I have a troubled relationship with rage. For years I repressed any and all feelings of anger, resentment, bitterness, frustration–well, you get the idea. I was just a nice person. I led a “nice” life.
And then one day I became angry. Really, really angry. I wanted to break every plate in my house. I settled for drilling holes in the ceiling of my bedroom.
That was four years ago.
And still, some days the rage seethes and threatens to erupt. To spill over the surface of my heart and crash into the light of day. To affect my family. To ground this ship of my life into the rocks. To bury. To lay waste to all I hold precious and dear.
Where does this come from? I wonder. What am I angry for?
And those moments that knock the very breathe out of my body…those are the moments when I bend knees to the dust. Remind myself that there is beauty in the midst of the ugly. Recall the wonder of butterfly wings. The delicacy of Queen Anne’s Lace. The scent of lemons and lavender on a summer breeze.
Life isn’t fair. Most of my deep, pondering questions remain unanswered. I cannot reconcile the pain and suffering of the world with the grace and light of the Divine. I struggle against the very flesh on my own bones. I wrestle. I think of Jacob who dreamed all night that he was fighting with a man. This man, it turns out, was God and He hit Jacob in the most vulnerable place. Caused him to tremble and perhaps crumble a bit? And when I think of that story, I am comforted. It’s in the wrestling, the angst, that we come to know more fully the face of God and our own place in the grand scheme of things. We were born fighters–hungry for air. Battling to breathe. To inhale. Exhale. And fighters get angry. They beat out against things. The unknown? The injustice? The wrongness present in life?
And then I am calm. The rage ebbs away. And I mutter thanksgiving under my breathe until the glory that dwells all around me bursts before my eyes. And I cut myself a little slack. It’s ok to be angry sometimes. It’s ok to not even know why the anger’s there. And then it must be released. It will burn itself out and the ashes of that rage grow the sweetest flowers of humility and gratitude.
Holy Water
It’s late. The babies are finally sleeping…nested snugly into their cribs. I am at the kitchen sink, arms deep in hot soapy water. The dishwasher runs beside me but there are always those stragglers I end up cleaning by hand.
Dishes. I hate washing dishes. It was my chore growing up and in a household of seven it was the chore than never ended.
Tonight though, I am more reverential about washing cups and plates. I think of the millions of women around the world joining me in this act. A gift really for our families. And in that moment I realize that I’ve dipped my hands in holy water. Cleansing water. Perhaps even healing water? After all, to serve others often patches up one’s own soul and can soothe the wounded places.
This holy water tears down party lines. There is no stay-at-home Mom versus working Mom. Mother of six versus Mother of one. Wife versus single woman. There are only women. Weary from a long day and yet cleaning up the remains of a meal. They scrub the grime off, rinse and dry. They create order out of seeming chaos. They love through their hands. Holy water unifies.
There are also distinct marks that come from touching holiness…from participating in sacred acts. I think of Moses aging after he caught a glimpse of the tail-end of God’s majesty. Holiness marks us. I pull my hands out of the sink, wrinkled like prunes and know that later they will be dry and slightly chapped.
Holy water, not reserved for special occasions or important people. Poured out. Sprinkled over. Young, old, here and far away. Beauty and blessing in the small and repetitive moments of an ordinary life.
And suddenly I am thankful. Grateful for my children, my siblings, my husband. Even thankful for the dogs. This holy water that I dip into also empowers me to pass it on. I am priestess of the suds. As small silverware and sippy cups pass through a rinse, on their way to the drying rack, I bless the tiny lips and miniature fingers that have touched them. I send up a blessing for the baby sister whose juice glass I swish in the soap. I pray for the husband as his dinner plate is scraped clean. Here, at this piece of counter beneath a fogged window in a small kitchen, much has been granted to me. The weight of this responsibility is sobering.
Still, more than that is the joy. This. This life. This little sliver of the mundane has been given to me. An indescribable gift. I smile. Run more water. There are more dishes to come.
Household
Personal
beauty
cleaning
commentary
emotion
family
home
love
my man
opinion
romance