My mother-in-law was aghast when she heard me say, "I'm really not interested in watching the royal wedding." I am not going to be one of the million Americans who wakes tomorrow at 4 a.m. to witness the marathon news coverage of the event. If my son's stirrings, or my uncomfortable pregnant belly, have me awake at 4 a.m., I will probably keep the tv off. "But there's so much history in the event," my MIL protested. "Aren't you curious about history?" she continued, implying in her thinly-veiled way that I was some kind of country bumpkin, uninterested in the greater events of history and the world.
Perhaps my tepid interest is generational: in my lifetime, the royals have held a rapidly diminishing power and relevance. Perhaps it stems, at least in part, from a darker memory: the same fascination and obsession driving the present media frenzy over tomorrow's wedding was, in fact, at work in the death of the groom's mother. I was too young to watch the royal wedding of Diana and Charles, but I remember very clearly the event of Diana's death. And there is a part of me that wonders if her death wasn't a long, slow, and painful one that began in those frenzied days leading up to her own royal wedding. No one can deny that the grandeur of Diana's royal wedding did little to protect and shield her from the cruelty and destructiveness of the marriage that followed. Perhaps I'm being too cynical. But I'm far from disinterested in the greater events of history and the world: what history has taught me is that we've learned so much about putting together a grand wedding and are still struggling to know how to put together a good marriage.
William and Kate will begin a new life together tomorrow. They will have a wedding that is far grander than 99.9% of couples who marry. But this wedding will not shield them from the experience of every married couple. They too will learn that marriage is a very fragile bond. That the people who toast them tomorrow may not be able or willing to support them in the days and years that follow. That marriage will test them and stretch them in ways that they could never anticipate. That when left untended, it can be a source of destruction. And when tended, it can be a crucible of salvation.
Even as I won't be watching tomorrow's grand event, I will acknowledge the significance of the day: a young couple is about to embark on the "daring promise" (in Gaillardetz's terms) of marriage--and in a way, I will participate in the celebration by tending to my own.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
"Jumping and Shrieking for Joy" in Lent
My husband John and I, who were talking about our plans for this coming weekend, realized that this Sunday-- already!!! -- is Palm Sunday, which marks the beginning of the holiest week in the Christian calendar, the week in which we remember the passion and death of Jesus of Nazareth. We couldn't quite believe that the Lenten season is quickly coming to an end, and we agreed that we haven't done a very good job of "observing" it this year.
Every year for Lent, John gives up drinking alcohol, and I admit that I don't quite "get it." We are the type of drinkers who have a glass of wine (perhaps two) with dinner, and on Fridays, John will allow himself a martini upon his return home from work and perhaps an after-dinner drink. There is nothing excessive or troubling about our consumption--nothing about which we have reason to feel the need for penitence. And I've always believed that the practice of "giving up" something, or alternatively, "taking on something" should be aimed at becoming more loving, generous, and open-hearted people. I'm not sure I understand how his abstinence helps him to become that. So no, I don't quite "get it." And yet, I know that I have no right to question or critique his personal Lenten choices. Perhaps giving up alcohol really is helpful to him, in that it teaches him, in a very real way, that sometimes abstaining from activities/things/people that are pleasurable to us can be a very good and necessary thing. Still, I have noticed that in the years that I've known him, John hasn't done very well at keeping his Lenten promises:)
And once again, I have no right to question or criticize: I didn't really do anything this Lent. My mind was elsewhere. Especially over the past few weeks, my mind has been singularly focused on getting well, as I have struggled with sickness after sickness (a 24-hour stomach virus here, a fever there, etc). Still , there were several Lenten weeks that preceded these awful recent weeks, weeks in which I did absolutely nothing different. I can't even say that I made a point to be more reflective. My days looked very much like my Epiphany Days, my Christmas Days, my Advent days, etc.
