. . . the singular gift we cannot destroy in ourselves,
the argument that refutes death,
the genius that invents the future,
all we know of God.
(from Lisel Mueller’s poem, Hope)
Hope is the one thing I can never escape.
Nor would I ever want to. It saves me.
Early in the morning I sat on the couch, my laptop awaiting the click-click-click of my brain and its compliant fingers. Steaming coffee. Vast silence. Cloudy skies. Heavy heart.
I looked out the window and saw six tiny birds sitting on a wire.
I thought about easy it is for them to sit there, perched and pretty, barely hanging on, not a care in the world.
I thought about how when they let go, they soar. How the wind buoys them up into the heavens.
I thought about how hard it is for me to sit still. How I feel like I’m barely hanging on. How I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.
I thought that were I to really-completely-totally let go, I would undoubtedly crash. How the wind feels brutal and even violent. How flying and any sense of the heavens feels distant, impossible, and as certain-foolish-hope.
Then I just felt. Lots.
And then I thought that maybe that’s why those six birds sat there: waiting for me to think thoughts and then think new ones and then feel – lots and then trust and then Just.Let.Go.
Think. Feel – lots. Trust. Just.Let.Go. And believe that to soar is the only possible result.
Got it.
And just then, in that moment, the birds flew away and the sun broke through the clouds. God’s honest truth.
On days like today I need a way to make sense of (or at least hold on to) my broken heart. Perspective. Confirmation. Sense-making. Sort-of . . .
Because we are vulnerable, life hurts. We are not here to be free of pain. We are here to have our hearts broken by life. To learn to live with vulnerability and to turn pain into love. . . . There is nothing so whole as a broken heart, said Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk, [a] Hasidic sage. The world breaks our hearts wide open; and it is the openness itself that makes us whole. The open heart is the doorway, inviting the angels in, revealing that the world–even in the pit of hell–is charged with the sacred. ~ Miriam Greenspan, Healing Through the Dark Emotions
Yes, this: “. . . even in the pit of hell . . . ”
I’m taking deep (and sometimes graspy, raggedy) breaths.
On days like today, I want to shut my heart down; to create a super-power barrier to the inevitability of ever being hurt or sad or disappointed (again).
And on days like today, the idea (and reality) of continuing to open myself up, to be exposed, to risk and palpably feel heartbreak as the very path to wholeness and joy feels not only counter-intuitive, but just plain idiotic.
Still, there is no Plan B.
Without heartbreak there wouldn’t be space – and spaciousness. Shattered-wide-open creates room for more love – and love and love and love.
So, down I go. Over the edge. Making the leap (which, more truthfully, feels like being pushed off the side of a cliff). Trusting that vulnerability (and raw strength, capacity, and time-worn-hard-earned perseverance) will sustain me (along with texts from my sister, calls from friends, the glimmer of a kind face via Skype, lingering conversation over good soup and better wine, sage advice from wise women in my life, and knowing-hugs from my daughters). And hopefully, prayerfully my faith. Yes, all this will (eventually), lead me back to joy, the sacred – and love and love and love.
“There is nothing so whole as a broken heart . . . ”
I click the heels of my Ruby Slippers and try to imagine, try to believe. “There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart. There is nothing so whole as a broken heart.” Longing for home. Longing for hope. Longing . . .
And always, especially on days like today, longing for love – and love and love and love. There is no Plan B to this, either.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. ~ Jesus, Matthew 5:4
May it be so. And then some.
*****
I wrote this post nearly three weeks ago . . . not ready to say it out loud; the emotion too raw. It still is. But in the midst, gracious confirmation that my words matter, that my heart is whole:
“This is precisely why grief, like love and any other foundational, deceptively simple human emotion or state of being, is the terrain of artists. And it is a writer’s even more specific job to give voice to loss in whatever ways she can, to give shape to this unspeakable, impermeable reality beneath all other realities.” ~ Emily Rapp
Yes.
And so, on a day exactly like today, I’m hitting “publish.” Because even though Easter has passed, I still believe in its message. Because comfort comes. Because grace conquers grief. Because faith endures. Because hope cannot be held back or held down or even, ultimately, withheld from a heart that’s hell-bent on surviving and healing and knowing-giving-generating-offering-receiving-being love and love and love.
Because there is no Plan B . . . gratefully.
Easter Sunday is the most significant day on the Christian church calendar. Marking and celebrating the resurrection of Christ is no small event; no small thing to try and understand.
What if understanding is not the point?What if it never has been? What if all that’s ever mattered is the story itself?
I’ve been pondering this nearly endlessly the past couple of days – inspired by watching the film version of Life of Pi. The story is enchanting, heartbreaking, and powerful – as all good stories must be. Even more, it’s so fantastical that you want to believe. Did it actually happen? Was it really like that? Could he possibly have seen and experienced and survived all that he did? Does it matter?
