From the Rector…
I’ve always believed that if I were ever tortured, I could escape into my head—doing math equations or listing historical events—to avoid focusing on the pain. Then I had a root canal last week and realized just how naïve that belief was.
It wasn’t that I was especially anxious. I’d never had a root canal before, and I assumed they’d numb me well enough that I wouldn’t feel anything. I didn’t really know what to expect, so instead of panicking, I tried to stay curious about the experience.
I also planned for the worst. Any dental procedure, to me, feels akin to waterboarding. I decided I’d distract myself by running through piano scales, French verb conjugations, or maybe reciting poetry and prayers. Those plans evaporated quickly. The moment the drilling began, I couldn’t think about anything except the whirring sound and the faint burning smell coming from my mouth. I wasn’t in pain—it was simply overwhelming.
We’re told to “plan for the worst and hope for the best.” Good advice, but in my case, my planning failed because I don’t actually practice piano scales, poetry, or French conjugations on a regular basis. What I do practice regularly is listening to calming music—to study, meditate, relax, and pray. When my planned distractions fell apart, I instinctively switched to the familiar. Without thinking, I played calming music and felt my body settle.
It made me wonder: maybe that’s the key to coping well with life’s challenges. When we regularly practice positive spiritual or emotional habits in calm moments, those same habits rise to meet us when life gets hard. How often do we find ourselves humming a hymn or reciting a prayer in our heads when we’re under stress?
Years ago, another priest told me about his time in Taizé, France—a spiritual retreat center known for its meditative singing. What struck him most wasn’t just the experience itself but what happened afterward. For months, he’d wake up every morning with the songs of Taizé echoing in his head. They became his go-to source of peace. Whenever he faced discouragement or difficulty, he found himself singing those same simple, meditative songs.
When I couldn’t recall the French verb être sitting in the endodontist’s chair, my mind turned instead to the music I know so well. It carried me into prayer and calm, even amid drill sounds and burning smells. And I realized, that was possible only because it was already my practice—my rhythm of life.
Trials and suffering will come. The question is: how will we prepare for them? What practices that draw you close to God in easy times might sustain you in hard ones? Distraction can help, but true hope and joy come from the rhythms already woven into our lives—through prayer, worship, and the steady repetition of faith.
Light and Life,
Candice+