What great luck it was (or maybe it was the universe sending me a Lenten message) that shortly after my conversation with my husband this morning, I stumbled upon this poem, quoted fully in today's Writer's Almanac. Here's "The Best Year of Her Life," by Gerald Locklin (from Men of Our Time, University of Georgia Press:
When my two-year old daughter
sees someone come through the door
whom she loves, and hasn't seen for a while,
and has been anticipating
she literally shrieks with joy.
I have to go into the other room
so that no one will notice the tears in my eyes.
Later, after my daughter has gone to bed,
I say to my wife,
"She will never be this happy again,"
and my wife gets angry and snaps,
"Don't you dare communicate your negativism to her!"
And of course, I won't, if I can possibly help it,
and of course I fully expect her
to have much joy in her life,
and, of course, I hope to be able
to contribute to that joy--
I hope, in other words, that she'll always
be happy to see me come through the door--
but why kid ourselves--she, like every child,
has a life of great suffering ahead of her,
and while joy will not go out of her life,
she will one of these days cease to actually,
literally, jump and shriek for joy.
I read these words and pondered Lent for a while. "Lent is depressing," one of the kids in my Sunday school group said to me a few months ago, before the season even began. "Why?" I asked. "I don't think it has to be." I explained that the word "Lent" comes from the Anglo-Saxon lencten, meaning "spring," first of all, and even as it's a season when Christians remember the events that led up to and include Jesus' passion and death, our reflection always takes place in the light of our belief in the new life that followed it, the life that is stronger and more powerful than suffering and death.
If as we age and in our every day, as the poem above suggests, we become less and less spontaneous and expressive of our joy (and perhaps some of us even become thoroughly joyless), maybe the discipline of "becoming more joyful" is a very appropriate Lenten project. Christians ask for the strength to "change our hearts." Well, how might we be inwardly changed if we spent a little part of each day jumping and shrieking with joy at something, because of someone....
This year's Lent has certainly felt depressing to me. A friend's death. My own illnesses. This interminably crummy weather (with a short reprieve--thank you, weather gods--yesterday). But there is still some time left. And I will do my best to find ways to "actually, literally, jump and shriek for joy."
Every year for Lent, John gives up drinking alcohol, and I admit that I don't quite "get it." We are the type of drinkers who have a glass of wine (perhaps two) with dinner, and on Fridays, John will allow himself a martini upon his return home from work and perhaps an after-dinner drink. There is nothing excessive or troubling about our consumption--nothing about which we have reason to feel the need for penitence. And I've always believed that the practice of "giving up" something, or alternatively, "taking on something" should be aimed at becoming more loving, generous, and open-hearted people. I'm not sure I understand how his abstinence helps him to become that. So no, I don't quite "get it." And yet, I know that I have no right to question or critique his personal Lenten choices. Perhaps giving up alcohol really is helpful to him, in that it teaches him, in a very real way, that sometimes abstaining from activities/things/people that are pleasurable to us can be a very good and necessary thing. Still, I have noticed that in the years that I've known him, John hasn't done very well at keeping his Lenten promises:)
And once again, I have no right to question or criticize: I didn't really do anything this Lent. My mind was elsewhere. Especially over the past few weeks, my mind has been singularly focused on getting well, as I have struggled with sickness after sickness (a 24-hour stomach virus here, a fever there, etc). Still , there were several Lenten weeks that preceded these awful recent weeks, weeks in which I did absolutely nothing different. I can't even say that I made a point to be more reflective. My days looked very much like my Epiphany Days, my Christmas Days, my Advent days, etc.
What great luck it was (or maybe it was the universe sending me a Lenten message) that shortly after my conversation with my husband this morning, I stumbled upon this poem, quoted fully in today's Writer's Almanac. Here's "The Best Year of Her Life," by Gerald Locklin (from Men of Our Time, University of Georgia Press:
When my two-year old daughter
sees someone come through the door
whom she loves, and hasn't seen for a while,
and has been anticipating
she literally shrieks with joy.
