[an excerpt from a work in progress: “Embraced by God: Facing Chemotherapy with Faith.]
Holy is the dish and drain, the soap and sink, and the cup and plate,
and the warm wool socks, and the cold white tile, showerheads and good dry towels, and frying eggs sound like psalms, with bits of salt measured in my palm. It’s all a part of a sacrament as holy as a day is spent.
– Carrie Newcomer
I was driving to work one day last week and, when I was almost to my office, I realized that I didn’t remember a thing about the drive. I remembered backing out of my driveway and turning onto the main road that would lead me toward the university, but that’s all I remembered. I had been so lost in thought and in the business and busy-ness of my day that I failed to notice anything along the way. No stoplights, no trees, no people, no cars around me. How I arrived safely I’ll never know. It was like I was on autopilot. And that experience of mindless driving, I thought, is exactly how I so often find myself plunging ahead through life, unaware that all around are signs and moments of God’s presence and grace.
It’s relatively easy to recognize the things in our lives that we have come to know as holy or sacred. If asked to list these elements of life, many of us would quickly rattle off words like church, scripture, God, mass and sacraments. We might even branch out further from these distinctly religious ideas and objects and include words like family, children, grandchildren and friends. We might even recall those special moments in our lives when God seemed especially close – perhaps standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon, listening to a favorite piece of music or observing a work of art. We might think of holy days and holidays. We might recall weddings and births and even deaths. Certainly all these experiences can be seen as sacred to us.
But there is also sacredness in the seemingly ordinary moments of my life that, like my drive to work, all too often passes by in a noisy blur without much notice. These moments can be fleeting and seemingly meaningless, but when we take the time to reflect and allow ourselves to live a more examined inner life, we can begin to see that the sacred is all around us.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t live in a constant state of spiritual bliss, always aware that God is in the room with me and that everything I do is part of a grand sacrament of ordinary life. Indeed, a week or a month can go by when I don’t feel this (or remember to sense it) at all. But I do believe we are all called to this way of living, and we are perhaps especially called to it if we find ourselves facing serious disease and health issues. For when we allow ourselves and our lives to be drawn into the realm of the sacred and the divine, then even our pain can take on a semblance of the sacred and our days of chemotherapy can transform into sacramental moments of sacrifice, prayer, worship and even grace.
