A Somatic Meditation on Peter Meeting Mary, Magdalene, and John in the Courtyard:
The Weight of Remorse, The Comfort of Compassion, and the Healing of Spiritual Trauma
By Ashley E Schumacher, MS, LAPC
Music Suggestion: ‘Kyrie Eleison’ by Salt of the Sound
youtu.be/NJMqWfs0zQ4?si=IO0Q6daxOybFrJBz
Find a quiet, sacred space where you feel fully supported—whether sitting or lying down.
Allow yourself to feel the weight of your body, connected to the earth beneath you.
Take a moment to simply notice the support that holds you, offering grounding as you prepare to journey inward.
Begin by taking a slow, deep breath in.
As you exhale, feel your body soften.
With each breath, let the tension in your chest, shoulders, and stomach gently ease away.
This breath is an invitation for you to be present with yourself in this moment.
There is no rush. You are safe.
You are seen.
Let the breath deepen naturally, and with each inhalation and exhalation,
imagine that you are letting go of what you no longer need. Each breath softens and clears.
You are safe in this space.
In your own time, begin to imagine yourself in the courtyard, just after the pain of Peter’s betrayal has unfolded.
The darkness feels thick around you, the air heavy with silence.
You stand among the stone walls, the weight of your actions pressing on your chest, as if the stones
themselves were slowly crushing the life from you.
You feel the rawness of your grief, the sharp edge of regret.
Your heart aches with the agony of knowing that you have denied the one who loved you most.
The shame is suffocating, and it feels like the weight of the world is bearing down on you.
Pause here.
Notice how your body feels in this moment.
How does your body carry the distress of Peter’s heart?
Feel the tightness in your chest, the knot in your throat.
You may feel like crying, as if the tears are held just below the surface, unable to break free.
Feel the rawness of the trauma—the way the betrayal of trust has shredded your sense of security.
How many times have you felt that crushing guilt, the unshakable sense that you’ve hurt someone you loved deeply?
How many times has a spiritual wound left you feeling like you’ve betrayed the one who gave you life, the one who trusted you, the one who held your heart?
Feel the weight of this in your body.
Allow the pain of Peter’s distress to become your own, and don’t shy away from it.
There is space for this grief.
Now, pendulate your awareness to Mary, who has been standing nearby, witnessing the agony of her son.
As Peter’s eyes catch hers, something shifts.
The depth of her love, the depth of her sorrow, and the tenderness of her heart meet Peter’s brokenness.
You see Mary open her arms to Peter, her face soft and compassionate.
There is no anger, no condemnation in her expression.
There is only the purest, most tender love—the kind of love that holds space for our deepest failings and greatest wounds.
It is not a love that ignores or dismisses the pain, but one that bears it together.
As Peter falls into her arms, his sobs echo through the courtyard, and she holds him—no words needed, just the silent embrace of someone who understands.
In this moment, Peter feels the deep comfort of being held.
He has no need to explain himself, to justify, to apologize, or to make sense of the shame that threatens to engulf him.
Mary simply holds him. Her presence is enough.
It is a deep comfort—a balm for his wounded soul.
Feel the warmth of her embrace.
Allow yourself to imagine her hands on his back, holding him in the depth of his sorrow, as though saying,
“I see you, and I love you—no matter what.”
Her compassion speaks louder than any words could.
Let that love fill you, washing over you like a tender, healing wave.
As Mary embraces Peter, notice the presence of Magdalene and John standing beside them.
Magdalene’s eyes are filled with understanding, not judgment.
She knows what it is to carry the weight of shame, to feel unworthy of love.
And John, ever faithful, stands beside them both, offering his quiet presence as a reminder that love does not abandon.
Together, they are holding space for Peter in this moment, holding his pain with him, not rushing him to move through it,
but staying with him in the quiet of his brokenness.
Pendulate between Peter’s distress and heartbreak and the loving embrace of Mary, Magdalene, and John.
There is a deep knowing that these figures—Mary’s tender embrace, Magdalene’s understanding, John’s faithful presence—are reminders that in the depths of spiritual trauma, we are never alone.
There is always love to hold us, even when we cannot hold ourselves.
The wounds of betrayal, the guilt, and the shame that we carry, are met with compassion.
We are not required to fix ourselves. Love does the healing.
Allow the presence of Mary to remind you of the Divine tenderness that holds you when you feel unworthy.
The compassion of Magdalene and John offers the comfort of knowing that your sorrow is valid, and in the arms of others, in the arms of the community, you can find healing and solace.
Feel the weight of Peter’s grief slowly soften under the grace of their love.
Let your body soften as you breathe deeply, feeling your chest open with the release of tension.
Notice how your shoulders relax and how the grief of spiritual trauma—those times when you felt rejected or abandoned by your faith, those moments when you’ve betrayed your own values or felt distant from God—slowly begins to ease.
Feel the embrace of Mary, Magdalene, and John wrap around you as well.
You are not alone in your pain.
Love holds you. Compassion holds you. Tenderness heals.
As you breathe deeply, let their love fill you, offering you the same quiet strength they offered Peter.
Let this love be your balm, the comfort you need to face your own moments of distress, knowing that you, too, are seen, you, too, are held, and you, too, are loved, no matter how deep the wound.
As you begin to return to the present moment, take a few deep breaths.
Feel the support of the ground beneath you, grounding you back into this time and space.
Let your breath return to a natural rhythm, settling into the knowledge that you are never alone in your suffering.
You are held by love, by compassion, by community.
You are not forgotten, even in your darkest moments. You are seen.
No matter the weight of your wounds, you are held in love. You are loved.
Though the past may cling to you, the chains have been broken. You are free.