I have to go into the other room
so that no one will notice the tears in my eyes.
Later, after my daughter has gone to bed,
I say to my wife,
"She will never be this happy again,"
and my wife gets angry and snaps,
"Don't you dare communicate your negativism to her!"
And of course, I won't, if I can possibly help it,
and of course I fully expect her
to have much joy in her life,
and, of course, I hope to be able
to contribute to that joy--
I hope, in other words, that she'll always
be happy to see me come through the door--
but why kid ourselves--she, like every child,
has a life of great suffering ahead of her,
and while joy will not go out of her life,
she will one of these days cease to actually,
literally, jump and shriek for joy.
I read these words and pondered Lent for a while. "Lent is depressing," one of the kids in my Sunday school group said to me a few months ago, before the season even began. "Why?" I asked. "I don't think it has to be." I explained that the word "Lent" comes from the Anglo-Saxon lencten, meaning "spring," first of all, and even as it's a season when Christians remember the events that led up to and include Jesus' passion and death, our reflection always takes place in the light of our belief in the new life that followed it, the life that is stronger and more powerful than suffering and death.
If as we age and in our every day, as the poem above suggests, we become less and less spontaneous and expressive of our joy (and perhaps some of us even become thoroughly joyless), maybe the discipline of "becoming more joyful" is a very appropriate Lenten project. Christians ask for the strength to "change our hearts." Well, how might we be inwardly changed if we spent a little part of each day jumping and shrieking with joy at something, because of someone....
This year's Lent has certainly felt depressing to me. A friend's death. My own illnesses. This interminably crummy weather (with a short reprieve--thank you, weather gods--yesterday). But there is still some time left. And I will do my best to find ways to "actually, literally, jump and shriek for joy."
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Mystery of Life
In his wonderful little book, Let Your Life Speak, Parker Palmer writes of his personal struggle with depression: "Twice in my forties I spent endless months in the snake pit of the soul. Hour by hour, day by day, I wrestled with the desire to die, sometimes so feeble in my resistance that I 'practiced' ways of doing myself in. I could feel nothing except the burden of my own life and the exhaustion, the apparent futility of trying to sustain it. I understand why some depressed people kill themselves: they need the rest."
I have thought about these words so much over the last few days. Last Thursday, after putting my son to bed for his afternoon nap, I logged on to facebook, and saw a post from a mere eight minutes before. It was a suicide note, written by a childhood neighbor and friend. I read his words with shock, disbelief, and panic: after all, he posted it only eight minutes before. Not knowing his current address or phone number, I did all that I could do: I commented, "Please call me now," and I was able to get in touch with his family who, as his older brother described later, "didn't make it in time." In the period of time between my viewing of my friend's note and when someone called me to tell me that he did, indeed, take his own life, I didn't know what was happening. The only information I had came from comments posted by other facebook friends--comments that went from "Hang in there...we're here for you" to "Rest in Peace." And, of course, there was the note itself, which emphasized that my friend just had grown too tired to handle life.
His funeral was this morning. I had planned to go, along with my parents. But my plans to head to Philadelphia were halted by a sudden and crippling episode of nausea that last the entire day. Perhaps it was a stomach bug--perhaps it was a physical manifestation of my emotional reaction to my friend's tragic death. I can't say for sure. But it was so blinding that I couldn't even care for my son: my sitter, mercifully, rescued me for most of the day, allowing me to get some rest. But over a phone conversation this evening, my mother shared with me that the funeral was "devestatingly sad," but that she felt very comforted by the words of the priest who presided. He emphasized that this was but a tragic moment in an otherwise good life. For as horrible and final as his suicide was, it would not define him, for the truth of our Christian faith is that nothing--nothing--can separate us from the love of God. How different this message is, my mother commented, from that which she heard as a child--that suicide was the "ultimate sin." There could be no Mass for Christian Burial for those who committed it--it was that grave. She left the church reminded of the everlastingness and fidelity of a mysterious love that Christians call "God."
