The Unbearable Heaviness of Things

Reflection

“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.” -Matthew 11:28-30

I did something amazing the other day. I carried a 40-lb bag of water softener salt by myself! From a palate at the warehouse store, up and over and into the shopping cart, just so. And, later on while shopping, I grasped two 15-lb boxes of Epsom salt with my bare hands and packed them into that same shopping cart! This was a magnificent achievement, made all the more essential because my 17-year-old son was not with me.

For the me-of-late, this was nearly Sampsonesque. Shackled to fibromyalgia, it’s anyone’s guess what’s next on that pain-threshold meter in my upper extremities. A few months ago, I was barely able to lift those 15-lb Epsom salt boxes – using forearms instead of hands – and plop them into the child-seat part of the cart, trying to conserve as much potential energy as possible for what would prove to be a challenging go at unpacking it all into my car.

It’s not that great when your shoulders are painfully weak and your hands feel like they’re being stung by ants. You have good days and bad, and it could as easily be the weather or something you ate.

A tweak of my meds could fix this, of course, adding a bit more of some prescription drug to reduce the constant pain. The only cost was more of some annoying side effect.

Chronic pain disorders have a habit of beating you down in ways that only someone else with chronic pain can understand. I’ve struggled with two of them over the last 5 years. And when that chronic pain syndrome has a spooky name like “polymyalgia rheumatica” (formerly) or “fibromyalgia” (currently), it basically means that the doctors have no idea what’s caused it or how long it will last.

As for the meds, the docs are just throwing things at them that happened to work for some people and might, just might, work for you. “There are some side effects,” they’ll say, “you might be more tired, or unable to sleep. You might get constipated, or the opposite. You might suffer some sexual dysfunction.” The lists go on, often including some supremely helpful ones, such as “Do not take this drug if you are allergic to this drug” or – my favorite – “Possible side effects include death.”

Faith is tested during times like these. Faith is tried. I’ve become closer to my Rosary over the last five years and have more often sought the blessed sacramentals and sacraments of my religion. But was I really doing this right? Was I being sincere, or just banking on an ATM Jesus? I’d lost track.

To help sort this out, I went with some trepidation to a Mass of Healing at our parish. My wife and son – so supportive! – joined me for this moving spiritual experience, which included a standard novus ordo mass, Eucharistic Procession and Adoration, and laying on of hands. Attendance was good from our diverse congregation. There was no personal witnessing. No wildly undulating faithful shaking free from a crippling disease. The service was reverent, low-stress and unassuming.

Following the ceremony and prior to the final blessing, Father stood at the pulpit, at first quietly. Then, without warning, he – I don’t know how else to describe it – he started channeling the Holy Spirit.

This priest, mind you, was not normally flamboyant or evangelical, just a kind and unassuming Redemptorist. This was quite out of character, and yet his rapid-fire words and groans were not affected or pretentious. With eyes closed and hands outstretched toward the pews, he spoke of a person here “…who is seeking word from an estranged loved one – news will come soon;” “…who is struggling with an addiction –your sponsor loves you and wants you to come back.” The revelations kept coming, on and on, a few dozen, for a good five minutes.

During this hypnotic experience, I believed that I heard “…who is seeking strength – more strength will come to you.”

Wait, that was me!

I glanced at my wife. She smiled, clutched my hand.

My personal conceit has always leaned toward self-reliance. I am not a good outpatient, especially after hernia surgery or a broken rib. During the worst of my fibromyalgia, not only am I not able to open that jar with a tight lid, but I actually have to ask my son to open it for me, to haul those 40-lb salt bags, those 15-lb Epsom salt boxes. My lack of strength is realized through prohibitive pain.

The unbearable heaviness of things I used to lift without a second thought had crushed me down low. That heavy yoke was nearly too much to bear. Prescription drug side effects would just have to do. Or so I had kept telling myself, for at least eight months.

But then and there, in that Mass of Healing, I finally saw my yoke for what it was: a burden that Jesus promised to help me carry, if I offered it up. Whatever I had been praying for up ‘til then wasn’t quite right. It was the offering up for which I needed more strength.

That, and less self-pity, less desire for control. Above all: more trust. The capacity of Our Savior to lift heavy loads far surpasses even the 125-lb crossbeam of His crucifix. I simply needed to trust in Him. Just as Our Lord trusted His Father and pitied not himself, thus obtaining the healing of rest.

During that Mass of Healing, I recall smelling incense, just a whiff or two. But no intense had been burned in the sanctuary, nor earlier that day, as far as I knew. I have no idea what this meant: an olfactory hallucination, a memory of a High Mass, or a message from the Holy Spirit? Not to worry, though. As incense wafts up toward heaven, so to go our prayers, heard by Our Father and His Son. So, make them count.

UPDATE: To learn more about fibromyalgia from a patient’s perspective, read more about my journey with chronic pain in this diet-related post and this theological look at suffering and hope.

To learn more about polymyalgia rheumatica from a patient’s perspective, see my published academic article here [https://doi.org/10.1002/imed.1010]. 

Pain. (Photography: Mark H. Paalman)