These words, from the book:
“I know what you want. You want a story that won’t surprise you. That will confirm what you already know. That won’t make you see higher or further or differently. You want a flat story. An immobile story. You want dry, yeastless factuality.
“So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can’t prove the question either way, which story do
you prefer? Which is the better story . . . ?”
Do you see?
If given the choice between a story of documentable facts or undeniable meaning, which would you choose? And more important, will you choose? For in such is where faith takes hold. In such is where hope survives. And in such is where love dwells – resurrected and pulsing.
I know: it’s a lot to accept the Burning Bush, the parting of the Red Sea, Jonah in the belly of a whale, and Job’s plight. I know: it’s a lot to accept the Virgin Birth, the healings, the feeding-of-the-5000, the walking-on-water, the death on a cross and resurrection three days later. I know: it’s a lot to accept your own stories of beauty and pain, sickness and health, better and worse, understanding and misunderstanding, poverty and plenty, silence and voice, dignity and depravity, shame and glory, struggle and celebration, hurt and healing, hate and love. But compared to what? A story that won’t surprise? A story that won’t make you see higher or further or differently? A flat story? An immobile story? A dry, yeastless factuality? No story at all?
Believe me, my point (even if only today) is not to have a discussion an argument about biblical inerrancy, atonement theory or any other multitude of theological premises. These are topics and arguments conversations I love, to be sure, but above and beyond everything else is the story. And that, today and every day, is where we must stay. It is our common ground, our grounding reality, our real (if not
only) source of faith and hope and love.
Story is the only thing that compels us; the only thing that really matters when all is said and done: mine, yours, ours…and mayebe even the one we tell/live/believe about God.
Do you see?
You can choose which story you want to believe; which one you want to have impact and move you over and over again. Even if only today, the veracity and “truth” of the story doesn’t matter. What matters is that the story is enchanting enough and heartbreaking enough and powerful enough to hold you captive, to hold you, period; to move you from despair to hope, from darkness to light, from doubt to faith, from death to life.
Do you see?
The Easter Story is invitation to choose to believe, to feel and experience what that makes possible, to cling tenaciously to faith, to hold onto crazy and illogical hope, to trust in beyond-belief love – even if only today. And maybe even more.
“Come and see.”
These were the words a few brave, believing women spoke to the disciples after discovering Jesus’ tomb empty. That morning they stepped into a story that was bigger than them – that they couldn’t possibly prove, verify, or make sense of – ever. And it didn’t matter.
On this Easter Sunday, like those brave, believing women of so long ago, I’m saying, “Come and see.”
Come and see. Choose to see. Believe the story you want, the story you long for, the story you pray for – for yourself and for our world: one of impossible-to-explain miracles, of resurgent faith, of soaring hope, of life conquering death, of resurrection, of love – and love – and love. And not just today. Always. Eternally. Really.
May it be so.
With an hour’s drive ahead I pulled up Google on my iPhone – on the hunt for a scintillating audio to keep me company.
You might find it hard to believe, but I typed “Walter Brueggemann sermons” into my search bar. An Old Testament scholar extraordinaire, Brueggemann offers brilliant and innovative insight into ancient texts that continues to dazzle me. This was no exception.
He told the story of a young woman who attends his church, bound to a wheelchair, unable to speak, fed through a tube, and completely dependent upon caregivers. He pondered what she must think about on Sunday mornings. Week after week of sermons, liturgy, and ritual – none of which she can talk about or participate in, at least as others around her do. In this context, he then read Psalm 31: 9-15,
positioning her as the psalmist.
Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;
my strength fails because of my affliction,
and my bones grow weak.
Because of all my enemies,
I am the utter contempt of my neighbors
and an object of dread to my closest friend —
those who see me on the street flee from me.
I am forgotten as though I were dead;
I have become like broken pottery.
For I hear many whispering,
“Terror on every side!”
They conspire against me
and plot to take my life.
I can imagine Brueggemann is right: this must be how this young woman feels so much of the time. And though I don’t begin to understand her plight, I know my own version of these emotions. So do you. Different circumstances, but no less acute, our complaints are allowed and legitimate.
This psalm reminds us that it is normal and even acceptable to articulate such a dirge; to express exactly how we sometimes feel – to a god of our own understanding who can handle it. Indeed, in the face of such injustice and ache, the divine is often the only one who can handle it – and us – raw honesty, complete candor, no holding back.
This, in and of itself, was worth the sermon and the drive. But Brueggemann continued, turning the corner in the psalm and drawing his listeners attention to the “disruptive conjunction” that occurs after the litany of frustration, fear, pain, and emotion; one small word that changes everything:
But…
But I trust in you, Lord;
I say, “You are my God.”
My times are in your hands…
Yes, there is much that threatens to destroy, but…
Yes, there is injustice, but…
Yes, there is heartbreak, but…
Yes, there is misunderstanding, but…
Yes, there is sickness and sorrow and sadness, but…
Yes, there is anxiety and worry, but…
But…my times are in your hands.
