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- Herausgeber: IVP Formatio
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
"'It is finished,' Jesus says. It's a bold declaration for us to make too. What does it mean to say 'It is finished' when so much is unfinished? It means we are people who live hope in two directions, both backward and forward. We long for the kingdom to come in fullness, even as it has already come. And we trust that the One who has begun the good work in us and for us will indeed complete it." In this sequel to Shades of Light, Katherine Rhodes, the beloved director of the New Hope Retreat Center, finds her own grief tapped by Wren Crawford's struggles with depression and loss. Through a series of letters to Wren, Katherine reflects on the meaning of Christ's suffering and shares her own story of finding hope. How does one begin to live again under the crushing weight of grief? And how can healing come when there's so much left unresolved? With Katherine as a companion in sorrow, Wren moves forward in her commitment to paint the stations of the cross for a prayer journey at New Hope, discovering along the way a deeper communion with the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief. Readers are invited into a similar journey of reflection through Katherine's words and Wren's paintings. At the back of the book, a devotional guide with Scripture readings, prayer prompts, and full-color art provides the opportunity to ponder the depths of God's love by meditating on Jesus' journey to the cross.
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For my beloved dad,
CLARENCE M. GARLOUGH,
who fought the good fight and finished his race a few months after I finished writing this book.
His kindness, love, and faithfulness helped me trust the kindness, love, and faithfulness of my heavenly Father.
Thank you, Dad. You’re my hero, and I love you.
No eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor human heart conceived,what God has prepared for those who love him.(1 CORINTHIANS 2:9)
Contents
1
The Word Became Flesh
CHRISTMAS EVE
She was safe. Not well, not at peace, but safe.
Katherine Rhodes lingered in the bedroom doorway and offered a silent prayer for Wren, who was writhing and whimpering in her sleep, no doubt tormented by her usual nightmares over all she had been unable to prevent. If she had been more attentive. If she had been more assertive. If she had recognized the signs and demanded Casey get help.
Kit quietly shut the door. Not all the way, though. The three-inch gap was a psychological prop—even if it didn’t provide physical protection. She had been unable to provide such protection for her son, and she would be unable to provide it for her great-niece.
If she had been more attentive, if she had been more assertive, if she had recognized the signs and demanded Micah get help, then maybe he would be in the prime of midlife instead of forever seventeen.
The same voices harassing Wren had plagued Kit for many years, and though she had long ago become practiced in recognizing their source and rejecting them, noticing and naming the voices didn’t mean they went silent—just dormant, waiting to be awakened by some other crisis when she felt out of control and yet responsible.
She dialed Jamie’s number as she descended the stairs. “She’s okay. Just sleeping.”
“I’m sorry to keep pestering you for updates,” Jamie said, “but when I couldn’t get her to answer her phone . . .”
“No, I know. I promise, I’ll call you if I notice anything new.” She had made that same promise to Jamie many times over the past couple of months, ever since offering her home as a place for Wren to regroup and recover after her stay at Glenwood Psychiatric Hospital. But a mother didn’t outgrow anxiety, especially for an already fragile daughter now catapulted into the additional trauma of losing her closest friend not quite two weeks ago.
“I don’t suppose she’ll make it to church tonight.” There was something wistful in Jamie’s voice, as if a Christmas miracle were still a possibility.
“No, I don’t think so. But her pastor is coming to see her between the services.”
“Oh! That’s good. I’m glad to hear that. Please thank her for me.”
“I will.” While Wren had accepted Hannah’s invitation to bring her communion on Christmas Eve, she might not remember the conversation. Kit didn’t want Wren to miss the opportunity to receive it, though. Receiving communion from elders who took turns visiting the house was one of the few things Kit vividly remembered from the days after Micah died. Robert didn’t want to participate. She hadn’t blamed him. Not for that, anyway. But when she’d felt so disconnected from her life, so disembodied with grief, chewing the bread and swallowing the juice was a tactile way to practice faith when she felt as if she didn’t have any faith to practice.
Jamie said, “And what about tomorrow? Are you heading to Sarah’s?”
“We’ll play that by ear, see how Wren’s feeling.” Kit had already prepared her daughter for the possibility of not joining the family for their celebration. The girls will be so disappointed, Sarah had said, with a tone that communicated her own. But it couldn’t be helped. Leaving Wren alone for an extended period simply wasn’t safe.
“I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done, Kit, for all you’re doing. I know I keep saying that, but I don’t know what else to say.”
