After the Surrender

It’s been a while since I wrote about the power of surrender, about choosing to “lay down this fight” in which my body was the battlefield, not only for others to wage their wars of domination, but where I attempted to conquer my own physical being, and not out of love but out of loathing.

It’s been a while since I made that choice, and for a few weeks I was able to rest in that place of surrender, trusting that God would bring healing to the deep self-inflicted hurts that had been brought to light.

That was on Ash Wednesday, and most of Lent was spent in that quiet place of gentle affirmation and healing.  And then came Holy Week – the week when the deep structures of violence are exposed, and the Christian community affirms that, while the pain is real, it is not God’s last word.

I worked a longer week than usual over Holy Week, a bargain with my colleagues so I could have Holy Thursday and Good Friday off.  Those have always been days of deep silence and reflection for me, and I longed for some quiet, and a few days off from my usual schedule.  But by the time Wednesday rolled around, I was tired.  Just tired, that’s all.  And twice that day I found myself in uncomfortable conversations with colleagues -- the very people who were making it possible for me to have my private holy time that week – uncomfortable because I was snappish and mean, and couldn’t figure out how to roll it back in before I hurt someone for no reason.

I took that shame and embarrassment with me into meditation on Thursday morning, and in very short order saw the truth of my own ego staring me in the face.  How I needed to feel special, and important, and how I couldn’t allow others to simply have their own thoughts or feelings if I thought they conflicted with mine.  Not only had I been at war with myself for most of my life, I’d been at war with the world. Something else to surrender.  

What comes after surrender?  More surrender.  And more surrender.  I’ve caught those combative thoughts coming back again – it’s a pattern that has been ingrained for decades.  My heart is still in Holy Week, painfully aware of the damage that the ego (my ego) can cause.  I know that Easter will arrive, perhaps as slowly as a New Hampshire spring, and that forgiveness and new life will flourish.  And it will be miraculous when it comes.  For now, however, surrender continues.