Bryan Sherwood

The One Who Lifts Up My Head

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me; you are my glory, the one who lifts up my head.  (From Psalm 3.3)

The truth is, I need my head lifted today.  It seems that I struggle to stay “upbeat” and “positive.”  I don’t mean that in some “overboard happy” kind of way but just to feel positive about regular life.  That’s been harder for me lately.

I don’t guess I should be overly surprised that I continue to struggle with this.  There’s no quick fix to my own emotional world—that much I’ve figured out.  Of course, when these waves of sadness begin to wash over me, it’s much harder just to get through each day.   It makes everything harder.  Getting out of bed is harder.  Prayer is more difficult.  Interacting with people at work, church and home is tough especially when you really just want to be home, under a quilt.  Every single thing takes more effort.  For those who don’t struggle with anxiety or depression, that may be a hard thing to understand.  It’s easy for others to think you should just be able to snap out of it or think happy thoughts and all will be well.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

I do think I’m slowly learning how to better cope and understand my emotional world.  I understand that there are some good reasons for me to feel the way I do.  I didn’t just wake up one morning to find myself depressed and anxious.  No, those things developed over years and it’s going to take a lot of time for things to get better.

I’m also learning when I encounter certain situations those situations often exacerbate the problems I already deal with.  A difficult interaction with a co-worker, a bad day at work, or most any situation that makes me feel that I don’t “measure up” surely triggers the anxiety and it doesn’t take long for the depression to follow.  I’m learning ways to combat the anxiety and sadness but it’s still pretty darn hard on the best of days.

Today seems to be one of the “hard” days.  That means I have to work a little harder and not getting “swamped.”  I’ll stare more at my icon of The Sacred Heart of Jesus and the photo I have of Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son.  I’ll listen to more music today.  I’ll keep Psalm 3.3 in front of me.  Those things keep me from feeling so helpless. 

Of course, prayers are always appreciated.

Pax.

The Prodigal Son, His Story and Ours

As I’ve been reading The Return of the Prodigal, I’ve wondered how I would have responded in each of those roles. Take the Prodigal son, for an example.  Here’s the younger son who has been raised by the Father who grows up and decides that the Father’s way isn’t the best way.  As a matter of fact, he asks for his share of his father’s estate.  In that culture, according to Nouwen, that would be the same as basically wishing the father was dead.  He wanted his part of the estate now so he could go and live in “freedom.”  The Prodigal wanted to do as he pleased, when he pleased and how he pleased.  We all know what it’s like to be the prodigal, don’t we?  Instead of being with the Father, we decide we’re going to a “distant country” and live our lives as we see fit.

It’s obvious in Rembrandt’s painting, that this life that the Prodigal chose for himself was difficult.  Look at his tattered clothes.  No cloak, just the bare necessities.  His shaven head intimates that he may have been enslaved.  And his feet, look at his feet—weary, barefoot, worn.  He’s missing one sandal and the other is literally falling to pieces.  It’s been a long journey, one we can assume was full of trouble and hardship. 

Eventually, the Prodigal came to his senses and realized that his way lead to death, not life.  Rembrandt’s painting shows him on his knees with his face buried in his father’s chest.  It’s a quiet moment, filled with light and forgiveness.  It’s a wonderful depiction of how our Father loves us as his Beloved--always there, always welcoming, always loving.

I think one of the most amazing parts of this story is that the Prodigal never forgot where home was and he never forgot who he was.  He was and continues to be his Father’s Beloved son.  The Father never stopped loving him even when he turned his back on his Father.  That very idea . . . that my Father loves me is one of the hardest things to understand.  He loves me.  He wants to spend time with me.  He seeks after me.  We learn that truth early on if we’ve grown up in Christianity but it continues to be a truth that is difficult for me to fully embrace. 

The Father’s love for me is one of the lessons I’m learning this Lent.  As I follow Jesus to the Cross and am confronted with my own sin, I am filled with gratefulness because the Father still loves me as his Beloved son.

Peace.