14

Risen

MARCH

Wren rubbed her brow as Kit surveyed the paintings lined up side by side in the New Hope chapel. “We can choose some from the other artists if these aren’t good enough,” she said. “I mean, after my family walks through, we can change them.”

Before Kit could reply with reassurance—again—Wren picked up her painting of Jesus stretched out on the cross, his mother slumped over beneath his feet, the sword of grief and anguish piercing her heart. Standing alongside, the beloved disciple reached to steady and embrace her. “People are going to wonder why I painted birds around him and why it’s light around him instead of darkness, like it’s supposed to be. I still have time to change it, I think. My family won’t be here for another couple of hours. I could paint over the birds, and it’ll dry in time.” She clutched the painting to her chest.

Kit gently pried it from her and set it back on the easel. “Why did you paint the birds?”

Wren was silent a long time. Then she said, “Because it seemed like they belonged. Like witnesses.”

“Then they belong,” Kit said. “They emerged from your prayer and imagination, so they belong.”

“But they might be distracting for someone else.”

“Then let them be distracting and let people prayerfully ponder why they’re distracted.” Kit smiled at her. “As for me, what comes to mind as I look at them is the Emily Dickinson line, ‘Hope is the thing with feathers.’ It makes me think of what you said about that painting there”—she pointed to the one Wren had chosen by the other artist for the “It Is Finished” station—“and how you said you weren’t ready to paint that kind of hope or victory. But I see hope and faith in yours too—gentle and vulnerable and tentative and resilient—how you’ve juxtaposed the intense sorrow with the promise of resurrection in the flight of these birds. Even if the ones who are overcome with grief can’t see it.”

Wren pointed to a figure on the left side of the painting, who was gazing upward. “She sees it.”

Kit shifted her gaze from the grieving mother to the robed woman whose eyes were fixed on Jesus’ face. Or perhaps she was watching the birds in their wordless witness. “You’re right,” Kit said. “She sees it.”

Wren pressed her hands to her heart. “I think she’s me,” she said quietly. “I didn’t realize it until just now. But I think she’s me, looking up at the Man of Sorrows. Identifying with him. So grateful for him. But also seeing that it’s not the end of the story. The suffering, the sorrow—that’s not the end.” She reached out and touched the blue bird above the woman’s head. “And I think the bird might be me too. I think I subconsciously put myself in both places.” She laughed. “How could I have missed something so obvious? It’s even blue, like the blue fairywren I was named after.”

Kit laughed too. “Well, I didn’t make the connection either. But what a beautiful gift from the Spirit, Wren. After so many losses and so much sorrow, you’re moving into hope. Into resurrection.”

Wren tilted her head, eyes still fixed on the painting. “Okay,” she said after a moment, “that one can stay, but what about”—she reached for the one beside it, a painting of a chalice she had done for the “Jesus Is Crucified” station—“I’m not sure whether this one actually fits here or whether I should—”

“Tell you what,” Kit said, placing her hand on Wren’s. “I’ve got an idea. How about if we go out for an ‘It is finished’ celebration lunch before your family arrives?”

Wren hesitated. Then she straightened the painting on its easel, brushed a speck of dust from the canvas, and stepped back for one final look. “I guess it belongs,” she said. “I guess it all belongs.”

“It does, indeed,” Kit replied, and walked with her to the car.

“She did it,” Jamie murmured to Kit from the back corner of the chapel.

“Yes, she did,” Kit said. “And she did it beautifully.”

Jamie’s brow relaxed as she scanned the room. “I wasn’t sure she would be able to, not without it taking her under again.”

There had been moments, Kit thought, when she hadn’t been sure either. But she wasn’t going to admit that. “She’s a brave girl, Jamie.”

“You’re right,” Jamie said. “She is.”

At the front of the chapel, Wren was kneeling with Phoebe, explaining to her about how to choose pictures for the sorrow and hope collage, while Dylan, Joel, and Olivia made their way slowly around the room.

