Near the end of the summer, I went swimming in the ocean with my youngest child. At first it was bliss, as we frolicked in the water and sun. Up and down in the gentle waves, our toes softly grazing the sandy floor.
Then it changed. With no warning, a rip tide tore us from our safe spot, and we were out of our depth, getting dragged toward jagged rocks and absolutely not in control. I struggled; I lost ground; I struggled more, and I realized I was running out of strength as I fought to keep us both above water. Belatedly and in a panic, I waved for help. Help came in the form of two strong, placid lifeguards. They towed us in and set us on the shore, where my husband wrapped us in towels and the sun warmed us back up.
And that was it. We went on to have a safe and happy day. But every night in the week that followed, I would wake up with a start and play the panic part over and over again in my head: the smacking and yanking of the water; the boil and chill of terror as I realized we were drowning. Yes, we got saved. No, I was not over it. Every night, I kept drowning again.
This is how I got past it: I started retelling myself the story of the whole day, again and again—not just the scary part but the entire day, because it was all one day. I methodically revisited the drive there, meeting my family, the fun in the waves, the sudden turn, the terrible danger, the rescue; the safety and security afterward. The drive home; the stop to grab some cheeseburgers. Slithering into my comfortable bed and switching off the lamp. Eventually, it all became woven together as integrated strands of the same story, and it didn’t hold gear-jamming, chaotic terror anymore. It happened, it was awful, we got through it, and we are O.K.
Not long after our ocean drama, I launched into another disconcerting trial: brain surgery. I got it done, it went well, and my prognosis is great. But I had the same problem as I did after almost drowning. When my mind cleared enough to want to make sense of what happened, I suddenly got scared. Where did these 41 head staples come from? How did I get those yellowing bruises, scabs and nerve damage?
My memory was jagged, chaotic, made of unravelled bits and snarls of things that may or may not have happened; and even though the worst was over, I found myself caught up in panic. I knew I was better; I knew I had come through it and was healing. But I couldn’t make sense of what had happened to me. I was safe but horrified.
My husband sat with me and filled in the gaps. He told me what I said when I woke up, how I looked, what he did while I was under. He reminded me where they put my street clothes and what route we took home. He helped me weave it all together, the good days, the bad days, the parts I could remember and ones I could not. As my skull and scalp knit together, I began to make coherent sense out of what else had happened. It turned out to be really important to do that—as vital a part of my healing as the physical part.
When I finally felt well enough to get back to Mass, I brought this whole experience to the Lord. And as I sat there, hearing once again the story of his passion, death and resurrection—the ultimate story of catastrophe to full recovery—I thought for the first time: three days! That’s too rushed. I felt a deep pain of unfairness on Jesus’ part.
We all know he ended up O.K. He was resurrected. He came out of the dark tomb with his hands and feet and his side still marked but not bleeding. He had discarded the death wrappings, walked away and eventually went home.
But, feeling a little abashed to use such contemporary pop psych language, I could not help thinking: When did he get to process it all? I got so much time to heal. Why didn’t he?
The easy answer is: Well, he was God. Just because humans have to do this work of weaving calamity into a coherent narrative of what happened and how we got through it, that does not mean Jesus did. He is really good at everything! He can just suffer, get the job done and then skip straight to Easter joy.
But I don’t like that answer. … Read the rest of my latest for America Magazine.
—–
Image: Christ Giving His Blessing by Hans Memling, 1481. Photo by Simcha Fisher
