Last week, our UUCF theme of vulnerability took on unexpected meaning for my family. You know how the sidewalks were icy last week with all the melting and freezing? Well, last Tuesday, my husband, John, slipped on a patch of black ice, came down hard and fractured a bone in his leg. Ouch! All of a sudden, there was vulnerability. Quite literally: the Latin root means the ability to be wounded. 

Now, we fully expect John will be fine in a few weeks. He's got himself a lovely boot and a pair of crutches. Former Marine that he is, his positive spin has been, "Time to work on my upper-body strength!" He's just going to have to rest that leg for a few weeks. (It's a spiral fracture of the fibula, for those who are interested in the gory details.) Actually, it's kind of amazing that rest is all it takes, isn't it? The body heals itself. It can be wounded, but it can heal too.

As for me, I felt vulnerable too, and I did not want to have to go there. That first day I alternated between distress at having been unable to prevent John's accident, though I'd been right there, and mild panic about all the chores that were going to fall on me for the next few weeks. The biggest freak-out I had was about something I know intellectually is not a big deal: having to take our dog for walks right before bed. John's the night owl and he always takes the last walk of the night with Taylor. But for a while, at least, it's going to be me, no matter how tired I feel. (And I just want to say, I'm truly grateful that this is the biggest problem we're facing. I can only imagine how much more difficult it would be if we were also caring for small kids or other adults.) 

That first night I felt so distressed, I had to give myself a pep talk. "Come on, Horton-Ludwig," I told myself, "you're a minister. Let's figure out a way to turn this dog-walking chore into an opportunity for spiritual practice!" The first idea came to me right away: how about being a little more mindful, shall we? I slowed down everything I was doing that night, including the walk. Lo and behold, I discovered the stars were shining bright. That was lovely. I yawned a few times but that was OK. Taylor and I did just fine. The next morning I got another idea. I've always been drawn to the way people in monastic communities mark the hours with a regular routine and rhythm of spiritual practice. So, I told myself, for the next few weeks this is my chance to try out that kind of routine: three "hours" a day - morning, midday and night - with my fellow monastic Taylor the dog. We'll call the evening walk "Vespers," maybe! All this is just a mental reframing, of course, but it certainly did make me feel better about doing what had become necessary.

I am so very aware that John and I are among the lucky ones right now. For everyone who is facing unexpected vulnerabilities of any kind, I want to wish you grace and the support of loved ones and everything you need to move through whatever challenge you are facing, no matter how serious. I promise you that we at UUCF will be here to listen and support and help you however we can. We're in this vulnerability thing together.

Warmly,