“Do you really think this will be your last one?” Jamie asked, her voice still low.

Kit shrugged. “I hope they’ll keep the tradition going after I retire, but that will be out of my hands.” It was another relinquishment to make, letting go of the observances that had been meaningful for her. “Wren is going to help me get art on the walls so that I’ll leave here having given the physical space a more intentional, prayerful feel.”

“She mentioned that to me,” Jamie said. “And as far as leaving this place with your mark on it, I don’t think you have any idea how many lives you’ve touched by being here and doing what you do.”

“Thank you. It’s been an honor and a delight.” Kit watched as Wren and Phoebe began cutting out pictures together. “I told Wren the other day that even though there will be a new director sometime in the next few months, it seems to me that she’d be able to continue here part time if she wants to, unless they do a lot of restructuring. And as for where to live, she can stay with me as long as she needs to. We’ll continue to be prayerful about that and see what God has in mind.”

“Thank you so much, Kit. She seems well. Like she’s reached a place of equilibrium again. I guess I worry about what more upheaval could do to her. But I need to let that go.” Jamie gestured toward the first prayer station, Gethsemane. “And speaking of letting go, that looks like the perfect place to practice.”

“I’ll join you there,” Kit said. With her hand resting on Jamie’s shoulder for balance, she removed her shoes.

That night, after Jamie and the family left the house, Wren entered the kitchen carrying a vase filled with sunflowers. “These are for you,” she said, handing them to Kit.

“For me?”

“As a very small token of appreciation. For everything you’ve done for me.” Wren kissed her on the cheek. “I thought it might be nice if you had some seeds to plant in the New Hope courtyard too.”

Kit lowered her face into the flowers, the petals soft against her skin. “What a thoughtful gift, Wren. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Wren poured herself a glass of water. “I’m wondering if you can do without me the next few days. I’ll get the cleaning done in the morning, but then I think I might join my family on their trip to Chicago.”

“I think that’s great.”

“You’re sure? I can be back by Friday and clean up before the retreat on Saturday.”

“No, don’t come back early for that. It’ll be fine, no worries.” Kit set the vase on the kitchen table and sat down, motioning for Wren to join her.

“When I told Phoebe there’s a huge art museum in Chicago,” Wren said, “she got really excited. They’ve got a whole room full of Vincent’s paintings, and I haven’t seen them in years. So it should be a fun field trip together.”

“I’m glad you’re going.”

Wren smiled. “It occurred to me it’s probably best if I’m not here fretting over what I could paint or change for the stations. I need to leave them as they are for Holy Week.”

“That sounds very wise,” Kit said.

“Well, I don’t know about wisdom, but it helps with my anxiety.” She took a sip of water. “And speaking of that, I’ve been talking with Dawn for a while now about going back to work full time. I’ve had plenty of time to rest and recover—without pressure—and I know that’s a luxury most people like me don’t have. I also know I couldn’t have done it without your generosity, letting me live here.”

Kit leaned forward in her chair. “This is your home, Wren. For as long as you want or need it to be.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

“No shame in it either,” Kit said. “I know people joke about their adult kids living in their basements, but for some of us, living on our own isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I don’t know why we equate maturity or health with being able to live independently, especially when living in community can be such a gift. I don’t say that to pressure you, but just to say that your being here is a blessing to me too.”

Wren reached across the table and clutched Kit’s hand. “But you’ll tell me, won’t you, if it becomes a burden to you? If I become a burden? You’ll be honest with me?”

“I will,” Kit said. She would have another honest conversation with Sarah too, and if Sarah continued to express concern over Wren not moving on, Kit would invite Sarah to be open to the possibility that what she thought was best for her mother might not be. But there was no point having that conversation until things were more settled. Or until Sarah brought it up again. “I want you to be honest with me too, Wren. We’ll be honest with each other.”

