(Photo – Unsplash – Jacob Mejicanos)

By Jane Korvemaker

We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labour pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.

Romans 8:22-23

This passage is written as though Paul has seen glimpses of my life. It seems odd to identify with his expression, ‘groaning inwardly,’ and yet it resonates. We struggle not only with the tension of satisfying our wants and our needs here and now, but also the tension of our liminal existence between the physical and spiritual, visible and invisible, having been baptised into Christ’s mystical body:

For while we are still in this tent, we groan under our burden, because we wish not to be unclothed but to be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.

2 Corinthians 5:4

Earthly Groaning

Learning what it means to live with and manage neurodivergence in my family has been an unrelenting debris-littered path, laced with unforeseen deep valleys and scorching mountainous treks. Between ADHD, anxiety, and depression among us, there have been many times I’ve felt crushed like a fragile egg shell, broken into pieces of exhaustion, over-stimulation, and desperation. Each of my children depends upon my husband and me for love and support, but these needs are often communicated by screaming and meltdowns over obstacles unseen by the inexperienced.

The imprint on our house is like a portal to what we bear invisibly: there is a door casing to a bedroom that hangs, as if weary itself, to the one or two nails still pinning it to the frame. Tired and without strength itself, it hopes for restoration, something unlikely to happen soon, and right now clings in temporal hope that the nails will hold it fast. It is a physical testament to the emotional and spiritual wear, even under the joys and celebrations, as we struggle to meet our family’s needs.

My Meagre Offering to God

The number of times I’ve wandered into Mass dazed and weary, due to some meltdown or other in the preceding half hour, is beyond count. Dispirited, I’ve come not with the first fruits of my existence, but the last dregs that I have. The broken fragments of my existence are all that are left sometimes; they’re all I can muster to offer to God as my own sacrifice. I cannot even recall what other sacrifices I endured over the past week to be able to consciously offer them to God.

What I offer feels as meagre as the widow who offered the two coins in the Temple: “she, out of her poverty, has put in everything she had, all she had to live on” (Mk 12:44). To be physically present at Mass at these times is to give everything I have; all that’s left to live on. These experiences are universal; there’s no exclusivity in the blur of obligations during times of stress and/or exhaustion.

St. Paul’s image of inner groaning under the burden of not yet being fully restored is relatable. If left unattended, dejection can twist our thoughts, proclaiming to us that it will always be this way, or that there is no help to climb out of this pit; we can suffer immensely. Christ endured these lies, too. Though unscripted, I imagine these temptations are what preceded his trial and death as he wept in Gethsemane. The thread of lies that’s whispered also to us can drown out the Good Shepherd’s voice. They come not from him but from the wolf who holds maleficence toward us and would have us bound in eternal hopelessness: Satan, the father of lies.

Our Hope Is In Christ

Jesus’ desire that his imminent suffering might pass him by is emphasised by his distressed grief (Mt 26:38-39). But therein lies my hope: Christ still freely chose to offer his suffering and death for the redemption of humanity. He, too, hoped in the goodness and faithfulness of his Father. Indeed, the Father accepted his righteous sacrifice in atonement and purification for all. Now, by virtue of my baptism, I am clothed and marked in Christ’s sonship as an adopted daughter of the Father.

This means that what I offer spiritually at Mass alongside the bread and wine, even if negligible, is mingled with the re-presentation of Christ’s own sacrifice, offered through the Spirit to the Father: the sacrifice of the Mass. And by that same Spirit, who dwells within me because of my initiation into Christ, I am able to offer my sacrifices, no matter how meagre, which are entwined into Christ’s most pure sacrifice, placed on the altar in communal hope:

May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands

for the praise and glory of his name,

for our good

and the good of all his holy church.

Roman Missal, 3rd Edition, Order of the Mass, no. 29

We pray that they may be transformed, just as Christ was transformed, and as the bread and wine will be. The child, after all, offered only a few loaves and fishes – the transformation announced the work God does with all that we offer to him in hope (Jn 6:9-13).

I cannot see the work being done within me or with the offering I bring, but I trust and hope in the faithfulness of our Lord. The gift of God’s ongoing presence still sustains me as I enter the coming week. No doubt it will be blessed by another’s offering, transformed by God into nourishment for all. Our groanings are efficacious when they are given to God, for it is only in him that our scant offerings can be transformed into something unexpected and life giving – not only for me, but for all. This unseen transformation is worth our groaning in labour.

My soul, be at rest in God alone,

From whom comes my hope

Ps. 62:6

Jane Korvemaker is a B.C. transplant who lives in Saskatoon with her husband, three children, and mischievous cat. She holds a Certificate in Culinary Arts, Bachelor of Theology, Certificate in Youth Ministry Studies, and is a Level Two Catechist in Catechesis of the Good Shepherd. She hopes to one day find the perfect pairing of bacon, beer, and Balthasar. She semi-regularly writes at ajk2.ca