holy saturday: a practice in liminality.
as of six weeks ago, i am somebody’s mama.
whew.
like many first-time parents, the thought alone is enough to stop me in my tracks. but, there’s not much time to linger there because i am now my child’s primary source of food, comfort, assurance, and probably also annoyance.
since i’ve been on maternity leave, i’ve had time to reflect on the past year. as i embrace the fact that my life will never be the same, there are some things that i want to remember. experiences leading up to my pregnancy. the people and the moments that sustained my spirit during my pregnancy. those cataclysmic 72 hours that i spent in the hospital, (12 of which were spent in labor), and the sweet, hectic weeks that have followed.
There are many changes to mark. Today, I’m marking my first Triduum (the three days between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday) as a mother. in previous years, i would have spent Maundy Thursday at a footwashing service. I would have attended or participated in a marathon Good Friday service that featured no less than seven sermons. I would be spending this Holy Saturday tidying up my sermon for Resurrection morning. I’m often struck at how over-programmed out holiest season can be, and how it can leave clergy more exhausted and winded, rather than re-grounded and re-centered for the seasons to come.
This year, I’m in a new space. This time last year, I could have never anticipated this transformative shift. If you would have told me that I’d be on maternity leave this Holy Week, I may have rolled my eyes. I might’ve even laughed. But, alas, I’m writing in between feedings and diaper changes, and my heart is more full than I will ever be able to articulate.
I think Holy Saturday is the most undervalued day in the Triduum. There’s no event to connect it to, per se. No Last Supper and Footwashing. No Crucifixion. No Resurrection. It is a quiet day, that is steeped in uncertainty. A practice in liminality. An invitation to sit with what was, and to wonder about God might do next.
When we think of the Gospel story now, we have the advantage of knowing how it ends. We know what happens on Sunday morning. But, if we momentarily suspend this awareness, Holy Saturday is symbolic of moments when it has become apparent that we are clear that one season has come to an end and a new one is on the horizon. It’s about the passing away of an old iteration of things, and the unfolding of the next expression. Saturday reminds us that all of life is in flux. We are always in between things.
And we know that being in between things can be unnerving. It’s that point where the old rhythms and routines are no longer sufficient. What was previously settled has become unsettled. The convictions aren’t as convicting. The truths have been called into question. The old definitions beg redefining. Sometimes, the change can be as visceral as not being able to recognize yourself in the mirror. And as if all of this isn’t enough, there is the ever-looming set of questions:
What’s next?
What do I do?
What’s happening?
Am I prepared?
We don’t always know how to sit. To trust. To allow the unfolding to take place without trying to force it or understand it. We don’t always know how to soften into the present and survey the past for what it came to teach us. We’re not always comfortable with the call to be still, and scarcely do we see it as an opportunity to dream about what could be emerging, rather than being anxious about it. In my life, I’ve seen that the liminal season comes so that we can pause, rest, and prepare. It comes to root us so that we’re ready for the next thing when it reveals itself. I have to remind myself of this lesson as I discern what motherhood will mean for my relationships, my ministry, my self-definition, and how I move in and through the world.
This Holy Week, my body is still healing from giving birth. In addition to the laundry list of mommy duties, my sacred assignment is to be with and in my body. For me, this has meant that I must acknowledge that I don’t feel like “myself.” My mobility is limited. I didn’t realize that once the pain of pregnancy subsided, it would give way to the pain of recovery. In response, I’ve tried to spend as much time as possible lying down, sleeping, drinking warm liquids, doubling down on my water intake, and having skin-to-skin time with my baby. It’s meant that I really only get out of the house for doctor’s appointments and body work (chiropractor, postnatal massage, and once my doctor clears me, physical therapy). I’m trying to heal, and every day, I realize that this healing journey is not going to be quick, nor will it be easy. I realize that the greatest challenge is loving myself through it.
Yesterday, I went for a vaginal steam. The heat and the herbs felt amazing to my pelvic floor. I sat for the hour, milk collectors on my breasts, and wrote this poem. It was Good Friday. To me, it was the perfect day to acknowledge myself and to name the place I’m in.
good friday
today, i send my love to all the places in me that are still healing.
i send my love to the parts that have not yet fallen back into place.
the parts that are still out of alignment. the places that are sore, tender and in pain from the misalignment that comes after giving birth.
today i send my love to my pelvic floor. the hum i still feel reminds me that i’m a tender woman.
a new mother.
a fragile vessel, a strong force. two in one.
i send my love to my limp.
from side to side, up and down, i walk slowly.
exploring this new territory. i get out of bed cautiously, trying to find my balanced footing in this new body.
today, i send my love to my full, round face, that still winces from the feeling of prolapse. and to my engorged extremities. and to the new rolling hills on my back and belly. i send my love to my heart. she hasn’t quite grown to love this body.
today, i send my love to my legs. i see my ankles again. but, there is no stretch to alleviate the ache from carrying for almost ten months.
they remind me that healing is hardly a moment. it is hard work. a journey.
a gradual washing away of what was. a steady revelation of what shall be.
a slow springing forth.
today, i send my love to myself as i am.
i acknowledge that i must love myself in this place. in this condition.
healing is feeling the strength that will carry my through this season.
a strength i didn’t need before.
a softer strength.
a strength that is founded in wisdom.
healing is communing with the previous iteration. healing is saying “thank you” and lovingly releasing what no longer feels true. healing is looking back and realizing, in the words of Jesus, “it is finished.”
i think he knew he would never minister in the same way after the Cross. that the Cross was his portal to transformation.
i send my love to the woman i’m becoming. the one i’ve yet to meet. i cannot yet see her, i can only hear her calling. faintly.
whispering, “take your time.”