One of the things I learned in law school was how to do Stations of the Cross. It wasn’t a class offering; just something I learned when I tagged along with my friend T on Friday nights during Lent. It’s essentially a walking mediation in which you stand before a series of fourteen panels representing the events of Jesus Christ’s last day on Earth. It’s about reflecting on the harder parts of life and the devotion that occurs when you connect with the higher parts of ourselves. While I initially knew nothing about the practice, it became something I looked forward to because it triggered within me two unexpected moments of clarity.
The first Friday night I entered Sacred Heart Basilica to pray the Stations, it was more like walking into a museum and pretending to look at art. You know, me standing in front of an elaborate painting feigning interest, but internally saying, “Um-hmm. That’s nice. Next.” And that is how it was for the first couple of panels that first night. I hated that the focus seemed to be on physical agony and hand wringing drama. The call and response made it worse. I have never liked feeling like part of a crowd. And so I zoned out biding my time until it was over.
I’m not sure exactly what triggered the thought. I’m saying it was a thought, but really it was a voice translated into a thought. A message being delivered. It started at the station “Jesus Meets His Mother” and carried through to “Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus”. Themes of abandonment and open hearts — a refusal to abandon Jesus. The voice began:
“You think that if you were told by a doctor that your unborn child had Down Syndrome that you would have an abortion. But you would not. You would carry the child and fully embrace him. You would not abandon him.”
I had never been pregnant nor given birth to a child, but back then I was one-hundred and ten percent positive that I did not want to have a child with Down Syndrome. Couldn’t do it. No, not for me. I didn’t want the “burden” of raising a child who could never be as independent as I would have wanted a child of mine to be. Of course I would have been sad to abort the child, but ultimately I knew I would feel better later because I wouldn’t have wanted to make the life adjustments necessary to raise a child with intellectual and physical limitations. And yes, these were feelings of how this would not be a “perfect” child. A perfect child being smart and independent — a reflection of how things should be according to a 30-year old me.
But that voice told me that I wouldn’t have an abortion. That instead I would embrace what was happening. That I would make the adjustments necessary in my life to be a mom to this child, to mother this child, to do whatever it would take for this child. I would not abandon this child. I would, if necessary, wipe the face of Jesus.
As I have pondered this moment over the years, I think about the hard choices we face as humans. I know that in the big picture there are really no wrong choices and we all do what we can handle. But at some point we are ultimately asked to embrace life and what it brings, no matter how unexpected or unlike what we imagined it should be. Everything is a path and paths have lessons to be learned.
In this life, I’ve never had children so I haven’t actually faced what the voice described. But I know that wasn’t the point. In that moment in the Basilica a voice told me something about myself that I didn’t know. That I won’t give up. That my heart is big enough. That behind my fears is a love that cannot be abandoned .
Postscript —A few years ago I was walking through a restaurant and saw a group of people cooing in adoration over a newborn child. As I got closer I could see that there was something not quite right with the child’s eyes. I had the impression that he had no eyes at all, just closed lids. As I got closer still I could see that there was a beautiful glow emanating from his empty sockets and he was smiling. The most beautiful smile in the world. I knew this child was special. Very, very special. I left the restaurant knowing that he would bring great things into the world.
The details on my second moment of clarity are a bit hazy. Did it happen that first night, too, or was it a different Friday night? Which panel was I standing in front of? Simon Helps Jesus Carry the Cross? Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus? It doesn’t really matter because the message has stuck with me all these years.
It went something like this: No matter how much someone loves you, supports you and all around has your back, at the end of the day we are all human and subject to human limitations. Others may disappoint us or not come through when needed (even though they truly want to). The remedy is simply to remember to keep our hearts open. To remember we are not gods. That even at our very best we are flawed; that we are a work in progress. To remember that the support we seek is actually already deep within us. For we may not be gods, but that which is God is within us waiting patiently for our attention.