Rites of Passage

There is no single "Orthodox" way to deal with a lost pregnancy. What to do ends up coming down, in large part, to what each priest feels is best in his capacity as spiritual father dealing with a hurting spiritual child. This is a mercy, I think, because while each of us experience the same feelings and the same life events, no two of us experience them the same way, and the room for pastoral judgment means there are choices.

While there may be no single way, there are guides to follow, precedents to consult, and the comfort that comes from the knowledge that there is no human experience that is "new" to the Church as a whole, even if it is new to me.

Daniel and I decided together with our priest here to have him come to our home to pray with us after the miscarriage was physically complete and before I returned to church. I was very comfortable with that plan. But, as so often happens, it was as if God whispered, "my plans are not your plans," and my best-laid plans were laid aside. On Saturday, a brief phone call confirmed that I would instead come to the church and the priest would pray with me there before the regular services.

I don't like surprises. I don't like change. I've had enough of both lately to last me a long time. When Daniel asked if I was willing to change the plan, I said I was. I was, it was true, but I sure wasn't happy about it.

"Will it be private?" I asked. Well, yes, and no. It will be early enough that most people will not yet be there. The priest, soft-spoken and gentle, will breath the prayers quietly over me rather than shouting them to the rafters. It won't involve fanfare. It will be deeply personal, but not private in the sense I might most like.

My question and my worry about that fact betrayed that I had forgotten something rather important that I slowly remembered as the morning wore on.

Since when is my salvation a private matter? Who among us is truly saved in isolation? Which of us does not need others as witnesses, guides and helpers? Who is so self-sufficient that Christ's love, poured out through other hands and other lips are made impotent and irrelevant? Who doesn't need to be surrounded by others when we would most like to disappear?

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There are ways in which this grief isn't like others. Our culture teaches us not to acknowledge the life of a new unborn baby until it is both "wanted" and thriving after the first treacherous 12 weeks in the womb.

But is that really the way God sees it? I don't think so, somehow. Still, this conflict lives in me. Part of me wants to hide this away in my heart as my private sorrow... mostly, I think, because I really don't want pity, and because I feel that we culturally don't do well with grief in general, let alone the duplicity and confusion that attends the natural loss of a life that our culture says is legal to end willfully without a second thought--a life that only counts if someone wanted it... and even then, only in a way that makes us collectively uncomfortable because this life has the air of promise about it, not actuality. We are not equipped to mourn a life we are not prepared to celebrate.

Yet, some part of me wants to acknowledge what was lost as a real grief, a genuine loss. What better place for that than the place where we greet all of life's spiritual transitions? None better, in spite of my wants.

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When we arrived at the church, the walk to the main outside doors seemed incredibly long. I focused on the crunching of my shoes on the gravel of the parking lot, I contemplated turning back around and I experienced increasing dread of the next few minutes. When we stepped inside the first set of doors and made our way towards the interior doors, my heart sank. About half a dozen people were already there--busy at their prayers. I wanted to be alone in that moment. I didn't want to cry in front of them. I didn't want them wondering what was being said if they were out of earshot. I didn't want them to hear if they weren't.

I stood just outside the doors, not sure of what to do, waiting nervously and looking for Father behind the curtain of the icon screen. When, a few moments later, he walked towards me and asked me to stand before him in the doorway, I knew how it would be and I understood how right this situation was for me.

I recognize this position, this place. Standing facing the altar from the back of the church. This is where, traditionally, couples stand to become betrothed, before going to the altar to be joined in marriage. This is where new converts stand to renounce Satan before they go to the altar for annointing. This is where new mothers stand when they are "churched"--blessed and brought back into the church after childbirth. This is a place of transition, or preparation for something new. A place of deaths, blessings and rebirths.

O Sovereign Master, Lord our God, Who was born of the all-pure Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary, and as an infant was laid in a manger: do You Yourself, according to Your great mercy, have regard for this Your servant Nikki, who has miscarried that which was conceived in her. Heal her suffering, granting to her, O Loving Lord, health and strength of body and soul. Guard her with a shining Angel from every assault of sickness and weakness and all inward torment. You who accept the innocence of infancy in Your Kingdom, comfort the mind of Your servant and bring her peace. Amen.

The prayers themselves were short and comforting: prayers to the King who was born as an infant to a very human mother. When they were done, I stepped into a place replete with reminders of Christ's unfailing mercy and measureless sacrifice.

I sang with the choir for most of the service, stopping to compose myself when the words we sang touched something deep in me and tears started again.

Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Let us lay aside all earthly cares... that we may receive the King of all.

Yes, let us lay aside earthly cares and focus on the things of heaven. After all, heaven is where God shall wipe away all tears...; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

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Possibly some of the most interesting books I have ever read were written by Mircea Eliade, Romanian philosopher, writer and historian of religion. It's been long enough since I read the books that I don't remember much detail. I only know that when I contemplated the power of sacred ritual, of transition, and of their place in our lives as members of community, his work came immediately to mind.

I pulled out his "Rites and Symbols of Initiation" today to see if I could discover what it was that had so resonated with me. What I found, skimming the introduction, was repeated reference to the sacred reality of initiation rites and the essential component preceding all births: death. There was also a deep sense of the connectedness of the individual to a whole cosmic, sacred history that is very much cherished and shared.

What came to mind next was the passage in John 12 where Christ speaks of a grain of wheat falling to the earth and dying before it bears much fruit, painting for us a picture not only of his own impending death, but of the death that all of us must die if we are to follow him and the promises of both fruitful lives and resurrection.

I can't pretend to understand all of this. I only know that as I stood at the threshold of the church on Sunday and was ushered in again with prayer, after several weeks of absence, I could not escape the feeling of having somehow, in a small way, experienced a death and a rebirth, a rite of passage.

But this is no empty ritual, assigned arbitrary meaning by humans who search for reasons for suffering and impose order where there is none. There was more--a connection between that which is physical and sensual--incense, candles, human touch, breath, spoken prayers--and the greater spiritual reality. There was more because the God who loves is in our midst and answers prayers--especially the prayers of the broken.

This was, like so many things in life, a rebirth that is a microcosm of the rebirth we are each offered through Christ, who makes all things new.