“I’m glad to be able to do it.” Kit paused on the bottom stair landing and peered through the beveled glass on the front door. The cul-de-sac was quiet. “I hope you and Dylan and the kids can have a wonderful celebration together, even with all this.”
“I’m trying,” Jamie said.
“I know you are. You’re doing so well.”
“Some days are better than others.” Jamie sighed. “I’ve got to go get costumes ready for the nativity play. Joseph has the stomach flu, and none of the other boys is willing to play the role. So Phoebe has agreed to give up being a sheep and step in. Olivia is painting on a mascara beard and mustache as we speak.”
Kit laughed. “Take pictures. Lots of them. And I’ll ask Wren to call you later if she’s up to it.”
As she waited for Hannah to arrive, Kit debated whether she should try to wrap the two Vincent van Gogh prints she’d purchased for Wren: Starry Night and Olive Trees. Opening wrapping paper might require too much effort. Or stir painful memories of other Christmas celebrations. Maybe it was best simply to give her the prints without making note of them being Christmas gifts.
She sat on the sofa, the prints side by side on her lap, and thought about the many conversations she and Wren had shared about Vincent’s life and faith, about how some of his work evoked images of Jesus wrestling in Gethsemane and how they hoped to partner together in creating content and art for the Journey to the Cross at New Hope.
But that was before Casey died. Given Wren’s current state of mind, it was unlikely she would be able to meditate on the Scriptures, let alone paint a prayerful response to them in time for Holy Week. And as far as weaving her own story into the New Hope reflections—as Kit had told Wren she would consider doing—the more she thought about it, the more she realized that wasn’t the right context. People who came to New Hope for the Journey to the Cross came to pray with the Word and the art, not to read someone’s personal narrative.
Still, Wren had bravely asked her to share her story. And though no words of wisdom or consolation, no words about the loss of her son or her own journey with depression could mitigate Wren’s suffering in these early days of her anguish, perhaps there was another way to offer Wren what she’d asked for.
If she told her story in small doses, wrapping bits of personal narrative around the Journey to the Cross Scripture texts, then Wren could read it when she was well enough to process it. And return to it whenever she needed to be reminded that she was not alone. “Companions in misfortune,” Wren often said, quoting Vincent. As much as she loved reading his letters to his brother, maybe she would appreciate reading letters written to her.
Kit glanced over her shoulder at headlights in the driveway and set the prints aside. Considering the ways Wren’s journey had already tapped her own subterranean sorrow, she suspected that by saying yes to writing letters, she might be saying yes to much more.
With the cross casting its shadow on the manger, tonight was as good a time as any to begin.
CHRISTMAS EVE
My dear Wren,
Tonight I watched your pastor offer you a bit of bread and hold the cup to your lips so you could drink. “Do this and remember me,” she said. You chewed and swallowed, then sank back into your bed to sleep.
I know you can’t remember much right now. Grief has carved too deep a chasm. So we trust the even deeper mysteries and receive by faith what we cannot receive through reason or effort. We receive Christ’s death and life in our places of death and wait. And when we cannot wait with hope, we let others practice hope for us.
A few weeks ago you asked if I ever share my story at the retreats I lead at New Hope. I told you that I haven’t because I’ve never wanted the content to point to me. If our suffering has been severe, our testimonies can become a distraction or even a stumbling block to those who might be reluctant to grieve their own losses, especially if they’re tempted to talk themselves out of their pain by measuring it against or comparing it with someone else’s. There are no star sufferers, however, in the kingdom of God. So, as I share from my own story, I pray my words won’t shine a spotlight on me but reveal instead how Jesus has met me in the losses and enlarged me through them. That’s my hope for you, too, that the excruciating pain you have endured and that you’re enduring right now will become a pathway toward deeper communion with the One who is with you in it.
Even as I begin, I’m mindful that we are unreliable narrators of our own stories. But who else can tell them from the inside? Some of my memories are only recollections of what others told me I said I was thinking or feeling when I was in the depths of despair. I’ll try to offer you the same gift, to hold the things you cannot hold right now but might want to remember later. And if I record details you wish you could forget, please forgive me.
Tonight I’ll light my Christ candle and, for both of us, I’ll rehearse the truth that is a comfort to me in times like these, that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. We have seen his glory, even if only in a mirror darkly. Jesus, in offering his bruised and wounded flesh—in giving his body broken for us—makes us whole, even when it doesn’t seem like wholeness. This, we receive by faith. Tonight, for both of us, I’ll also rehearse the truth that is hard to receive and trust in times like these, that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never overcome it.
I’m keeping watch with you, dear one.
