All great stories have a moment when all is lost.
We're drawn to these stories, these tales of narrow victory over defeat, the last-minute success of the rebels just when things are at their blackest and it looks like the Empire has won. Something in them speaks to our soul, I think. There is a reason why we feel ourselves drawn to the underdog, that unlikely champion, who proves in the end that love and truth are more powerful than whatever seemingly inconquerable forces have been amassed against him. The more impossible his triumph appears, the more joyful, the more just it seems.
This Passion week is no exception. As we commemorate that Greatest Story, we remember not just the joy, but that the champion falls, the lion dies, the messiah is in the tomb. Salvation is not just snatched from the jaws of loss at the last moment--it is actually swallowed up in defeat. Death has the victory. There are three days of mourning.
We understand that it had to happen this way because you cannot truly, fully defeat something until it first defeats you. Otherwise, your victory is hollow; there is always the chance that it might be overthrown, should some greater challenge arise. Every true champion must defeat the strongest enemy, must neutralize the greatest threat, must do so at the height of its power. Death must do its worst.
In this Easter season, I sometimes hear it said or preached, "It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!' We hold out the promise that just when things seem darkest, the greatest of victories is just around the corner. How easy it is to see, for all of us Monday morning quarterbacks. As we celebrate now, so far in the future, we have the advantage of
hindsight that removes any element of suspense or doubt. We know the end
of the story. Even though the battle is lost, the war is not
over--the enemy trembles, the table cracks, the King rises up. From our vantage point, where, then, is death's sting? But truly, in that interval of defeat, hindsight is not present. Death has triumphed, and it is the ultimate power in the universe. All is lost. In that time of mourning, between Friday and Sunday, the future is uncertain. We do not know what will happen next--all we know is what has happened now.
The only hope of victory must come by faith--it cannot come by sight. And right now, I find that I can't muster the confidence to be so certain. The immediate truth of loss is so present, so powerful. I have lost my sense of the ancient magic. Sunday may come, with its promise of resurrection, of restoration, of life; but I am stuck in Saturday, and today, I've seen with my own eyes that death has the victory. I wait in the dark, which is always where hope comes. I do not know what will happen next.
Saturday, April 11, 2020
Sunday, December 29, 2019
The One Thing
There's so much in life, I find, that needs fixing. It seems like every day, there are things that just don't go the way they should. Things break. Plans fail. People disappoint. Life is full of bumps and bruises, pains and problems.
Some of us are problem-solvers. We take joy in fixing these things, both for ourselves and others. Our fix-it impulses pull us into situations all the way from small appliance repair to major life crises, all with the same motivation--to make everything all right. I guarantee you, though, that even those of us who are problem solvers--maybe especially us--also need fixing. And beyond fixing, we need healing, mending. Always, for everyone, the journey of simply being alive in the world has brought hurts, shame, and pain to us in ways that are deep and shaping. Who or what can help us mend?
In most cases, I believe that significant relationships are where we find healing and wholeness, relief from the pains and brokenness of our past. And in my life, Rick was the fixer. He knew how to fix a sump pump, reboot the wifi, unclog a toilet. He could help think through difficult decisions, bring clarity to hard conversations, find guidance in confusing situations. He was always willing to offer his own hard work, practical help, and reflective wisdom. He could stop a whole evening of family fighting in my house, just by showing up. Wherever he went, he brought with him an aura of calm, and left behind a wake of peace.
For me, he not only smoothed the rough edges of daily living, but his healing touch sank deeply into my past, into hurts and griefs and false beliefs that have shaped me in painful and destructive ways since childhood. Listening to him preach every Sunday, listening to him talk in our everyday conversations, just seeing him live in a way that brought lofty truths to intimate life, helped me shape a new understanding of beliefs that have always been a part of me. I learned from him to see grace and love in new ways. Always, I've labored to meet the standards of my own faith, to do well at doing right. But Rick's faith was not about being right or doing right; it had room for failure, room for weakness, room for doubt. The grace I've offered myself has been dispensed sparingly, as a necessity. The grace Rick spoke of and lived out was never grudging, never stingy--it was generous, joyful, more than enough. Love, in the pictures Rick painted, was about others. It was never about how to change anyone, fix anyone. It was only about extending itself out, inviting others in. And most of all, love was for everyone, the ultimate truth. It was lavish and unconditional, welcoming and complete. It was the core truth of our existence, for ourselves, for others, and as the foundation for a community of the Beloved. It was for me.
In my adult life, love and I had not done well together. Love had meant revolving in orbit around someone else and their needs, always in the shadow; Rick showed me that it meant emerging into the light, having someone else rejoice in my happiness and success. All the love I had to give had fallen into a black hole, a chasm that could not be filled, absorbed like tiny pinpricks of light being consumed by the darkness; and so, no matter how much, it had never been enough. I learned now that love can be received with joy and returned; and when it is, it is multiplied many times over, making love increase for both the giver and the receiver, until giving and receiving are indistinguishable acts and there is nothing but more, hundreds and thousands of times more love. In all the broken places where I had lost sight of my own beauty, he found it and gave it back to me, reflecting it back in a thousand truthful glimpses with the simplest of daily interactions. Before, love in my life was like a cactus, its sparse beauty surviving and even thriving sometimes on the tiny streams of water buried deeply in the sand, perhaps able even to burst into flower with the faintest sprinkling of rain, yet with pain and danger always present. Love with Rick was like a lush and spreading old-growth apple tree, green and inviting, fragrant with blossoms, cool and shady, heavy with fruit, bursting with fire. Its peaceful beauty nourished the soul in every season.
And now, I suppose, comes winter, when it lies sleeping, bare and silent in the cold.
Once, after a tearful outburst over some hurt or frustration, with my face buried in his shoulder and his arms around me, I asked plaintively, "Is there anything you can't make better?" With that slow, self-deprecating chuckle, he said drily, "Oh, I imagine there's a thing or two."
I didn't believe you then, my dear. After all, you mended everything in me that was broken. As always, though, I know now that you were right. I've found the one thing that you can't fix. I don't blame you; even your powers had to have their limit. But even though you cannot come this time and make everything all right, rest assured, rick champ--you are still the only one.
How I love you.
Some of us are problem-solvers. We take joy in fixing these things, both for ourselves and others. Our fix-it impulses pull us into situations all the way from small appliance repair to major life crises, all with the same motivation--to make everything all right. I guarantee you, though, that even those of us who are problem solvers--maybe especially us--also need fixing. And beyond fixing, we need healing, mending. Always, for everyone, the journey of simply being alive in the world has brought hurts, shame, and pain to us in ways that are deep and shaping. Who or what can help us mend?
In most cases, I believe that significant relationships are where we find healing and wholeness, relief from the pains and brokenness of our past. And in my life, Rick was the fixer. He knew how to fix a sump pump, reboot the wifi, unclog a toilet. He could help think through difficult decisions, bring clarity to hard conversations, find guidance in confusing situations. He was always willing to offer his own hard work, practical help, and reflective wisdom. He could stop a whole evening of family fighting in my house, just by showing up. Wherever he went, he brought with him an aura of calm, and left behind a wake of peace.
For me, he not only smoothed the rough edges of daily living, but his healing touch sank deeply into my past, into hurts and griefs and false beliefs that have shaped me in painful and destructive ways since childhood. Listening to him preach every Sunday, listening to him talk in our everyday conversations, just seeing him live in a way that brought lofty truths to intimate life, helped me shape a new understanding of beliefs that have always been a part of me. I learned from him to see grace and love in new ways. Always, I've labored to meet the standards of my own faith, to do well at doing right. But Rick's faith was not about being right or doing right; it had room for failure, room for weakness, room for doubt. The grace I've offered myself has been dispensed sparingly, as a necessity. The grace Rick spoke of and lived out was never grudging, never stingy--it was generous, joyful, more than enough. Love, in the pictures Rick painted, was about others. It was never about how to change anyone, fix anyone. It was only about extending itself out, inviting others in. And most of all, love was for everyone, the ultimate truth. It was lavish and unconditional, welcoming and complete. It was the core truth of our existence, for ourselves, for others, and as the foundation for a community of the Beloved. It was for me.
In my adult life, love and I had not done well together. Love had meant revolving in orbit around someone else and their needs, always in the shadow; Rick showed me that it meant emerging into the light, having someone else rejoice in my happiness and success. All the love I had to give had fallen into a black hole, a chasm that could not be filled, absorbed like tiny pinpricks of light being consumed by the darkness; and so, no matter how much, it had never been enough. I learned now that love can be received with joy and returned; and when it is, it is multiplied many times over, making love increase for both the giver and the receiver, until giving and receiving are indistinguishable acts and there is nothing but more, hundreds and thousands of times more love. In all the broken places where I had lost sight of my own beauty, he found it and gave it back to me, reflecting it back in a thousand truthful glimpses with the simplest of daily interactions. Before, love in my life was like a cactus, its sparse beauty surviving and even thriving sometimes on the tiny streams of water buried deeply in the sand, perhaps able even to burst into flower with the faintest sprinkling of rain, yet with pain and danger always present. Love with Rick was like a lush and spreading old-growth apple tree, green and inviting, fragrant with blossoms, cool and shady, heavy with fruit, bursting with fire. Its peaceful beauty nourished the soul in every season.
And now, I suppose, comes winter, when it lies sleeping, bare and silent in the cold.
Once, after a tearful outburst over some hurt or frustration, with my face buried in his shoulder and his arms around me, I asked plaintively, "Is there anything you can't make better?" With that slow, self-deprecating chuckle, he said drily, "Oh, I imagine there's a thing or two."
I didn't believe you then, my dear. After all, you mended everything in me that was broken. As always, though, I know now that you were right. I've found the one thing that you can't fix. I don't blame you; even your powers had to have their limit. But even though you cannot come this time and make everything all right, rest assured, rick champ--you are still the only one.
How I love you.
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
New Every Morning
I'm writing this at 9:00 on a Wednesday night. Wrapped up in a cozy blanket on my couch, drink at hand, with the cold wind blowing outside, I feel able to sit in my quiet house and think, reflect, pray, even write. I am able to have everyday conversations about trivial matters with my son as he wanders by. In fact, I feel as if I might be OK. Tomorrow's tasks seem surmountable. I make plans for the day. They start, obviously, with getting out of bed, which seems, at the moment, so easy.
And then I go to bed, and sleep.
Sleep is what I need right now, everyone tells me, and I'm certainly doing enough of it. I know it's good for both my body and soul, and it is a blessed reprieve from consciousness, if I can say it that way. The trouble with sleep is, it comes to an end with the morning. And in the morning, it's a whole new ball game.
On that first terrible day, when I took to my bed for the first time, I explained to Laura why I needed to re-read Option B, the book on resilience that Sheryl Sandberg wrote after the sudden death of her husband. "I don't remember anything she said!" I wailed, sobbing, "Not any of it! I don't know how to be resilient!" And Laura, always wise, said calmly, "She wasn't resilient on Day Zero. You don't have to do that now."
How comforting--what a relief it was--to know that I didn't need to be resilient, didn't need to be strong, didn't need to be able to get up and start again, there on that first day in the heart of my grief. And Laura was right. It's no longer Day Zero. But still, every morning, I wake up to realize my loss in some ways as if it's the first time. I find that whatever gains, whatever strength, I seem to have acquired the day before have disappeared. I am starting again at square one. It's as if I am caught in a bizarre cross between the movies Groundhog Day and 50 First Dates, where each day repeats itself just like the one before, and on each day there is a terrible truth that I must learn. The pain is new every morning, and every morning, it's just as hard to get out of bed as it was the day before.
Some days I don't make it.
In some part of my brain, none of this makes sense. I grow impatient with myself, uncomprehending of what could possibly be so difficult. Always, I have been a person who kept moving in the face of hardship, who fulfilled my responsibilities no matter the obstacle, and this is what I have come to expect from myself. But always in the past, I have faced an enemy who remains known over time, who doesn't change from moment to moment--never one like this that is fresh with each new look, each new thought, each new day.
In the actual movie 50 First Dates, Lucy does start to adjust more quickly every day. It's not that the terrible truth isn't still there to learn, but learning it becomes easier, little by little, and there's room for it to be seen alongside the joy and meaning that is also present in life. Faithful friends tell me that this is how it will be for me also, in some ways--that loss doesn't change, but it somehow gets easier, makes room for other things. That when I'm ready, getting out of bed won't be so hard.
I'm grateful for people around me who understand this better than I do. I'm grateful for those who have assured me that time will heal, even though from my vantage point that time seems far away. I'm grateful for the prayers offered by friends, acquaintances, and even strangers on my behalf. And I'm hopeful that as grief continues to be new every morning, there will be new grace to meet it.
And then I go to bed, and sleep.
Sleep is what I need right now, everyone tells me, and I'm certainly doing enough of it. I know it's good for both my body and soul, and it is a blessed reprieve from consciousness, if I can say it that way. The trouble with sleep is, it comes to an end with the morning. And in the morning, it's a whole new ball game.
On that first terrible day, when I took to my bed for the first time, I explained to Laura why I needed to re-read Option B, the book on resilience that Sheryl Sandberg wrote after the sudden death of her husband. "I don't remember anything she said!" I wailed, sobbing, "Not any of it! I don't know how to be resilient!" And Laura, always wise, said calmly, "She wasn't resilient on Day Zero. You don't have to do that now."
How comforting--what a relief it was--to know that I didn't need to be resilient, didn't need to be strong, didn't need to be able to get up and start again, there on that first day in the heart of my grief. And Laura was right. It's no longer Day Zero. But still, every morning, I wake up to realize my loss in some ways as if it's the first time. I find that whatever gains, whatever strength, I seem to have acquired the day before have disappeared. I am starting again at square one. It's as if I am caught in a bizarre cross between the movies Groundhog Day and 50 First Dates, where each day repeats itself just like the one before, and on each day there is a terrible truth that I must learn. The pain is new every morning, and every morning, it's just as hard to get out of bed as it was the day before.
Some days I don't make it.
In some part of my brain, none of this makes sense. I grow impatient with myself, uncomprehending of what could possibly be so difficult. Always, I have been a person who kept moving in the face of hardship, who fulfilled my responsibilities no matter the obstacle, and this is what I have come to expect from myself. But always in the past, I have faced an enemy who remains known over time, who doesn't change from moment to moment--never one like this that is fresh with each new look, each new thought, each new day.
In the actual movie 50 First Dates, Lucy does start to adjust more quickly every day. It's not that the terrible truth isn't still there to learn, but learning it becomes easier, little by little, and there's room for it to be seen alongside the joy and meaning that is also present in life. Faithful friends tell me that this is how it will be for me also, in some ways--that loss doesn't change, but it somehow gets easier, makes room for other things. That when I'm ready, getting out of bed won't be so hard.
I'm grateful for people around me who understand this better than I do. I'm grateful for those who have assured me that time will heal, even though from my vantage point that time seems far away. I'm grateful for the prayers offered by friends, acquaintances, and even strangers on my behalf. And I'm hopeful that as grief continues to be new every morning, there will be new grace to meet it.
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22–23 NIV)
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22–23 NIV)
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
All Things New
Come broken and weary
Come battered and bruised
My Jesus makes all things new
All things new
Come battered and bruised
My Jesus makes all things new
All things new
Come lost and abandoned
Come blown by the wind
He'll bring you back home again
Home again
Rise up, oh you sleeper, awake
The light of the dawn is upon you
Rise up, oh you sleeper, awake
Rise up, oh you sleeper, awake
He makes all things new
All things new
All things new
Recently, at Salt & Light, we had something new happen. Someone who was a part of our community left us. By itself, this isn't unusual. We are creating a motley, beautiful, strangely assorted family here, and it's messy. People often leave for various reasons--some exciting, such as a great move or a new job, and some a little less joyous, such as incarceration, hospitalization, or job termination. This time, though, one of our community departed through death. We lost our longtime volunteer and receptionist, Donna.
Donna was on my reception team, and she and I got to know each other well over the years we have worked together. There is pain in her story, as with many who come to Salt & Light. (If you are interested in hearing more about her journey, the first two minutes of this video will paint a better picture, but I'll warn you, I need the tissues at 1:47 every. Single. Time.) Her unique experience equipped her with a few of what her son, at her funeral service, lovingly described to me as her "quirks".
It would be easy, if you didn't know the whole story, to see some of these quirks of Donna's as flaws, instead of the remarkable gifts that they were. For example, at first glance, she may have seemed like a fragile person. Even she felt that way sometimes, I think, as we all do. But in her life, the things she had overcome seem nearly insurmountable. She had carried a heavier load than I can imagine bearing. She had endured things that might have ended me. Even now, her own medical issues were overwhelming, and every day, her body tried to betray her in some new way, but no matter how exhausting or difficult her circumstance became, she continued to find new ways to work around, to accommodate, to overcome and keep going. Her strength amazed me--I wish I could aspire to a fraction of it.
She also seemed to be easily frightened, sometimes by small things--it was easy to startle her by appearing too suddenly in the doorway behind her. But in reality, her bravery was astonishing. She had faced terror and death in her own experience; she had taken enormous risks to save her life, herself, her children. She was intimately aware of every way, every day, that danger and harm lurk just out of sight. And yet she faced those odds, on her own, unblinking, every day that she went out to face the world.
Sometimes Donna seemed to say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time, in just the wrong way. But in my office, next to the reception desk, I can overhear the conversations with callers and people who walk in to the front desk, and I know how many times Donna's "wrong thing" was just the right thing for someone. She spoke to everyone with a response she thought would be right for someone who was hurting or afraid; she assumed that was true of everyone she spoke to. And isn't it, really? I have heard her throw that lifeline out to so many, and many times she has thrown it out to me, by making that assumption. I envied her the wisdom, sometimes, to have the right words for people who are barely hanging on.
Donna saw the darkness but looked for the light. Every day I saw her we laughed. She knew how to find happiness and gratitude in the smallest things. I believe this is not in spite of, but because she was so well-acquainted with all the ways that pain and loss can come to us in this life. Heartache sharpens your senses for joy. It's a heavy burden to carry, however--this load of suffering that is not only your own, but belongs to others, belongs to the world. That wisdom in grief comes at a cost. Your spirit, however content, grows weary.
I was on a six-week medical leave when I got the call, and hadn't seen Donna in person for more than a month. I didn't get to say goodbye. I miss her. I take some comfort, though, in her last words to me, a text that said, "I know, because you always tell me, that I am so strong." I hope that this small gift I seem to have given her was even a small bit of what she gave to me in the time we knew each other. She had begun to talk, recently, of moving to Florida, a place she had only visited once, but she spoke with such longing of being somewhere that her soul felt at peace. Donna was not afraid to die, and I admit, my grief at her passing is not sadness for her, but selfishly, is simple pain at my own loss.
I realize that since the moment I heard that she had left, had gone to sleep and kept on sleeping, I have been thinking of this Andrew Peterson song, All Things New, as "Donna's song." I think it would speak to her, my friend who knew so intimately about brokenness, pain, and loss, and who nevertheless celebrated each small joy in the world. Every day, Donna got up again, no matter how huge the obstacles or how great the cost, to face the darkness and to try, once again, with all her might, to make things a little brighter. And now at last, there is nothing left to do but rise up--wake up to what she hoped and longed for.
My Jesus makes all things new.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)