Pain and Pruning

I’ve been thinking a lot about pruning. About vines and branches, about dry and brittle undergrowth, about the coming harvest. I’ve been drawn into a season of pruning myself. The perfect storm of past hurt and present pain are intermingling in my heart and demanding to be dealt with. It’s hard, to be honest, but I keep trying to remember that hard doesn’t necessarily mean bad.

I am the true vine and my Father is the vine grower. He takes away every brand in me that does not bear fruit, and every one that does he prunes so that it bears more fruit. You are already pruned because of the word that I spoke to you. Remain in me as I remain in you. Just as a branch cannot bear fruit on its own unless it remains on the vine, so neither can you unless you remain in me.

I am the vine and you are the branches. Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit, because without me you can do nothing. Anyone who does not remain in me will be thrown out like a branch and wither; people will gather them and throw them into a fire and they will be burned.

John 15: 1-6

How often do I separate myself from Christ, put myself at the mercy of others, allow myself to be gathered up by whomever and whatever version of “good” and “successful” comes along only to be burned again and again and again?

It seems to me that either way there is pain. Both pruning and leaving the vine guarantee a certain amount of suffering, but only one requires suffering in order to bear fruit.

The question remains, will I put myself at the service of the pain? Will I submit myself to pruning in order that I might grow? Will I trust Him?

We’re inching closer to the feast day of St. Joseph, probably my favorite saint. St. Joseph was presented with a situation which he certainly didn’t plan for, a set of circumstances that stripped him of the future he had imagined for himself and set him on a path of hardship. (It was also a path of immeasurable beauty, to be sure, but we can’t say it was easy being the protector and provider of the Holy Family.) I think we can all agree that St. Joseph could be granted a meltdown or two. One can imagine the temptation to fall into self pity or anger, especially at the outset of this journey. I mean, that’s what I usually do when things don’t work out the way I expect them to.

And yet, when given a situation that was confusing, when dealt a change that was challenging to his belief system, that required great sacrifice to his reputation as well as his physical safety, Joseph didn’t have a pity party. He didn’t lament and moan and look for sympathy. He waited. He made a plan to act out of charity. He prayed. Most importantly, he stayed open and receptive to the voice of God. St. Joseph was sensitive to the working of the Holy Spirit and he trusted that the words spoken to him from God were true. So, when the angel advised him to take Mary into his home, Joseph partnered with the problem, offered himself in service to the pain, and humbly submitted himself to God’s will, putting aside both his plans for a “normal” marriage and his plans to divorce her quietly.

Mercy, how I long for a faith like that.

So much about enduring suffering and darkness has to do with perspective. In an often isolated post-Covid world, where there’s still so much doubt and uncertainty, I find it particularly difficult to see the glass as half full. I struggle a lot with partnering with the problems in my life. I find it difficult to view the dead ends as anything but just that: closed doors and locked gates. In a season when I’ve endured more loneliness than ever before, when I’ve seen the carnage of fractured relationships and been disappointed by so many things, large and small, I’m just done. I don’t want to endure any more. I don’t want to partner with anything, I just want to be done and for things to be easy.

But that’s where my need for pruning is shown. That’s precisely why I need a Gardener to rein me in, redirect my growth, train the tendrils of my heart to wrap around Him instead of growing out and away, grasping for whatever the world tells me is sturdy.

My friend Henri Nouwen says,

…what seems a hindrance becomes a way; what seems an obstacle becomes a door; what seems a misfit becomes a cornerstone.

Jesus changes our history from a random series of sad incidents and accidents into a constant opportunity for a change of heart. To wait patiently, therefore, means to allow our weeping and wailing to become the purifying preparation by which we are made ready to receive the joy that is promised us.

And so prayers of lament and complaint being uttered, I’m left with the choice: do I look to the Lord with trust, submit myself to His hand and His pruning, or do I go my own way offering myself to whomever wants to gather me up knowing full well I’ll get burned again?

Either way there is pain. Either way there is suffering. But only one way contains the promise of joy, a joy I have seen lived out in the lives of the saints and proven again and again in the scriptures. So my prayer must become one of trust, one of offering, one of partnering.

