A year had passed since my brief but memorable meeting with Hope and Wisdom: two friends whose presence in my life is needed, but almost entirely un-admitted; longed for, but for the most part undeclared. I met Hope again one Sunday morning, when I learned that the health of the family member previously spoken of had deteriorated markedly. I repeated the offer made a year earlier, and left it for her to phone me if I was needed. Two weeks passed, but still without my having heard from her, and though I had made a conscious decision to wait – it had to be entirely her choice and her own wish for me to become in any way involved – I was finding it increasingly difficult not to contact her. I attended the Ash Wednesday service at our parish church, and I met her again when I walked in. I remained with her during the service, and found myself drawn into a deep awareness of the weight of the cross she has been carrying. I had no doubt that she had, and still has, contact with good friends who help to carry her burden, but with the added dimension of reliably stable ground having been taken from under her feet, I felt called to do what I could to make the ground feel solid again for her. The rock is always there, but experiencing its unwavering stability sometimes takes the steadying hand of a friend who is not among those closest to the emotional sharing of the burden.
‘Your unique presence in your community is the way God wants you to be present to others. Different people have different ways of being present. You have to know and claim your way. That is why discernment is so important. Once you have an inner knowledge of your true vocation, you have a point of orientation. That will help you decide what to do and what to let go of, what to say and what to remain silent about, when to go out and when to stay home, who to be with and who to avoid. ... Your community needs you, but maybe not as a constant presence. ... your community also needs your creative absence.’ (Henri Nouwen. The Inner Voice of Love.)
“We miss you.” The touch from those three words a year earlier was undeniable, and yet, other than giving voice to my immediate wish to help in whatever way may have been necessary or possible, I found myself hanging back. The possibility of having closer and more frequent contact with two of the very few people with whom I could feel both comfortable and safe, and with whom I had long wanted that contact, had suddenly presented itself, and I waited; and waited. I had some sort of expectation that if these friends missed me – for friends they are, in spite of our lack of contact and almost non-existent communications – there would be a follow-up to those three beautifully welcome words. And I found myself being inextricably bound by my own waiting, until the binding held me so tightly that I was once more motionless in the grip of my unrecognized fears; like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
I waited for the follow-up contact that did not come, making no move to respond myself because of my fear regarding where those words might lead me.
As I see it now, a door had been opened for me by their utterance, and I had waited, in the hope that someone would arrive at my side, take me by the hand, and lead me through the door without any deliberate action being required of me. I would have gone quietly, I am sure; I would have gone willingly, I think; I would like to go further, and should be able to say that I would have gone eagerly, but the fear is rising even as I write these words. Would I? Would I have gone at all? Would I even have allowed the possibility of a situation in which any follow up could have occurred? It is easy to tell myself that I am imagining myself into non-existent situations, but however true that may be of present thoughts about something that did not in fact occur more than a year ago, it does not alter the fearful truths existing in my present day-to-day paralysis.
When those words were spoken, I was aware that continued waiting would probably find me in the same position a year later. That is precisely what happened. When I wrote about it previously (24.12.10), I had not had any further contact with Hope, and even at the beginning of Lent this year, my lack of real contact had left me in an untroubled situation. While recently wading against the current of my own words, I came across these, written a few weeks ago: “... rather than the experience ending as I had feared – burying me still further within myself, and even cutting me off from any future contact with them, or with anybody else with the potential for bringing me further into the clear light of day – it simply left me unchanged: still uncertain, still afraid, still asleep, and still blind to the door that had been opened for me."
Those words confirm to me that, while having recognized the possibility of a door having been opened for me, even that recently, I had not begun to be troubled in the way that I now am. That only began when what could be described as the much delayed follow up to “We miss you” came about during one of our conversations.
‘That is why you must take up all God's armour,
or you will not be able to put up any resistance on the evil day,
or stand your ground even though you exert yourselves to the full.’
(Ephesians 6:13)
