Little Hearts

And A Liturgy for Those Who Are Anxious and Don't Know Why

A friend and I were swapping Valentine’s Day stories last week when I found myself telling one I’d never shared with anyone before. It was second grade and I had a crush on a boy named Josh*. In that particular era of grocery store valentines—those mass-produced rectangles featuring Saturday morning cartoon characters—each card bore a pre-printed message with the potential of carrying some serious social weight. One had to be thoughtful about their distribution. A safe choice for a boy might be something like “Ur Cool” or a carefree “Cowabunga! Happy Valentine’s!”— you know, friendly, but also uninvolved. A greeting you might also say to your mailman. I was normally careful about this sort of thing.

But this year, I got a little reckless. On Josh’s valentine—and only his—I drew a little heart next to my name. Nothing crazy, just a quiet, secret act of affection. I was convinced he wouldn’t see it. It was not a response from him that I craved, anyway, but the quiet thrill of declaring my unspoken crush.

I pushed this secret message through the little slot in Josh’s decorated shoebox, and then made my way around the room depositing my less-embellished valentines into their proper places with the rest of my classmates. Soon, little mountains of paper messages were piled on all of our desks. We sorted through them with sticky fingers, stained pink from the cupcakes Bridget’s mom sent in that morning.

Later, as we lined up in the little alcove between classrooms to wash our hands at the sink, I found myself behind Josh and Todd. I was minding my own business, when Josh turned to Todd and said:

”Elizabeth drew a heart on my valentine. Did she draw a heart on yours?”

”No,” Todd said. “No heart.”

“She didn’t draw one on Derek’s either,” Josh continued. Now he was in full Sherlock Holmes mode and it was making me twitchy. “She didn’t draw a heart on anyone else’s on my row.” My chest, and then my shoulders, and then my entire head was in flames.

They looked at me and giggled. I wondered if I could make myself disappear by sheer force of will, but despite my best efforts, I remained painfully present.

I blurted out something ridiculous: “What are you talking about? I didn’t draw any heart!’

A bold-faced lie. Immediately disprovable. It was met with more laughter. But in that exposure—when I was forced to stare reality straight in the face—there was, strangely, a kind of grace. I was mortified, yes, but I also experienced something that felt a whole lot like relief.

*This might seem silly, but I’m changing this boy’s name. In the unlikely occurrence he reads this story, I don’t want him to feel unfairly portrayed. Also, he was just being a second-grade boy.

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Katherine Paterson, in her memoir, Stories of My Life, says that her mother once asked why she never wrote a story about the day in grade school when she didn’t get any valentines. She responded that, in a sense, all her stories were about the time she didn’t get a valentine. I wonder if, in a sense, all my stories are about the time I gave a valentine, and failed spectacularly at it.

I started writing stories on The Things I Carry because these are the memories that keep me up at night and I have to get them out of me. But in their retelling, these once-crushing events come out as comedies instead of tragedies. This isn’t contrived. It’s just what’s true. I find it endlessly funny the way we humans posture ourselves against reality. Our earnestness in trying to be something more than we are is downright hilarious. But it’s beautifully funny—a deep laughter of the truest sense—because there is a grace that comes only to those of us who are laid bare. This place of emptiness is the place from which we actually do get to become more than we are.

But exposure is seldom a choice we freely make, and we don’t always have a second-grade boy calling out our follies. More often, we have to do the courageous work of inviting the Spirit to reveal hidden places in our hearts—sometimes hidden even to us. A few years ago, I wrote a liturgy for such moments. Finding it again today, I thought I would share it here, in case it might be helpful to someone else. I hope it helps lead you to glorious exposure, and then to overwhelming comfort, and then, eventually—to laughter.

A Liturgy for Those Who are Anxious and Don’t Know Why

My body is telling me a story right now, Lord:
My jaw clenches, my throat tightens.
I am worried, but I don't know why.
I want to ignore this and keep moving headlong through my day—
I want to turn down the volume with distraction, entertainment, or substance.
But my body is telling me a story, and I think I should listen.

Father, You are acquainted with all of my ways,
even when they are hidden from me.
Would you come near while I do the brave and hard work
of following these anxious thoughts all the way down to the bottom?
Would you come and search my heart with me,
For I am blind in this dark place.
And I need you with me in this ill-lit cavern.
Let me first start in silence and ask your Spirit to stir up my thoughts and to illuminate truth.

*Sit for a moment in silence*

Christ, who gives abundantly, am I anxious about money?
Strengthen my heart to remember:
The times you have provided exact portions.
That I never feed myself, and that you are always multiplying loaves and fish.
Your promise that my imperishable, unfading treasure is kept in heaven.

Spirit, who empowers me to live a godly life, am I anxious about a sin committed?
Strengthen my heart to remember:
The safest place I can bring offense is out into the light.
You give me everything I need to repent and begin again.
Your promise that I always have an invitation to your table.

Father, who is my Keeper: both of body and soul, am I anxious about my health?
Strengthen my heart to remember:
All invisible things happening in my body are visible to you.
You took on flesh and are with me in my own.
Your promise that the end of the story is always wholeness, resurrection, and life.

Christ, who calls me to follow Him, am I anxious about my work?
Strengthen my heart to remember:
The times you have used my weaknesses instead of my gifts.
That your work is often small and slow, and mine might be too.
Your promise that your love for me is not dependent upon what I produce.

Spirit, who does invisible work, am I anxious about relationships?
Strengthen my heart to remember:
That you have given me all I need to absorb the cost of forgiveness.
That you heal wounds, both known and unknown, I have inflicted on my neighbor.
Your promise that you will never leave or forsake me.

And Father, if none of these, could it be possible that my body is reminding me of the sorrow of living in a world that is groaning?
Help me to listen and to agree: Something is not right. The world is not as it should be.

And then, O body and soul, hear this: This world will not remain in decay!
My whole self is thrown onto Christ, who has anchored us both in a future where all things are made whole.

O Spirit, overlay that hope on my heart today, and do your miraculous work of letting all future joy run down the mountain of time, filling my present moment.
With my inner man at rest, let my body also be at rest.
The peace of Christ is with me.

Amen.