Jesus, change my heart. Take this anxiety and anger, this frustration, loneliness, and grief and change it all into something beautiful. I cannot do it on my own. Help me, Lord, I need You. Show me how to be held in your arms, to be loved by You in the pruning. Heal my heart and reorient it toward Yours. Help me to endure the suffering, endure the pain, endure the not knowing, to stay steady and to bear it all for love of You. Help me to be your partner, to submit myself to your pierced hands. O Sacred Heart of Jesus, I put my trust in You.

You are loved, my friends. Eternally adored by a Creator who thinks that you’re worth pruning, worth guiding, worth redeeming. It doesn’t matter how far we’ve wandered or how tightly our hearts are wound around the world, He’s waiting to prune and to train those tender vines so that we might bear more and more fruit for his Holy and Sacred Name. Even the wildest, most overgrown, driest, and thorniest of hearts can be redeemed. That’s where the hope lies, in the truth that the places in our lives that look like dead ends and closed doors are just odd looking ways back to Him.

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On Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd;

there is nothing I lack.

In green pastures he makes me lie down;

to still waters he leads me;

he restores my soul.

He guides me along right paths

for the sake of his name.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil, for you are with me;

your rod and your staff comfort me.

Psalm 23: 1-4

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

through the valley of apathy,

the valley of contempt,

of distrust,

of deconstruction.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of doubt,

the shadow of distance,

the shadow of disappointment.

Even then, do I trust.

I will fear no evil, no rejection, no humiliation, no loneliness, for you are with me . Your rod and your staff comfort me. Even when they block my way, when your rod hems me in and your staff forces me on a path I would not choose, even then they comfort me. For my thoughts are not your thoughts and my ways are not your ways.

Though I wander through the valleys confused, unsure, worried, overcome by my own smallness amidst so large a flock, I trust that what you say is true.

I trust that your word will not return to you empty, that if I find myself despairing in a low place, it is because you are not done with me yet. I trust that our journey is ongoing, that you are calling, leading, prodding me forward toward your promise of cool water, verdant pastures, and rest.

I choose to believe that promise.

On a bumpy trail, a monotonous track of irritation when I am tempted to make my own way or out of weariness to rail against what is asked of me, I submit myself to your rod and staff. I submit myself to your guidance and your care. I will allow myself to be loved.

I will fear no evil and I will take the next step in faith, for I believe that you are who you say you are.

I believe that I am who you say that I am.

O Sacred Heart of Jesus, I put my trust in you.

Gut Check for Lent

One thing I’ve felt called to this Lent is to write more and to share more of what God is stirring up in my heart. I’ll be sharing reflections taken from my daily scripture readings and personal journaling. I’m not going to focus on sharing at times that will suit the algorithm or gain the most likes/follows/comments. I’m just planning to share when the spirit moves me and trust that the folks who need these words will come to them. I’m excited to share with you all and see where this goes. As always, thank you for taking time to read and for being here. You are such a gift to me and so eternally loved, my friends. -Mary Susan

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They seek me day after day, and desire to know my ways, like a nation that has done what is just and not abandoned the judgement of their God; they ask of me just judgements, they desire to draw near to God.

“Why do we fast, but you do not see it? Afflict ourselves, but you take no note?”

See, on your fast day you carry out your own pursuits, and drive all your laborers. See you fast only to quarrel and fight and to strike with a wicked fist!

Isaiah 58:2-4

I’ve been spending time in Isaiah 58, pondering these words in ways I haven’t before, realizing that like most other things in life, I am guilty of making things about me. As we ease into the second week of Lent, many of us are refining our sacrifices, realizing the extent to which we’ll be challenged, reevaluating the offerings we’ve chosen, or maybe even still trying to finalize our “plan” for Lent. That’s all fine. It’s normal for Lent to begin with discomfort, frustration, doubt.

What I’m realizing is that, like many other unhealthy enneagram two’s/recovering codependents before me, my Lenten observances are often tainted by misguided motivations. And I think that’s what Isaiah is getting at here in chapter 58. Israel is seeking God, they genuinely want to know Him, to feel heard by Him, to have their sacrifice recognized by the Father…but they’re going about all of that on their terms alone. They’re checking off boxes, their fasting fueled by self-righteousness and judgement and God calls them out. It’s as if God says, “Okay, but why are you fasting? Is it to control others, to place judgement through your actions, to elevate yourself? Do you fast purely so your voice can be heard above your brother’s?”

And I have to ask myself the same questions. As I lean into this season of fasting, penance, and almsgiving, what are my motivations?

Do I sacrifice, offer myself, allow myself to be tread upon, take on the cloak of the martyr or victim as a way of making a point, drawing attention to how “good” I am while punishing everyone in my path with a bad attitude and critical demeanor? Am I loudly suffering, taking on guilt that is not my own so that I might publicly complain or lord it over others?

Is my sacrifice and fasting merely an outlet for my resentment or do I act in true humility and obedience to the Lord? Am I using my penance as a passive aggressive way to make a statement to someone in my life about behavior I don’t approve of or do I fast to achieve a specific “level” of holiness?

I must be careful that I am not using my sacrifice as a weapon, a measuring stick, a blinder that enables my pride and judgement. It’s a normal aspect of human nature to want to see where we measure up to the rest of the pack. But in that measurement, it’s easy to drift into the dangerous waters of comparison, to elevate ourselves above our brothers, to use our “holiness” as a way to make a statement about who we are rather than what God is doing in us.

So, what’s the answer here? Where can I find true communion with the Lord during this complicated season of Lent? What do I do if I realize that my motives are less than ideal?

It’s important to remember that Lent is not a contest. There is no Lent Police roaming about looking for people who aren’t “doing it right.” Each person’s Lenten observance is intimate and personal. We shouldn’t approach Lent like the Pharisees in the Bible, eager to look the part but stinted in our actual observance of God’s law. What we should do is offer grace to others. In my experience, the surest way to reorient myself to God is through service to others.

If you remove the yoke from among you, the accusing finger and malicious speech; If you lavish food on the hungry and satisfy the afflicted; Then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom shall become like midday; Then the Lord will guide you always and satisfy your thirst in parched places, will give strength to your bones and you shall be like a watered garden, like a flowing spring whose waters never fail.”

Isaiah 58:9b-11

Oh, my heart longs for that satisfaction from the Lord. When all of life feels like perpetual Lent and I’m asked to give more, offer more, sacrifice even more, I desperately desire my thirst to be satisfied, my bones strengthened. A watered garden sounds like paradise right now and that satisfaction only comes from a pure offering of myself to the other.

What am I yoked by? By comparison, by competition, by quick judgement, dehumanization of others. The media to which I am addicted is peppered with accusing fingers and malicious speech. Scrolling leaves me dissatisfied and disgruntled, horrified by “those” people and stuck deep in my own judgmental mire.

Who are the hungry I am called to lavishly feed? Who are these afflicted I am asked to satisfy? The poor, the lonely, the imprisoned, the children in my midst who just long to be listened to; the people in my life hungry for acceptance, not conditional on certain beliefs or behaviors, but acceptance just as they are.

I am not Christ. I cannot satisfy these needs on my own, but I can speak love to the widowed and the orphans of the Church. I can offer the lonely a seat at my table and set aside my own version of what’s best to allow the people in my life to be who God created them to be. I can sacrifice voicing my opinions and make space for the words of others. I can lay down my expectations and receive both complicated people and challenging circumstances as gift. I can give monetarily to people in need, regardless of whether or not they align perfectly with my worldview. So many are starving for affection. I can lavish love on them. I can.

It is only in that lavishing love that I will be able to see the light break through the gloom. It is only through making sacrifices that are not about me, but about loving Christ in others that I will have my own thirst quenched. It is only in recognizing the belovedness of my brother that I will gain eyes to see my own belovedness. I am strengthened by carrying the cross of Christ, a weight which nourishes my soul rather than weighing me down like so many yokes I habitually strap myself to.

Father, heal my wounded heart, reorient all of my being to your most holy Sacred Heart. Nestle me there, that my sacrifice might not be motivated by a sick attempt at administering my own form of justice, but by a desire to be healed of my own disordered affections. Help me to remember that I am responsible for myself, that before I seek to judge my brother I am called to reorient myself to You. Lord, help me to submit myself to your most holy and perfect will, that I might offer sacrifice not on my terms, but on Yours. Break down the things in me that rebel agains You. Jesus, meek and humble of heart, make my heart like unto Thine. Amen.