Read: Psalm 22

I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.
-Psalm 22:14-15

It has been ten years since the night Daniel almost died.

Ten years since I was pasted against the wall by the team rushing into the PICU at UC Davis Children’s Hospital after a Code Blue was called.

Ten years since I followed them down to Daniel’s PICU bay where I stood helpless as they worked on him, completely in shock.

Ten years since the UU chaplain held me as the doctor told me that they were putting Daniel on ECMO because they didn’t think they could bring him back a second time.

Ten years since the UU chaplain held my hair as I threw up into the wastebasket in the Family Room outside the PICU because my stress level was activating my fight-flight-freeze response.

Ten years since I called my twin brother and my former husband Jon to come and be with me at the hospital.

Ten years since I sat in the Family Room and wondered why God was forsaking me.

Ten years since I did one of the hardest things I’ve ever done by signing the ECMO paperwork.

Ten years since I cried all the tears my body could produce so that I wasn’t sobbing but starting to keen instead.

Ten years since the doctor walked in the room and told me that Daniel had improved with a few ventilator tweaks and that he would not be put on ECMO.

Ten years since I slept on the hard floor of the Family Room because Daniel’s room had to stay sterile in case he needed to be put on ECMO in the middle of the night.

Ten years since I simultaneously put God on notice while giving thanks for the miracle my child received.

Ten years since I came to the end of myself… and found that I was embraced and surrounded by God when my strength was utterly sapped,

Ten years since I stopped being able to participate in the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday without starting to cry at various points because I watched my son almost die.

Ten years since I received my son back alive.

Lord Jesus Christ, you stretched out your arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of your saving embrace: So clothe us in your Spirit that we, reaching forth our hands in love, may bring those who do not know you to the knowledge and love of you; for the honor of your Name. Amen. (Source: BCP, p. 101)
-Jen McCabe

Read: Psalm 55

If an enemy were insulting me, I could endure it; if a foe were rising against me, I could hide. But it is you, a man like myself, my companion, my close friend, with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship at the house of God, as we walked about among the worshipers.
-Psalm 55:12-14

Being wronged by someone you love and trust is the ultimate betrayal. Psalm 55 offers us a glimpse into David’s fractured heart as he mourns over the betrayal by a close friend and confidante. In 21st century language, we could say he was beside himself. How could this friend do this to me? And why?

In the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, I gave myself time and permission to revisit a betrayal that occurred earlier in my life and had lain buried for decades.

As a young woman, I was repeatedly and violently assaulted by a man I loved. I ended the relationship abruptly after a life-threatening beating, and never took time to fully process my grief. And then I avoided talking about the assault for decades, not wanting to be stigmatized.

Last spring, I unpacked and revisited every detail of that long-ago relationship, from my long history with the abuser to the day I finally left (it’s amazing how clear your memory can be, even about events that occurred decades earlier). Although I didn’t feel the physical pain that I endured in the assault, I felt the emotional pain again as if the event had just happened.

It was the ultimate betrayal.

I mourned.

Over the next couple of months, I dealt with denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. As I sat with the assault fresh in my mind, I ran through the gamut of emotions, from irritability to stress to anxiety to outright rage. This ushered in other negative emotions, including resentment and even hate.

I credit my faith walk and prayer life—and God’s sustaining hand—as the reason I have come through this long-buried trauma stronger and more committed to Him, and even more devoted to helping those less fortunate.

Tonight, on Maundy Thursday, let us remember Judas’s betrayal of Christ, and feel the heaviness of Christ’s heart (on Good Friday, Christ will be betrayed again, this time by Peter, Pontius Pilate, and the mob).

Like David in this psalm, Christ cried out in distress in the dark night of His soul. As do we in times of utter despair. Like David, ultimately Christ trusted God’s will in His life. As must we as we press on toward a glorious Easter.

Dear Lord, let us trust in You, morning, noon, and night. Amen.

I cry to the LORD with my voice; to the LORD I make loud supplication.
-Psalm 142:1

This is a hard psalm for me to say. I was the youngest child. As kids, my brothers had little desire for my company. One of them took every opportunity to say and to do hurtful things to me, and when as a small child I cried, then I was a cry-baby, beneath contempt. Tormenting me seemed to be his hobby.

By age five or six, I had decided that it was better to be borderline invisible than to make a fuss about anything. Better to be ignored than to be vulnerable.

King David (or whoever wrote this psalm) considers it highly appropriate to “cry out” and make sure God hears – full volume, please! I shrink back. No fuss, please. Let ‘er rip, yes, in praise and song and celebration. But in times of physical or emotional pain or trouble, well then: whining is not okay; no one wants to hear that.

So as an adult, it’s been a bit of a revelation to discover that real men do cry. That real people learn to be open about who they are. Real people ally themselves with spiritual partners – real people seek out trustworthy listeners. And learn to be trustworthy listeners themselves.

I admire the human behind Psalm 142. This was someone who was wholeheartedly opening him/herself to God.

Not a bad model to follow.

Lord, we all know that short verse, “Jesus wept.” Thank you for leading us as you opened yourself to the fullness of your humanity which is lived in the fullness of God. Stay with us and be our Guide and Savior always. Amen.
-Tom Worrell