Sharing our Experiences
My friends in the Midwest are experiencing thick, smoky air from the Canadian wildfires. For those of us in the Pacific Northwest, that heaviness is all too familiar. It starts with one small spark and suddenly thousands of acres are scorched, homes are displaced, and the sky is filled with haze.
As I've watched the fires unfold back in my home state, I've found myself reflecting on how quickly things spiral out of control in our relationships and within communities. Misunderstandings ignite just as quickly. One word lands wrong, silence is misread, a story remains untold. We stop listening and start defending. Curiosity gives way to certainty. We interpret instead of asking. We define instead of clarifying. And the air between us thickens; not out of malice, but from fear, pride, and the desire to preserve our own version of light.
When I try to share my own truth, it rarely comes out neat. It's messy, shaded by shame, cracked by uncertainty. And while silence may have held it in for years, it hasn't softened it. Speaking truth is more than forming clear sentences. It's telling the story of experience, naming the things that have shaped us. When we do that, we offer light. This light is not polished or perfect, but honest and illuminating. In that offering, we make space for connection, and we walk more clearly in Christ's call toward love and truth.
Even light doesn't always move straight. It bends when passing through water, glass, or smoke. As many of you know, this is a process called refraction. It's redirected, altered, sometimes fractured into color (a beautiful rainbow). Our truths do the same. They pass through emotional filters of pain, fear, misunderstanding. They appear distorted to others, maybe even to ourselves. Yet they still shine. And when received with grace, refracted light can reveal unexpected beauty, like a hazy sunset breaking through smoke.
Truth isn't always bold or complete. Sometimes it trickles out in pieces with trembling voices, halting words, or unfinished thoughts. Yet just like sunlight piercing wildfire haze, light persists.
Owning our Experiences
Life is amazing. And then it's awful. And then it's amazing again. That's just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it's breathtakingly beautiful. —L.R. Knost
Her words remind us that every season holds value: the joy, the pain, and the quiet in between. In naming each part, we bring attention to what's real. We learn not just to endure, but to understand. That's where owning our experiences becomes vital. A wildfire needs three components to burn: fuel, heat, and oxygen. Remove one, and the fire fades. Add wind, like the infamous Santa Anas, and it rages out of control.
Our emotional lives follow a similar pattern. Grief alone might simmer. Fear may flicker and settle. But add shame, anger, confusion, and misunderstandings and it becomes a spiritual blaze (warfare). The longer it burns unchecked, the more destructive it becomes.
Naming our experience helps us to make sense of what we feel.
What is the fuel? Maybe old wounds, unspoken stories, or assumptions. Whatever will feed the flame.
What is the heat? Emotions like grief, anger, longing, or frustration. Whatever raises the emotional temperature.
What is the oxygen? Perhaps the attention we give the pain, the silence that lets it grow, or the validation we seek.
And what are the winds? Misunderstandings, social pressure, or relational dynamics that fan the flames.
St. Paul is an incredible model of sharing his experiences. He writes openly and names despair and weakness: "We were pressed out of measure, above strength, insomuch that we despaired even of life" (2 Corinthians 1:8) and "My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness... I glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me" (2 Corinthians 12:9). St. Paul doesn't hide his suffering. He names it and allows Christ's light to shine through it.
My friends, let this be an invitation for us to do the same. Speak truth even when it trembles. Name experiences even when they feel messy, vulnerable, or too personal. That's how we bear light through the haze. And with intention and care, we learn to see more clearly again—maybe even see a rainbow!
With Love in Christ,
Maria
Originally published in the Holy Apostles E-bulletin. Subscribe here.
