I went to my parish this morning. It has been over four weeks. The last time I was there was before my second visit to Nashville, before the tumultuous end of the school year(and a few work relationships), before my breakdown on my last visit to Nashville, before my new diagnosis of BPD. Father greeted me warmly, said I had been missed. The Legionaries and other ministers hug and kiss me. No matter what I do, they always welcome me home.
I lectored today. It has been over two months since I did that, proclaimed the Word of God, which I profess to love, but sometimes avoid in my moments of despair and panic. The most emotional moment is the entrance into the church. It took all of my strength not to burst into tears as I held the Book of the Gospels aloft, the highest I have ever held it, my arms stronger now, my heart stronger despite its recent weakness. Renewed by my confession yesterday, bolstered by the smiling faces and a wink from my now-wheelchair-bound friend Barry, I walked the Book to the altar, ready to reopen my heart to the Spirit.
Today’s readings were not dramatic and yet, as usually happens, they struck a chord in me. The first was from Genesis, a story of Abraham’s hospitality to the Lord and his angels. The second was from Paul’s letters to the Colossians which included a declaration of the purpose of suffering. I proclaimed them without difficulty, making eye contact with members of the assembly, feeling truth and strength come through me.