All the wooden trail signs I had painted were swept away, except for a remnant here and there left lying on the ground with nails sticking out. I grieved deeply.
With time, of course, the denseness of the woods returned to its natural, nearly impenetrable state. It was as if the woods reclaimed itself, becoming once again a wild, untamed place. The very creek itself changed course, gouging out the far side of the railroad trestle bank and retreating from the old beach that we used to know. The felled Great Grandmother tree lay crooked and abandoned, half out of the water, no longer providing a natural bridge. All these landscape changes took place in a few short years. The voraciousness and continuity of change in the woods awed me, yet I felt attuned to it somehow.
The illness that has physically diminished me has also ravaged my inner landscape, changing me as drastically as the woods have been changed by the floodwaters. A transformation has been taking place in my soul, gouging out whole banks where waters once ran deep, over-running tame places, and flooding my inner terrain. Many of my old and familiar inner paths have been washed out by the raging waters of chronic illness. I don't know precisely at what point I began recognizing this inner wildness. I think I felt it happening long before I understood what it was.
Sometimes, when the illness is severe, I feel a wildness in me that defies description, like a wolf that has been stuck in a cage and is howling to get out. The closest I can come to explaining this is to say that it is like prayer that comes from the deepest deep -- wild and passionate for life and freedom.
There is nothing soft or gentle about long-term, serious illness. Its force has the power to ravage like raging floodwaters, and its bite is like that of a caged animal. It has driven me wild, in the sacred sense of the word. Sometimes I think it is this wildness that will save me. A tame woman could never howl ... and this journey requires howling in the most prayerful, ferocious sense.
Oh God of All That Howls,
the brutality of suffering defies words. Sometimes we can't even pray about it. It's not that we don't want to. It's just that out soul is too busy growling with the pain and horror. Still the floodwaters, God; still the beast.
Reprinted from Tall in Spirit: meditations for the chronically ill (© 1999) by Joni Woelfel Used with permission. All rights reserved by ACTA Publications (800-397-2282, Chicago IL).
Joni Woelfel, a wife and mother of three grown children, suffers from Menier's disease, Bell's palsy and other illnesses. This is her first book.
(Available from Faith @ Work!)
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