Holy Week '15

Last summer I was blessed with the ability to place myself on a pilgrimage walk through part of Ireland. I had physically trained and was prepared to the best of my ability. My boots were broken in, my pack was methodically filled and my gear was perfect. On the first day of the walk I felt as if I were on the start line of a race. My energy was intense and focused. I was convinced I would pound out those miles on the trail and when we arrived at our evening’s destination I would be able to complete any and all tasks at hand. I am still not sure what those imagined tasks were.

As the day progressed and the miles slowly drifted by, I could feel an unrest rise within me. The miles felt treacherously long. I was desperate to get to our night’s lodging so I could be done with the first day. I needed to check it off my list and, “get on with it.” To add to my frustration, we missed a turn, my feet were becoming blistered and it started to rain. I had wondered why I bothered to walk this pilgrimage to begin with. I wanted for it to be over and I hadn’t really started.

Then, midway through our second day, God seemed to speak to me. A healing light entered my soul. I noticed my pace slowed and I took more breaks. I noticed the scenery, I enjoyed the misty rain, and I breathed in the cool air. I realized the pilgrimage was not about accomplishment or some sort of end point but rather it was about the process of life and what my soul is here to experience.

I have worked at bringing this understanding into my everyday life and have noticed it has made me more whole. Perhaps this is also what Holy Week is about, walking the pilgrimage. Not to reach the destination of Easter Sunday but to take in what life is really about, wrong turns, blisters, rain and all.

40 Days

40 Days

Lent started a couple of weeks ago. Who is really counting? We mark time in various ways and for me lately, days seamlessly meld into months. The 40 days of Lent will pass and I will be distracted through most of it. Enjoying the weather, watching an obscene amount of baseball, and planning the annual Easter egg hunt. This Lent will pass without much notice.

On Ash Wednesday, I allowed our oldest child to take a day off from school to help me sort rummage for a local women’s philanthropic group. I have worked at this rummage sale annually since our first-born was in preschool and this year was finally the time for her to come with and experience getting her hands dirty. The sale takes place in a large exposition hall at our state fairgrounds. The building is designed to allow cars to enter and exit freely from either end. This helps workers to bring in tables and lighting and permits members of this philanthropic group to drive through the hall to drop off their donations.   

My daughter and I were assigned to the women’s clothing department and we began to sort, hang and fold. Shortly after our shift began a pickup truck pulled in through one of the large garage doors at the end of the building closest to us. The bed of the truck was filled with women in orange Department of Corrections jumpsuits. When the truck came to a stop, the women jumped down and the guard approached me, he asked, “Where you want ‘em?” as if these females were a sort of commodity. I suggested he inquiry with the lady in charge when one of the women in orange stepped forward and said, “I know you.” I stared at her. Her tight ponytail revealed several neck and facial tattoos that were not familiar. Her severe eyebrows looked to be more drawn-on then plucked into shape. Her smile seemed genuine as I searched my mind for our connection. Was she a parent of one of my students? Was she a former student? I was at a loss. Finally, she said, “You have been here the last couple of years. You are always so funny. Do you need help in this area?” I apologized for my poor memory and accepted the help. Two of her cohorts joined in and the rest of the inmates wandered off to find someone to give them instructions.

The ladies worked side by side with us. They laughed at some of the clothes that were either out of style or simply in bad taste. The inmates chatted and giggled and complained about how frustrating it is to shop at discount stores such as Marshall’s and TJ MAXX. They discussed how more formal attire would be good to wear to various events and ogled the more high-end fashions that had been donated. Then the inmate who had remembered me said, “I get out of prison in 40 days. After 6 years I will be out in only 40 days.” I congratulated her and asked if she had a family to go home to. She said, “My mom is pissed at me because she had to take my kids when I was sent away. I am going to a halfway house in Tucson. It will be good for my mental state, you know?”

All the while, members of this organization had been pulling up to drop off their donations. Luxury cars and SUVs one by one with Prada and Michael Kors clad women dumping loads of unwanted items. Some were obviously annoyed with an indignant air while most seemed indifferent. Admittedly, my attitude would have also been indifferent if I had not been sitting in the midst of this human profundity. I asked my co-worker in orange, “You said you get out in 40 days. Today is Ash Wednesday, so do you get out on Easter?” Her face brightened, “I pack up on Easter and get out the next day.”

My 40 days of Lent will pass mostly without me noticing, I doubt that is the case for my friend in orange.