“You can’t see anything properly while your eyes are blurred with tears.” -C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
This afternoon in my office, I couldn’t see my commentary properly because my eyes were blurred with tears.
Nothing specific precipitated them, per se. Just a slow build up over time of small stresses that ballooned into a mountain, and intensive weekly sessions with my therapist in which we are going to be doing some deep emotional work.
I held them in as best I could, and then, finally I was the only person in the office. Like the wave that breaks the levee, the fount of tears from the swirling lacrimal pool of my soul gushed forth and poured and poured for 45 minutes.
A paradoxically heart breaking and cleansing holy moment when the shedding of tears became a sacrament; a time for God’s healing work to begin.
As the deluge subsided, I went to my bookcase and pulled out A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis. Not ready to go home, I sat at my desk and read. And read, and reflected and pondered and read; until I reached the last page.
The tears never stopped but the inexplicable sorrow became more of friend and less of an intruder, like one of Rumi’s guests, a guide from the beyond.
I reached into my purse to get my fancy stationery to write a thank you note to the lender, for loaning me this book.
As I pulled out the package containing my beautiful cards and envelopes, a communion wafer landed on my desk.
The ziplock must have come undone sometime after Church at Home last week.
I picked it up and held it between my fingers, nostalgia and hope swirling around me and C.S. Lewis and Jesus in the solitude of my office.
I put the wafer in my mouth, and as the body of Christ dissolved on my tongue, I along with my tears, nostalgia and hope, whispered my thanks to God.
A fleeting moment of overwhelming holiness, just for me. A sweet reminder of God with me and Christ in me.
Thanks be to God for this timely grace.