To offer a blessing is an intimate act that acknowledges that we are connected with another and that we desire the wholeness of that person—or that place, or whatever it is that we are blessing. A blessing is a reminder that God has not designed us to live by our own devices; we are bound together with one another and with all of creation, and we are called to work for the flourishing of those whom we share this life with—and those who will follow. Offering a blessing is an act of profound hope. In blessing one another, we recognize and ally ourselves with the presence of God who is ever working to bring about the healing of the world.
When harm has come to a relationship, when a connection has been broken, offering a blessing can become difficult or impossible. Yet as we begin to pick up the pieces and to mend, claiming and creating a blessing—even for one’s own healing self—can provide a way to put some of the pieces together in a new way.
Today’s reflection from Sacred Journeys comes from a letter to a friend, written during a time when I was thinking about brokenness and blessing.
I think being able to bless means that even in situations that aren’t okay, one hasn’t given up, hasn’t lost power, hasn’t cut off the parts of one’s own spirit and self that were once intertwined with another. Remember those candlesticks I bought to match the chalice and paten I gave you? I got those because they symbolized a profound connection that I wanted a visible reminder of. A few other things sometimes elicited conflicting feelings when I remembered how they connected us—ocean waters, stars, particular songs. I didn’t go around agonizing over these things constantly, but I did remember…and there were times when I wished I could turn some of the pain of those connections onto you.
Questions for reflection
When has a trusted connection brought a wound rather than a blessing? In the fullness of time—for a blessing cannot be forced—how might the act of blessing begin to provide a way out of the wound?
Adapted from Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson
