Recently our beloved dog Mazie refused to eat for two days. Kimberly needed to talk about arrangements for her death because Mazie is old and has health issues. I tried to feed Mazie breakfast, and when she turned away again, I started crying heavily. She has been a precious part of our life our whole marriage. This is the third time we thought we were losing her, though she pulled through once again. How will I bear it when she is gone? The next day I wrote the following reflection.
Death came knocking yesterday. He did not stay. just tapped twice and peered inside, because he is concerned for me and does not want to shock me when he comes for his appointment. He wanted to get acquainted, to let me know he is in the neighborhood. He is much more gentle than I feared and more understanding. He does not want to shove me suddenly into the dark river unexpectedly but hopes I will hear his reassurance that I will not drown, and that life itself is richer and fuller when I remember that all blossoms die, and in their passing leave behind their rich fragrance while making room for new life to spring up. Living awake to certain loss widens my heart, breaks it free of its defensive, guarded posture, helps me breathe in deeply the goodness of today so its fragrance in its passing lingers full in my heart, blessing it and opening it to the hope of good to come.
I later rewrote the poem in metered rhyme, but I like the rawness of the original. Here is the edit
Stark death came knocking yesterday. He just tapped twice and did not stay But gently smiled in real concern That coming suddenly would turn My heart to ash and crush all good. So being in the neighborhood He wished to get acquainted now, Prepare me for his scheduled blow, As not to double pain with shock And slash before I’d taken stock. He’s much more gentle than I feared, And moved with understanding cared That I not unexpectedly Be swept away so tragically. He hoped I’d see his real intent To help me be more confident That life itself is richer by Remembering that all blossoms die, And in their passing leave behind Their fullest fragrance in my mind while furrowing new life to bring, from torn up soil fresh buds will spring. If I can live awake to loss, Expand my heart, and breaking toss away its guarded, armored stance, It helps me breathe in deep and long The good today before its gone. The fragrance as it slips away Fills up my heart, opens its way To hope for all the good to come. The good that’s passed is always home.
As Kimberly and I walked our dogs yesterday, I shuffled through my disjointed thoughts and feelings, arranging and rearranging them, trying to sort out with her the contours of my despair. For two weeks I have felt crushed by the racial divides in our country, but unable to speak, silenced by the angry retorts that always come. “Why do I feel such deep despair in hearing that dissent?” I asked Kimberly. “It’s natural to be discouraged,” I went on, “since I smart when my thoughts are rejected and I grieve for those condemned by the critical reactions. I can see a handful of reasons to be disheartened, but my anguish is so much deeper than that and crushes me at hearing just one or two retorts. Why do I despair?”
After an hour of trying to fit the emotional pieces together it became clear that I was suffering from the collapse of my worldview. I have struggled for two decades with my own impotence to change the world in some small way (as I mentioned here), but I faced that personal uselessness by clinging to a broader hope for the world–that others would bring the change I could not. If I was not a player on the winning team, I could still cheer on the good guys from the bleachers. This year it has slowly been dawning on me that my hope is misplaced. My team will not save the day, we cannot save the day, we are not saviors. In fact, we are all in as much need of a Savior as the rest of the world around us. We are all broken. And along with our broken world we await the day of redemption.
I don’t mean to suggest that we can bring no good to the world. We must work to bind up our little tattered corners of society, but ultimately it is a patchwork affair, a jerry-rigging until the Great Healer comes to bring us true and full peace at last. As grace-infused people, we do not offer a resolution on this day, but a resolve until that day, we hold up a light of hope in this dark, troubled world. That doesn’t seem much like the “Christmas spirit” of sleigh bells, bright lights, and belly-laughing Santas, but perhaps I misunderstand the true meaning of advent hope.
“Oh, come, oh, come Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lowly exile here until the Son of God appear.” Those words rang so true to my forlorn spirit, that they brought me to tears this week, tears of heartache but also of hope: “Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.” We cling to the first advent in expectation of the second.
Most churches are uncomfortable with the melancholy. This has been a source of pain and confusion for Kimberly, and a spiritual stumbling block. The church’s unmitigated focus on an optimistic perspective (which it confuses with faith) seems dishonest and feels oppressive to her. This came up a few days ago and I responded, “It’s really only the churches in this country which are so upbeat. The American culture has won the church over. It is not as though Christians started reading their Bibles and said, “Oh, look at this! We are all supposed to be positive thinkers with permanent smiles.” If an American had written the Beatitudes, they would start out, “Blessed are the poor rich in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn are cheerful: for they shall be comforted need no comfort.”
Yes, you can mourn in church… briefly, over something big, with repeated claims of steadfast faith, but if you don’t feel better soon because of our sympathy, we take offense. How quickly does God expect you to get over your grief? The benefits from the beatitudes seem to be scheduled for the next life. After all, when do the poor “inherit the earth” and the persecuted receive a great “reward in heaven”? It appears the sorrowing find full and lasting consolation only at the resurrection. Jesus does not see the melancholy as spiritually weak or faith-less, but as blessed. Instead of a condition to avoid or get past, sadness is a door into spiritual blessing. Perhaps instead of avoiding or trying to fix the mournful, we might learn something from them, something about what it means to love a broken world.
Janathan Grace Reflections 