Love,
Kit
2
The Gift of Myrrh
EPIPHANY
She and Robert had argued in an office lobby similar to the one where she now waited for Wren to finish her counseling appointment. Kit had asked him to lower his voice—please—especially in front of other patients. They could speak to the counselor privately about what kind of addiction treatment programs might be most helpful for their son. But Robert had heard of such programs, and it was a waste of money, he said. Perfectly normal for teenagers to experiment. He had experimented when he was Micah’s age and hadn’t suffered any long-term detriment. She was hovering and controlling, Robert said, and maybe if she weren’t so judgmental and condemning—maybe if she would just back off and give Micah space to figure things out, and yes, fail if he needed to, why did she think she could prevent that?—he would outgrow this rebellious phase, just as Robert had.
There was no arguing her husband out of his position, especially when the counselor “took her side” and agreed that more aggressive treatment, which could also help address Micah’s underlying depression, would be a prudent course of action. Robert refused to meet with the counselor again, and his disparaging remarks about therapy in general and Micah’s therapist in particular—which he routinely made in front of their son—severed Micah’s already tenuous commitment to his appointments. Kit couldn’t force him to go. She’d tried and failed.
Wren, thankfully, did not object to going to her appointments, and her counselor had wisely set multiple dates in advance so Wren wouldn’t have to exert herself in making phone calls. All Kit needed to do was remind her when it was time to go and drive her there. And reassure Jamie that yes, Wren was meeting with Dawn. Jamie had learned not to press for specifics, much as she longed for them. Kit understood the longing. And the fear.
She flipped through a magazine, looking at photos. On their way out, she would ask the receptionist if she could have some of the outdated ones to cut up for prayer collages for the retreat session that night. Wren would need to go with her to New Hope so she wouldn’t be alone at the house, and while Kit led the retreat, Wren would probably sleep in one of the guestrooms. Not the one where Casey was supposed to stay, though. Kit had closed and locked that door, thinking it would be better for her if she couldn’t access that space. But sometimes Kit found her in the chapel, resting her head on the chair where he had left his goodbye letter. Vincent had painted a friend’s empty chair, Wren had said in one of her more lucid moments. Empty chairs made her cry.
Kit let her mind drift to their old kitchen table, Micah’s chair pulled out at precisely the angle he had left it. At least, she thought it was the way he’d left it. There had been no memorable last supper together, only an ordinary dinner with their forks scraping against their plates, the sound amplified by the absence of conversation. If she had known she would find her beloved boy the next morning, cold in his bed, what last words would she have tried to speak to him? What words would she have begged him to speak to her?
At least Wren had Casey’s handwritten note—his intentions a mystery, yes, but his love and regret unmistakable. That was a gift.
Dawn’s office door opened and Wren emerged, her dark, unwashed hair partially covered by Casey’s beanie. If Kit could persuade her to relinquish the hat for an hour, she could wash it for her. Wren probably wasn’t aware of the odor emanating from her clothes or body. She hardly had energy to change a shirt, let alone shower, poor thing.
“I’ll see you next week,” Dawn said, her hand resting on Wren’s shoulder. If Wren replied, audibly or otherwise, Kit missed it. But for a moment her own gaze met Dawn’s, and Dawn acknowledged her with a nod, as if to say, “Thank you” and “Please keep doing what you’re doing.”
Kit set the magazine down on the end table. She had enough prayer collage photos to choose from. She would ask for extras another time.
“It won’t take me long to get things organized,” she said as they drove to New Hope. “Then we can head home for a rest before we come back for the retreat.” Straightforward and brief declarations rather than questions seemed to work best. Asking Wren what she felt well enough to do or giving her options only overwhelmed her.
Kit glanced toward the passenger seat, where Wren was leaning her head against the window, eyes closed. The therapy appointments, as necessary as they were, probably exhausted her. Kit remembered nothing from her counseling appointments after Micah died, only that Robert drove her because she didn’t trust herself behind the wheel of a car. He drove her to the psychiatric hospital too, after her counselor insisted she needed inpatient treatment. Kit hadn’t had the energy to object, not to the therapist or Robert, who carried in her suitcase after her intake exam. Odd, how some images were indelibly branded into memory while others left no imprint. He’d set the burgundy case on the green paisley carpet, kissed her on the cheek, and said he’d call the hospital later to check on her. He kept his word. About that, he did.
