My good friend and Jesuit priest Fr. Kevin Spinale emailed me on Mardi Gras to check in on how I was doing: “Pax. I hope this note finds you well on the cusp of Lent. You have had a long Lent already. I hope you continue to heal up.”
He was right. I was just emerging from my own personal Lent, a long sojourn in a metaphorical desert. Since New Year’s Day, I had endured a period of intense physical and mental suffering that heightened dramatically as the weeks wore on, and finally culminated with surgery the week before Ash Wednesday. Long story short, I had a severely herniated spinal disc that rendered me immobile. I spent the entire month of February in bed, lying on one side to try to mitigate the debilitating pain. A 1-inch-by-1-inch fragment from my spine had compressed my nerve bundle, sending radiating pain through my back and legs. I lost mobility, and in many ways, I lost my sense of self. I lost hope. It was a long, long Lent indeed.
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My road to healing is still far from over. But now, post-surgery, I can look back and see how God made himself present throughout my own personal Calvary. There were moments of consolation, desolation, and, ultimately, hope. Meditating on Christ’s Passion on the cross and his victorious triumph over death gave me the inner strength to carry my own cross.
Consolation. “As they led him away they took hold of a certain Simon, a Cyrenian, who was coming in from the country; and after laying the cross on him, they made him carry it behind Jesus.” (Luke 23:26)
I like to take care of others. I enjoy ensuring that our household runs smoothly and that my husband and dog are healthy and happy. When my grandmother was ill in a nursing home, I spent time at her side and gladly fed her soup. During my classroom teaching years, I wanted all my students to feel excited about learning. Caring for others has always come naturally to me.
So, when I fell ill and became the one who needed care, I didn’t take it well. I felt like a burden to my family, who were cooking, cleaning, and rotating their time and energy to support my husband and me. I perceived my husband in particular to be like Simon of Cyrene, forced to carry my heavy cross. He undoubtedly got the short stick, taking on all the household tasks that I would normally do, on top of helping me with basic necessities: showering, dressing, eating, the works.
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Once I accepted my situation for what it was — a painful reminder of human frailty — I received the kindness of others with grace, and was moved by their outpouring of love and compassion. I cherished every phone call, text message, and email meant to cheer me up. I was uplifted when Fr. Kevin celebrated private Masses in our home and blessed me with the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick. I witnessed with ever-deepening love how my husband enacted the true meaning of our vows: for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. His actions, done without complaint, were an incredible testament to our love and fidelity in marriage.
All this support helped my cross feel lighter, but ultimately, it was still mine to carry. And the worst was yet to come.
Desolation. “And about three o’clock Jesus cried out in a loud voice, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” (Matthew 27:46)
I spent the month of February bedbound. Days blended into each other. I couldn’t sleep, and I lost all sense of time. I begged the Lord to let this cup of suffering pass from me. When the pain continued, I grew angry and frustrated. And then I stopped talking to the Lord altogether.
Jesus’ own suffering on the cross was redemptive, saving us from sin. His sacrifice conquered death and gave us eternal life. But I was hardly divine. I wasn’t even close to holy. So what was the purpose of my own suffering? I felt abandoned by the creator who was supposed to care for me, protect me, and love me. Why had he allowed this to happen?
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I was considering this question one day as I lay in bed nursing a nauseating migraine, with pain radiating through my back and legs. In my agony, I saw the face of Christ crucified. He was bloodied, sweaty, dirty, and his hair was completely matted. I gazed at his face and truly empathized with his suffering. He was in terrible condition — like me. Amazingly, after a while, his face began to morph. Christ’s grimy countenance slowly became fresh and clean. His hair was shiny; his eyes radiated light and joy. This was my turning point — rather than distancing myself from Christ, in this moment, I drew closer. I took comfort in his pain and understood that Christ also felt abandoned. But, after the greatest suffering (death), his pain gave way to the glory of the Resurrection.
That’s when I turned to hope.
Hope. “He took the child by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha koum,’ which means, ‘Little girl, I say to you, arise!’” (Mark 5:41)
I felt a resurgence of hope when I scheduled the lumbar microdiscectomy surgery. It sounds strange to say, but I was actually excited for the procedure. I felt like I needed something, anything, to take my pain away. I needed this miracle.
During the week leading up to the surgery, I reflected on Jesus’ own Resurrection and his miracles of restoring life, like raising Lazarus from the dead. In another instance, Jesus visited the house of a man whose 12-year-old daughter had died. Jesus took her by the hand and commanded her to rise again: “Talitha koum!”
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Immediately after the surgery, while resting in the recovery room, I was astonished to find that I could stand and walk. Yes, I was in pain from both the incision and residual nerve inflammation. But that moment of being able to walk to the bathroom without assistance, and to be able to even sit upright at all, felt nothing short of miraculous.
In that moment, I felt like Jesus’ words were meant directly for me: “Little girl, I say to you, arise.” And arise, I did. With deep gratitude for his grace of restored mobility, and, thereby, my restored life.
Whether our suffering is physical, psychological, emotional, or all of the above, we can take comfort in the fact that Christ crucified empathizes with our pain. Every road to Calvary ultimately leads to resurrection. The timing is different for everyone, with some sufferings lasting a few days or weeks, and others lingering for months, years, or even a lifetime. But we as Christians know that, undeniably, at the end of anguish is a gateway to the Resurrection, whether in this life or the next. We are an Easter people; let us set our hearts with joy in the Lord and rest in his salvific promises. Let us, like the little girl, heed his command to rise again!