This is what changes the psalmist’s perspective. This is what changes our perspective – about ourselves, about those around us, about our world. Not a dismissal or diminishment of any or all that threatens to overwhelm; certainly not a dismissal or diminishment of a young woman’s wheelchair-bound existence. But one simple conjunctive that disrupts lament with something else; someOne else.
The but changes everything.
Is it that simple? Does just saying it make it so? Is it true even if belief is less than rock-solid? Is it enough to repeat the words like mantra without the accompanying feelings?
I do not know. Here is what I do know:
I’d rather cling to even the most doubt-laden and insincere repetition of that but…than to let go of faith and trust.
To hope-to-believe that my times are in the divine’s hands (and my ever-changing definition/experience of such) changes how I act, how I choose, how I behave, how I love, how I live. And that is enough. At least for today.
The last verse of Psalm 31 says this:
Be strong and take heart,
all you who hope in God.
No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it: may it be so.
The Ending:
One day, out of the blue, unexpected, unanticipated, unbelievable, I was pregnant. And again, 15 months later. Emma is now 16, Abby 14. They are miracles.
The Beginning:
I was 31 years old when I got married. Behind the power curve (in my insular opinion) where such a significant life-marker was concerned. Children were up next (and fast) on my make-up-for-lost-time agenda. There would be no leisurely year of nuptial bliss before we began the process of trying to get pregnant. The clock was ticking. There was no time to waste – or for which to wait. I was in hot pursuit.
The Middle:
After a year of trying with no success, the fertility consultations and moderate treatments began. By year two, we’d moved to more intensive, invasive testing. And with still no success or answers that satisfied, in-vitro was the next-recommended attempt. Once. Twice. Nothing. And then I couldn’t bear any more. I was tired of waiting. I was tired of trying. I was tired of hoping. So I stopped. No more treatment. No more planning. Little-to-no conversation. Time for life to move on.
It did, of course. And it didn’t.
In the nearly-three years that followed, no matter how I tried to ignore my longings, those emotions would not be aborted. No matter how I tried to put on a spiritual happy face and quote Romans 8:28 (And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love
God…), I raged inside. No matter how I tried to tell myself that God had other plans for me, that my life would have other “births,” that my world would be rich in unimaginable ways, I was miserable.
But not for lack of trying to summon up any other emotion, any other perspective, any other experience. I tried to pray. I tried to be patient. I tried to let go. I tried to trust. I tried to have faith, thinking that would make sense of things, but every effort was impotent and infertile.
Oh, how I wish I could say that my (im)patient waiting, hoping, and tenacious trust resulted in a profoundly dynamic spiritual life; a seismic and never-to-be-questioned-again faith. Even more, how I wish that I could say to others who struggle with such intolerable heartache that “just having faith” will, indeed and ultimately, engender and enable a hope in God that comforts and sustains.
I cannot. I will not.
I grew up believing that faith was something I needed to (and could, with enough work) attain. It was a developed skill, a worthy goal, a near-requirement for the believer in God. I also grew up believing in some kind of Divine barter system: if only I could have what I wanted, what I desired, what I fervently prayed for, then I would have faith. I ask. God comes through. My faith exponentially grows.
I am still growing, but here is what I believe now: Faith is not ours to work toward, aspire to, or command at will. It will not appear at our beck-and-call.
Faith grows in chasms of doubt. It is nurtured in the darkness of pain. It slowly, silently, almost imperceptibly multiplies in long, wide, and deep spaces of waiting, of questioning, of aching, of asking.
Faith is not a sense-making activity, quality, or attribute. It is a crazy, defiant, and nearly certifiable choice – made an infinite number of times within one day, one life, one heart. It does not come in miracles and breakthroughs, but in the pregnant spaces of life that are more-often filled with desolation than hope. Still, an occasional tinge of awareness that something is growing and will be birthed, but a complete and helpless inability to will it to arrive any sooner. It is a mysterious, un-navigable, impossible-to-(pre)determine journey.
Faith is much like pregnancy: experience more than event. And faith is much like infertility: despairing, but waiting-hoping-trusting anyway.
Faith is living one day after the next. One foot in front of the other. One wish-and-a-prayer that is too-often dashed, but whispered yet again. One broken heart that somehow mends and loves again. One longing for success that decries a dwindling bank account. One more blog post when creativity wanes. One more load of laundry. One more commute. One more prayer. One more push.
Faith is not the ending of the story, nor is it the beginning. It is the way in which we be; the way in which we live in the middle.
Naturally, the gift of my two daughters – then and now – nearly takes my breath away. Naturally, I am deeply grateful to God for their presence in my life. But I have learned that faith that spikes in such places rarely sticks. The faith that stays – and sustains – is that which is nurtured in the well-worn path of worry, the sleepless nights, the inconsolable heartache, the insatiable desires. In between the lines. In
the middle.
I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me–that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns. ― Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith