My ankles were throbbing as I climbed up the mountain. Overwhelmed with nausea and fatigue, I kept going. It was toward the end of my year as a Jesuit Volunteer in Mobile, Alabama and I was celebrating my 23rd birthday in the Smoky Mountains National Park when a group of us decided to embark on a hike to Rainbow Falls. It also marked about one year since I began aggressive treatment for my chronic autoimmune condition, Lupus.
I was diagnosed with Lupus in 2013 and upon my college graduation, my illness was progressing. So it began - intense immunosuppressants, steroids and chemotherapy. In the midst this, I also prepared to move across the country to begin my year as a Jesuit Volunteer. My symptoms intensified and I had chosen to back away from high impact activity to give myself some space to heal.
During the trip, my heart was aching to climb the mountain. I love to be active and be outdoors, but had been pushed to take it easy for awhile because of my health. I was nervous but I went for it, pushing myself into the unknown, away from my anxious mind that feared how my body would hold up, unsure if I could handle it, but feeling that I had to try. I think this is how I found myself in Alabama too. I felt called to live among the poor and passionate about accompanying people with disabilities. So I had to decide - follow my heart, enter into the risk of leaving the comfort that home had offered me as I struggled with my health, or stay safely where I knew I could thrive, but be haunted by a feeling that there was more out there for me that I was giving up on. I knew the feeling well. Then too, I pushed myself into the unknown.
The hike was rocky and steep, an upward climb switching back and forth into the mountain fog. My knees ached from pain, each step impacted more by the rocky trail. I was overwhelmed, and anxious about holding the others in my group back, which only added to the stress my body was facing. Sometimes, the pain of chronic illness isn’t just difficult to live with because it hurts, but because it can be a deep reminder of a life I feel like I have slowly lost parts of. With each step of pain shooting through my body, I also felt loss, anger, shame, sadness toward this part of who I am, for struggling with something that used to easily bring me happiness. The pain intensified as my emotions did too. I just wanted it to be over.
In some ways, the last year of my life has felt much like this. One steep mountain climb after another, struggling to catch my breath and never quite able to catch my footing on the climb. With stings of pain in each step along the way.
I entered into the vocation of sharing life with adults with disabilities, as we call core members. L’Arche, French for “the ark”, is symbolic as a place of refuge, where one can come to find safekeeping in the midst of life’s storms - a place of belonging. The community became my refuge in the midst of my lifes raging storms during the year. L’Arche provides homes and workplaces, but on its broader mission, it hopes to create inclusive communities of companionship of those both with and without disabilities. It seeks to reveal the gifts of others, to show each person their value, worth and belonging, and to transform society through relationships which look beyond societal standards. I moved to Alabama expecting to be moved by the joy and love I would encounter at L’Arche and I was, more than I can tell you, but I never imagined the weight of pain that would also accompany me on that journey too. And like the painful hike I experienced as I climbed to the summit of Rainbow Falls, sometimes I just wanted the year to be over, to escape from the pain of it and move on.
About half way through my year, news came to me that a core member in our community had a horrifying history of sexual assault. I was completely broken about it - shocked, disgusted and hopeless. How could this happen? What could I possibly do to walk alongside her in this? I did my best to care for her through the emotional pain of it. Each day brought hardship. She was broken and healing as best as she could...and I was angry. I came to discover that on top complex medical conditions, several other core members also had histories of abuse. The stores of the people who had become my family shook me. I was so angry at a world that lets this happen.
I was also angry as I heard cries of pain coming from the marginalized groups whom my JVC community mates worked with - the incarcerated, immigrants, domestic abuse survivors, and those living beneath the poverty line. I felt more pain as marginalized groups in my own country feared their own safety, and a president who spews hate was elected. I was so angry at all of the stings of pain in the world around me.
And there was also some pain within myself, as the fears I had when I decided to move to Alabama came true. I continued to struggle with my chronic conditions, away from my support systems and adjusting to a new life. Managing new doctors, new symptoms and a new life added stress, and I missed the ones in my life who I could count on to understand. I tried to ignore the pain I was deeply feeling but it didn't work - I ended up developing severe anxiety and depression. I went days at a time without sleeping and suffered from panic attacks sometimes multiple times a week. I felt robbed of who I was, like I had lost my own cheerful perseverance that I had always loved about myself. When I tried to push my pain to the side, it came back deeper. And I was ashamed for feeling so lost when it felt like I had everything going for me.