“Okay. Deal.” She squeezed Kit’s hand before letting go. “So, about the work thing. I’ve got some applications out for everything from barista to office jobs. I know I might not find anything full time right away, but I definitely need to boost my weekly hours, even if it means working multiple part-time jobs. I feel like I can do that. I need to do that. I need to find a way to move forward.” Wren stared at her lap. “I know I can’t go back to social work, even if I wanted to. No agency would have me, not given my mental health history. I’d be a huge liability. So that door is permanently closed.”

Kit shrugged slightly. “Never is a funny word with God.”

Wren looked up at her.

“I thought the same thing after my breakdown,” Kit said, “that I’d never be able to return to chaplaincy work. And it was true that hospice chaplaincy was no longer a good fit for me or the patients. Working solely with the dying and the bereaved was too much for me. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have a call to the ministry of compassion. And in fact, my own struggles and heartaches shaped me even more deeply for that work. So when it came time to interview for an opening at St. Luke’s, I was very honest with them about what I’d been through. I told them I was committed to remaining in regular therapy and spiritual direction. And when they realized how aware I was of the potential triggers, they decided I would be a good fit for their team. As much as possible, I didn’t work with adolescent patients unless there was an emergency—and sometimes there was. I won’t say I prayed harder then—I tried always to be in prayer, no matter what situation I was in—but I was mindful afterward about any special care I might need.”

She stared at the sunflowers, remembering with gratitude the people who had recognized her call and supported her as she lived it. That would be her ongoing prayer for Wren, that she would have everything she needed for becoming who she was created to be. No more. No less.

Kit smiled at her. “All this to say, I learned again through that process that the only ‘never’ we can say is, we can never be sure how God will work his purposes out. We just keep saying our next yes to whatever he reveals. And offer our surprise and grateful astonishment whenever things we counted as dead come to life again.”

MARCH 31

My dear Wren,

Words can’t express how proud I am of you, not only for persevering and painting your way through your grief, but also for relinquishing your work to the Lord so that he could speak to others through it. Many people talked to me this week about the impact the journey had on them and how your art helped them see something new about Jesus and his fierce love for us. Thank you for saying yes. You’ve said so many brave yeses along the way. And I know you’ll say many more.

Today, during our silence and solitude retreat, I took time to write my letter to the board. My soul was already tender, remembering Micah today, and that, combined with the official relinquishing of work I have loved, meant there were quite a few tears to shed. But it was healing and good to mark this new transition on a day that was already important to me, not only because of Micah but also because of the convergence with Holy Saturday. This is the day of waiting, grieving what we’ve lost while we’re not yet sure what will rise in its place.

Resurrection never comes as we expect. I think of Mary Magdalene weeping at the tomb, new grief layered upon fresh sorrow. Jesus isn’t where they left him! Now what? Then, even when she sees him and is overcome with joy and relief, he tells her not to cling to him. If I had been Mary, I don’t think I would have obeyed. If I thought I’d lost him once, only to get him back, I don’t think I would have easily let him go again. And yet, letting go always sits at the core of our journeys, painful as it is.

I’ve been thinking today, too, about how grief and bewilderment can veil our sight and keep us from noticing the ways Jesus does appear with resurrection life. For Mary, she didn’t recognize him until he spoke her name. The disciples on the road to Emmaus didn’t recognize him until he took the bread and broke it for them. Thomas needed to see his wounds. And I’ve needed the gift of community to help me see his presence in the midst of desolation. Even then, it’s often only in retrospect that I glimpse how he has kept me company, as he did—incognito—with the heartbroken, disappointed disciples trudging their way to Emmaus from Jerusalem. He gently asks questions, refuses to rush me to joy, and opens the Word to reveal the mystery of God’s providence. Often, only in retrospect do I see how my own heart burned with recognition, even when my mind did not—or could not—perceive him.

And so, dear one, we keep watch in all the gardens where we’ve planted our sorrow, and we wait to see what he will do. What a gift to keep watch and wait in hope together.

With you,

Kit