At New Hope she parked in front of the lobby entrance and opened the car door for Wren when she gave no sign of exiting. “There you go,” Kit said as she reached for her hand, “watch your step here. That’s it. We’ll just check in with Gayle and see what else needs to be done to get ready.” A few weeks ago Wren would have been the one scrubbing bathrooms, vacuuming hallways, and tidying the chapel. Now if she managed to use a duster, it was a victory. Thankfully, Gayle, the part-time receptionist, was willing to put in extra hours to help. She was sympathetic: she had an adult daughter who suffered from depression.
After greeting both of them warmly, Gayle handed Kit a registration list and a few file folders. “I’ve pulled out some of the photo categories I thought might be helpful for the collages.”
Kit thumbed through the labels: food, architecture, nature. These were probably Gayle’s own preferences. “Let’s add the ‘hands and feet’ and ‘roads and pathways’ files too,” Kit said, “for variety’s sake.” She paused, trying to discern her next move, then decided to tread lightly. “Here—let’s ask the artist, shall we?” She lightly touched Wren’s coat sleeve to try to draw her in. “Wren’s done these collages before and has a good eye for such things. Let’s set the folders down on the table here and take a look.” Kit went to the file cabinet and removed the rest of them. “There’s an ‘art’ one here—I forgot I had that one. And an ‘objects’ one and a ‘people and faces’ one.” She set the manila folders next to one another without opening them. “Let’s take a look here, Wren. Just the titles. And you give me a yay or nay. What’s good for a New Year theme? Art?”
She watched Wren for any response. After a few long moments of silence, Wren nodded.
“Okay, good,” Kit said. “What about food?”
Her response was marginally quicker—a slight shake of the head. Not surprising. Ever since Casey died, Kit hadn’t found much food that enticed her. “Okay, we’ll set this one aside for now. But this one is kind of interesting, the ‘hands and feet’ one. Would you like to take a look and see what you think?”
To Kit’s delight, Wren reached forward and opened the file herself. After a moment’s silence, she murmured, “Yes.”
Such a good word, yes. “Right. And what about one more? How about if you choose between the ‘roads and pathways’ and ‘people and faces’?”
Wren hesitated, then said quietly, “You could put all of them out.”
Kit smiled. “Well, you’re right about that. There’s no reason not to, is there? Let people choose from a wide variety of what speaks to them. Good idea.” She gathered the file folders together and nudged Wren’s shoulder gently. “Maybe even the food one, huh? Someone might like to choose a cake or plum or something.”
Wren nodded again. Kit handed her the folders. “I’ll get the glue sticks and cardstock squares, if you can carry these folders down to the big classroom for me and set them on the table. We can either leave the folders for people to browse through, or we can pull out some photos for them to select from. Could you do that for me, Wren? Carry those to the room?”
“Okay.”
“Great. I’ll be there in a minute.” After Wren disappeared around the corner, Kit thanked Gayle.
“Sure thing.” Gayle lowered her voice. “She seems a little brighter today, don’t you think?”
“Maybe a bit.”
It was a temptation she would need to fight, Kit thought as she walked down the hallway a few minutes later—the temptation to monitor Wren moment by moment for signs of improvement. It was something she had cautioned Jamie about as well, how it was more important to look for a larger trajectory toward wellness than at the daily questions of, “Did she eat? Did she shower? Did she change her clothes? Did she get out of bed? Did she engage in any conversation?” Not that those activities wouldn’t be significant vital signs. But they couldn’t become a basis for hope. Only Christ crucified and risen could bear the weight of human hope. All other things would crumble under it. All earthly things, it seemed, did.
When Kit entered the large retreat space, Wren was at the center table, hovering over a jumbled mass of images, as if she had dumped out all the folders to swirl the pictures together. No matter. Kit could sort them again afterward. “Finding anything interesting?”
Wren gripped the top of her beanie with both hands and leaned closer to the table. Then she picked up a single scrap of paper, crumpled it, and stuffed it into her sweatpants pocket while murmuring something.
“What did you say, dear one?” Kit moved toward her, so she could hear if she replied.
“Too sad,” Wren said.
Kit scanned the table, wondering what had provoked her. “Yes, I suppose some of them are, aren’t they?” She reached for a photo of an elderly couple sitting on a park bench, feeding the birds. “Even the ones that look happy can be sad, can’t they?” Especially if they portrayed broken dreams or unfulfilled longings. “We could make prayer collages sometime of all sad things, if you’d like.”
Wren turned toward her, her large brown eyes dull and tired. Then she reached into her pocket, uncrumpled the photo, and handed it to Kit.
“Yes,” Kit said quietly, “I see what you mean. That’s very sad.” With a deep breath, she handed back to Wren the photo of a young father cradling a sleeping infant close to his heart.
JANUARY 6
My dear Wren,