I think sometimes pain and heartache make us feel like we aren’t enough, that it’s wrong to feel so hurt and that we are damaged. Society has taught us that it is shameful to feel broken, that we need to be strong and overcome things to be successful. I remember pulling myself through the hike so ashamed for what I was feeling, and embarrassed. Why do we sometimes run from our pain and push it away instead of embracing it, letting it change us and grow?
I try to remember that even Jesus felt pain but leaned into his emotions and embraced his sorrow as a way toward eternal healing and relationship with God. He was betrayed, abandoned by his followers, mocked and abused and ultimately faces the ultimate source of physical pain as he cried out “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
Running from the pain in our lives just doesn’t work because it finds a way back in. I've tried to hide from pain, afraid of what letting it in might do. But when I don’t acknowledge my pain, when I don't let myself feel it, it overtakes me. Learning to embracing my pain during this time of my life allowed me to be able look at the blessing within and beyond it. It gave me my cheerful perseverance back.
Henri Nouwen wrote in his book Life of the Beloved,
“Befriending our pain and putting it under blessing does not make our pain less painful. In fact, it often makes us aware of how deep the wounds are and how unrealistic it is for them to vanish. The great task becomes that of allowing the blessing to touch us in our brokenness. Then, our brokenness will gradually come to be seen as an opening toward the full acceptance of ours as beloved”
I think that when we come to accept our brokenness, our pain and the pain around us, we can run freely with it instead of away from it. We can find healing, learning to live with our pain but with our hearts turned to seek love in the midst of it.
As I finished my painful hike, we reached the top of the mountain and a glistening waterfall came crashing down in front of me. I collapsed down on a rock in amazement, letting it all soak in. A cool breeze rushed by and a light mist came through the air.
I let the pain of it all move through me and I finally acknowledged it, not as something shameful but as something that I had to accept that I deal with, that I was learning to live with everyday. In the midst of my brokenness, I was befriending my pain. I thought back to the hike and the beauty of it. The blessing was there all along. When I let the pain in, I let the blessing in too. I felt peace. I joined the rest of my friends as they sat beside the falls, overwhelmed with love and thankfulness as they too had accepted my own pain on the journey.
My time at L'Arche Mobile is really what showed me the importance in this. I saw how deeply the core members loved, how strongly they rejoiced - I saw God in each of their faces. I saw each of them accepting themselves as they were created and overcoming some of the most painful parts of life that lived in their hearts. They allowed God to penetrate their brokenness, still sometimes hurting but reflecting light brightly. Celebrating always. Allowing blessing to touch the broken parts within their heart.
Their hearts and sacred stories are forever with mine. Elmore, greeting me every morning as he asks for his cup of sweet coffee and tells me I am his best friend. Peggy, as she would check in with me every week about how I was feeling and how my doctors appointments went, never forgetting to thank me for even the smallest of tasks. Annie Pearl, as she told me how precious I am and that I am always in her heart. Courtney, whose laughter could make anyone smile. Willie, who could be having the worst day but still turn around and start dancing, offering a hug. Mark, who always let me know there would never be anyone else like me. Jonathon, though little in words would always let me know that he was thankful I was there. BJ, who never failed to ask me how I was doing, and give me a kiss on the cheek. And so many more, who have blessed me in ways I cannot even begin to describe.
During the trip, my heart was aching to climb the mountain. I love to be active and be outdoors, but had been pushed to take it easy for awhile because of my health. I was nervous but I went for it, pushing myself into the unknown, away from my anxious mind that feared how my body would hold up, unsure if I could handle it, but feeling that I had to try. I think this is how I found myself in Alabama too. I felt called to live among the poor and passionate about accompanying people with disabilities. So I had to decide - follow my heart, enter into the risk of leaving the comfort that home had offered me as I struggled with my health, or stay safely where I knew I could thrive, but be haunted by a feeling that there was more out there for me that I was giving up on. I knew the feeling well. Then too, I pushed myself into the unknown.
I entered into the vocation of sharing life with adults with disabilities, as we call core members. L’Arche, French for “the ark”, is symbolic as a place of refuge, where one can come to find safekeeping in the midst of life’s storms - a place of belonging. The community became my refuge in the midst of my lifes raging storms during the year. L’Arche provides homes and workplaces, but on its broader mission, it hopes to create inclusive communities of companionship of those both with and without disabilities. It seeks to reveal the gifts of others, to show each person their value, worth and belonging, and to transform society through relationships which look beyond societal standards. I moved to Alabama expecting to be moved by the joy and love I would encounter at L’Arche and I was, more than I can tell you, but I never imagined the weight of pain that would also accompany me on that journey too. And like the painful hike I experienced as I climbed to the summit of Rainbow Falls, sometimes I just wanted the year to be over, to escape from the pain of it and move on.
