Grace-filled Solidarity

Table Talk



Setting the Table

You are welcome here. Come just as you are, bringing whatever is on your heart today. Take a few moments and allow yourself to just be. Take a couple deep breaths, grab yourself a cup of coffee, light a candle, do something that brings you comfort. Allow yourself to be present in this moment.

In moments of despair, sometimes the greatest gift we can receive is the presence of one who will hold us in love and offer us the space to feel the depth of our grief.

“The world is big and wide and wild and wonderful and wicked, and our lives are murky, magnificent, malleable, and full of meaning.”
- Padraig O’Tuama

“The only cure for grief is to grieve.”
- Earl Grollman

Ecclesiastes 3:1
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens.


Food for Thought

A couple weeks ago, my one-year-old daughter fractured her tibia and fibula, sending us to the ER and connecting us with our 10th specialist in her short, yet eventful, life. The picture I took of her after receiving her cast captures perfectly the complexity of her and our reality. The bright yellow color of her cast matches the fierce and fiery spirit she has infused into our daily life, and yet the very presence of a cast reminds us that she is also fragile.

Our daughter was born with Turner Syndrome, a chromosomal difference that can lead to a number of medical complications throughout infancy and childhood. It is a reality for her and us that has made navigating life in the midst of a pandemic and in the first year of parenting more complex, but it has also highlighted for us the depth of support, love, hospitality and welcome that have covered us and held us from the very beginning of this journey.

I’ll never forget the unique welcome I experienced on October 29, 2019. Four days prior, we’d received the worst news--something was drastically wrong with our pregnancy. After initial testing, it turned out we were expecting a daughter who, if she made it to a live birth, would be born with Turner Syndrome. Babies diagnosed with Turner Syndrome in utero only have a 1-2% chance of making it to a live birth. As you can imagine, during those early days of this heart-wrenching diagnosis, meeting our daughter alive felt like the deepest, embodied desire and a far-fetched, unlikely hope.

To say I was an emotional, distraught wreck would be an understatement. But at this appointment, as I sat in tears, overwhelmed by all that was and the uncertain road ahead, my doctor looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m not going to tell you things are okay because they’re not. This is awful, and it’s going to be awful for a long time. But I promise you one day it won’t be quite as awful. I can’t tell you when that will be, but I know that day will come. Until then, I’m here for you and with you, however things unfold.” This doctor, whom we’d only met four days prior, gave me the greatest, most grace-filled gift of welcome and solidarity. She held the space for me to hurt, to be terrified, to be in pain.

Over the multiple weeks and months of providing care for us, she never diminished the pain or fear, but also gave us consistent hope that even though it was awful, it wouldn't be awful forever.

She created a welcoming space that honored the complexity of our situation while holding the deepest desires of our hearts alongside the staggering scientific odds against our pregnancy. In addition to her medical brilliance as a doctor, what grace and mercy she gave to us by acknowledging there were no adequate words for the reality we were experiencing! She consistently held the space for us to hurt by offering her presence.

There is something transformative about creating a welcoming space that allows those in pain to be right where they are--not expecting them to have a theological reflection, prayer, or even hope to hold onto. Authentic welcome comes in allowing those who are mourning to do so without expecting them to believe there will be a “rainbow on the other side of the rain.” As Padraig O’Tuama and my doctor remind us, “The world is big and wide and wild and wonderful and wicked, and our lives are murky, magnificent, malleable, and full of meaning.”

If you find yourself in the throes of despair, experiencing your worst days, hear me say as words of welcome, presence, and solidarity, “I’m not going to tell you things are okay because they’re not. This is awful, and it’s going to be awful for a time. But I promise you one day it won’t be quite as awful. I can’t tell you when that will be, but I know that day will come. Until then, I’m here for you and with you, however things unfold.”


Next time you talk with someone who is going through a hard time, challenge yourself to offer them a safe space to simply be. Resist the urge to avoid or deflect. Instead, be there with them so that they may simply be there with you.

Blessing

Jesus, our human friend,
You knew need.
You knew thirst and hunger.
You knew grief and bodily pain.
And so do we.
We praise and honor
the surprising providers
of comfort and care.
We praise and honor them
because without them
we thirst, we ache, we hurt.
- Adapted from A Prayer from the Corrymeela Community

A little Table Talk for your table...

  • Discuss with one another a time when someone created space for you in the midst of great pain or grief. In what ways could you feel God in those moments?

  • Why do we sometimes shy away from holding others through their moments of pain, or allowing ourselves to fully experience our own?

  • What are some ways we can practice creating more vulnerable spaces where people can be more fully open and supported.

Try taking it to the Kids Table...

  • Talk with your child about times that they might experience feelings of sadness or hurt.

  • Discuss different emotions and let them know that it is okay to feel different ways.

  • Make a feelings chart so that you can have a regular dialogue together as their feelings change.

Meet our Welcoming Voice!

Molly Brummett Wudel, a native Tennessean, first made the move to North Carolina ten years ago on a Wait Fellowship at Wake Forest University School of Divinity. Now as a pastor at Emmaus Way, Molly focuses her time on creating space for theological and spiritual formation, cultivating deeper community relationships, and engaging local missional partners. In addition to Emmaus Way, Molly teaches as a preceptor in the Department of Homiletics at Duke Divinity School. She calls Durham, NC home with her husband, James, their daughter George Eden, and a precious pup named Greta.

To hear more from Molly throughout the week, follow along on our Instagram!

Molly Brummett Wudel