You are held in your grief.
Visceral Version
Find a quiet, sacred space where you feel fully supported—whether sitting or lying down.
Let your body settle into the space, feeling the weight of your form resting on the earth beneath you.
As you take a moment to center yourself, notice the solid ground beneath you,
the very ground that has supported you through countless moments of suffering and joy.
You are not alone in this moment.
Allow the earth to hold you as you begin to journey inward.
Take a deep, slow breath in.
As you exhale, release any tension you may be holding.
Feel your body soften with each breath, allowing yourself to come fully into the present.
There is no rush here. You are safe. You are seen.
Now, imagine yourself standing in the courtyard, just after you’ve realized the pain of your betrayal.
The night air is thick, heavy with the weight of what you’ve just done.
The city’s noise has faded, and all that remains is the oppressive silence that wraps around you like a suffocating blanket.
It presses against your chest, tightens your throat, and weighs down on your heart.
The grief you feel in this moment is not just the pain of your betrayal—it is the raw, gut-wrenching sting of spiritual trauma.
The very trust you once had in the One who called you to follow, to be His, feels shattered.
You have denied the truth that was given to you.
You have failed Him, and now, it feels as though you have failed your very self.
There is no hiding from this wound.
It cuts deep into the soul, a wound that feels spiritual in nature—one that reaches beyond the surface and into the heart of your relationship with God.
Feel the coldness of the night seeping into your bones, not from the air, but from the sense of spiritual abandonment that now weighs on you.
Your breath catches in your chest.
You feel your heart racing, pounding in your ears as the shock of what you've done starts to overwhelm you.
The guilt crashes in like a wave, and your body trembles with the fear that you may never be able to repair the bond you once had.
Your stomach turns with nausea, and your legs grow weak beneath you.
The pressure in your chest, the tightness in your throat, is not just the physical manifestation of guilt—
it is the spiritual dissonance, the feeling that God may never forgive you, that you are unworthy of His love.
You feel faint, as though the very ground beneath you may give way, and you will fall into the abyss of your shame and despair.
But then, you see her—Mary.
Mary stands there, the one who knows sorrow deeply, the one whose soul has been pierced by the suffering of her son.
She moves toward you, her eyes filled with compassion.
She has seen the brokenness of the world in ways you cannot even comprehend.
She has felt the sting of loss, the depth of grief, but still, her eyes meet yours with a kind of understanding that doesn’t need words.
You are seen. Your pain is known.
You feel her arms open wide. You want to run, to hide, but you cannot.
Her love pulls you in like gravity, unrelenting and gentle. S
he takes you into her embrace, and the very act of her holding you begins to soothe the rawness of your heart.
But it is not just the comfort of her embrace—it is the healing presence of one who understands spiritual wounds, who knows the ache of feeling far from God, abandoned in your deepest moments of failure.
As she holds you, you cry out in anguish, your voice breaking as you utter, “מאָּאִ ! Imma!”
The word, like a desperate plea from the depths of your soul, echoes through the silence.
You are calling out to the one who gave you life, to the one who can bear your pain.
She feels the weight of your sorrow as her own, and her embrace tightens, wrapping you in the sanctuary of her love.
You can feel the weight of your grief beginning to lift, though it is still there, lingering.
Her presence is not a dismissal of your pain, but a recognition of it.
It is a love that says, "You are not beyond repair. You are not too broken to be made whole again."
In her arms, you feel the love of God, tender and unyielding, even in the face of your deepest betrayal.
You begin to feel the warmth of that love seep into the very places of your soul that you believed were irreparably shattered.
Feel the warmth of her hands on your back, steady and sure, as though she is offering you a spiritual balm.
She does not ask you to explain or to justify what you’ve done.
She holds you in your brokenness, in your guilt, and she offers you the space to feel the depth of your sorrow without shame.
The shame that once clung to you begins to lose its grip, as though her love is gently washing it away.
With every breath, the panic that once gripped your chest starts to ease.
Your heart, though still broken, begins to slow, and the racing thoughts of spiritual abandonment give way to a quiet knowing—that you are still loved.
This is not just the comfort of a mother’s embrace.
This is the healing touch of one who knows what it means to carry the weight of spiritual trauma—the wounds of rejection, the deep pain of being torn from the arms of your Creator, the fear of never being enough.
But as she holds you, you begin to understand that God’s love is not dependent on your perfection.
It is not about the mistakes you’ve made.
It is about His presence, about His willingness to come to you, broken as you are, and offer you the kind of love that heals all wounds.
The spiritual trauma you’ve carried—feeling distant from God, feeling unworthy, feeling abandoned—begins to dissolve in the tender love of Mary.
In this moment, there is no need for words. There is no need for apologies or explanations.
There is only the silent, deep knowing that you are loved, that you are seen, that you are not abandoned, no matter the depth of your betrayal.
You are held, just as you are, and that is enough.
As you breathe deeply, feel the tension in your body begin to release.
The cold sweat on your brow, the tightness in your chest, the nausea—all of it starts to soften, to fade.
In the presence of this love, you are being made whole again.
Slowly, you feel your heart begin to heal, not because of your actions, but because of God’s mercy, poured out through the love of Mary.
You are not defined by your failures.
You are defined by the love that has always been there, waiting for you to return, waiting to embrace you once again.
As you return to the present moment, take a deep breath.
Feel the support of the earth beneath you, grounding you in this moment.
Know that the spiritual trauma of feeling far from God, of feeling unworthy, does not have the final word. Love has the final word.
You are not forgotten. You are loved. You are forgiven. You are whole.
Take another deep breath, and as you exhale, feel the weight of your grief soften.
You are held, always.