About half way through my year, news came to me that a core member in our community had a horrifying history of sexual assault. I was completely broken about it - shocked, disgusted and hopeless. How could this happen? What could I possibly do to walk alongside her in this? I did my best to care for her through the emotional pain of it. Each day brought hardship. She was broken and healing as best as she could...and I was angry. I came to discover that on top complex medical conditions, several other core members also had histories of abuse. The stores of the people who had become my family shook me. I was so angry at a world that lets this happen.
I was also angry as I heard cries of pain coming from the marginalized groups whom my JVC community mates worked with - the incarcerated, immigrants, domestic abuse survivors, and those living beneath the poverty line. I felt more pain as marginalized groups in my own country feared their own safety, and a president who spews hate was elected. I was so angry at all of the stings of pain in the world around me.
And there was also some pain within myself, as the fears I had when I decided to move to Alabama came true. I continued to struggle with my chronic conditions, away from my support systems and adjusting to a new life. Managing new doctors, new symptoms and a new life added stress, and I missed the ones in my life who I could count on to understand. I tried to ignore the pain I was deeply feeling but it didn't work - I ended up developing severe anxiety and depression. I went days at a time without sleeping and suffered from panic attacks sometimes multiple times a week. I felt robbed of who I was, like I had lost my own cheerful perseverance that I had always loved about myself. When I tried to push my pain to the side, it came back deeper. And I was ashamed for feeling so lost when it felt like I had everything going for me.
I think sometimes pain and heartache make us feel like we aren’t enough, that it’s wrong to feel so hurt and that we are damaged. Society has taught us that it is shameful to feel broken, that we need to be strong and overcome things to be successful. I remember pulling myself through the hike so ashamed for what I was feeling, and embarrassed. Why do we sometimes run from our pain and push it away instead of embracing it, letting it change us and grow?
I try to remember that even Jesus felt pain but leaned into his emotions and embraced his sorrow as a way toward eternal healing and relationship with God. He was betrayed, abandoned by his followers, mocked and abused and ultimately faces the ultimate source of physical pain as he cried out “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
Running from the pain in our lives just doesn’t work because it finds a way back in. I've tried to hide from pain, afraid of what letting it in might do. But when I don’t acknowledge my pain, when I don't let myself feel it, it overtakes me. Learning to embracing my pain during this time of my life allowed me to be able look at the blessing within and beyond it. It gave me my cheerful perseverance back.
“Befriending our pain and putting it under blessing does not make our pain less painful. In fact, it often makes us aware of how deep the wounds are and how unrealistic it is for them to vanish. The great task becomes that of allowing the blessing to touch us in our brokenness. Then, our brokenness will gradually come to be seen as an opening toward the full acceptance of ours as beloved”
I think that when we come to accept our brokenness, our pain and the pain around us, we can run freely with it instead of away from it. We can find healing, learning to live with our pain but with our hearts turned to seek love in the midst of it.
As I finished my painful hike, we reached the top of the mountain and a glistening waterfall came crashing down in front of me. I collapsed down on a rock in amazement, letting it all soak in. A cool breeze rushed by and a light mist came through the air.
They all know how to rest in the view of the waterfall, living peacefully and full of love for themselves and others. Recognizing their brokenness, but finding healing among it. As my L’Arche family poured this into my heart this last year, I have started to gain peace in my own pain and I have found some healing in it too.The biggest piece of beauty beyond the pain of my year - my L’Arche family - will always remind me of how loved I am, how to find joy and celebration, and how to to accept our brokenness and turn it into healing.
It is a daily practice, to look past our pain and continue to see beauty, to let God enter into our brokenness to find ourselves whole again. I’m so thankful to L’Arche Mobile for accompanying me through that journey. As I continue, I think of them often. And when I feel overwhelmed, I imagine myself sitting among them, resting in front of the waterfall, out of breath but overjoyed with peace and healing.
It is a daily practice, to look past our pain and continue to see beauty, to let God enter into our brokenness to find ourselves whole again. I’m so thankful to L’Arche Mobile for accompanying me through that journey. As I continue, I think of them often. And when I feel overwhelmed, I imagine myself sitting among them, resting in front of the waterfall, out of breath but overjoyed with peace and healing.
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