About five years ago, Tim and I both returned, as adults, to the homes of our parents. I was broke and broken after a failed engagement, poor decisions, and a fall out with friends. He, too, was looking for "new life." He had done the Wall Street thing and found that it "wasn't me." He was back in school, studying to become a nurse. He was most passionate about health and wellness, he had said. "Seems incongruous that one so passionate about wellness would take his own life," an acquaintance remarked. But he was obviously in great pain, and perhaps cultivating this passion was an intentional way of combatting his inner demons--and he just got too tired of the fight. In our walks to the bus terminal together several years ago, I remember a thoughtful, gentle, and hopeful Tim, who was doing all that he could to make his own life--and the lives of others--better. As God gathers the whole of Tim, I hope that these moments, too, are gathered.
After describing his own battle with depression and flirtation with death, Parker Palmer continues: "I understand why some depressed people kill themselves...But I do not understand why others are able to find new life..." I understand--in the sense of having a deep compassion--why some people take their own lives. But there is a part of me that will never fully "get it," because there is, within me, a hopefulness and resilience that has carried me through some pretty dark moments. Like Palmer, I don't understand why I am able to find new life and others aren't. But that is part of the mystery of life--a mystery that can't be "figured out," but can simply be pondered, with reverence and humility.
I have thought about these words so much over the last few days. Last Thursday, after putting my son to bed for his afternoon nap, I logged on to facebook, and saw a post from a mere eight minutes before. It was a suicide note, written by a childhood neighbor and friend. I read his words with shock, disbelief, and panic: after all, he posted it only eight minutes before. Not knowing his current address or phone number, I did all that I could do: I commented, "Please call me now," and I was able to get in touch with his family who, as his older brother described later, "didn't make it in time." In the period of time between my viewing of my friend's note and when someone called me to tell me that he did, indeed, take his own life, I didn't know what was happening. The only information I had came from comments posted by other facebook friends--comments that went from "Hang in there...we're here for you" to "Rest in Peace." And, of course, there was the note itself, which emphasized that my friend just had grown too tired to handle life.
His funeral was this morning. I had planned to go, along with my parents. But my plans to head to Philadelphia were halted by a sudden and crippling episode of nausea that last the entire day. Perhaps it was a stomach bug--perhaps it was a physical manifestation of my emotional reaction to my friend's tragic death. I can't say for sure. But it was so blinding that I couldn't even care for my son: my sitter, mercifully, rescued me for most of the day, allowing me to get some rest. But over a phone conversation this evening, my mother shared with me that the funeral was "devestatingly sad," but that she felt very comforted by the words of the priest who presided. He emphasized that this was but a tragic moment in an otherwise good life. For as horrible and final as his suicide was, it would not define him, for the truth of our Christian faith is that nothing--nothing--can separate us from the love of God. How different this message is, my mother commented, from that which she heard as a child--that suicide was the "ultimate sin." There could be no Mass for Christian Burial for those who committed it--it was that grave. She left the church reminded of the everlastingness and fidelity of a mysterious love that Christians call "God."
About five years ago, Tim and I both returned, as adults, to the homes of our parents. I was broke and broken after a failed engagement, poor decisions, and a fall out with friends. He, too, was looking for "new life." He had done the Wall Street thing and found that it "wasn't me." He was back in school, studying to become a nurse. He was most passionate about health and wellness, he had said. "Seems incongruous that one so passionate about wellness would take his own life," an acquaintance remarked. But he was obviously in great pain, and perhaps cultivating this passion was an intentional way of combatting his inner demons--and he just got too tired of the fight. In our walks to the bus terminal together several years ago, I remember a thoughtful, gentle, and hopeful Tim, who was doing all that he could to make his own life--and the lives of others--better. As God gathers the whole of Tim, I hope that these moments, too, are gathered.
After describing his own battle with depression and flirtation with death, Parker Palmer continues: "I understand why some depressed people kill themselves...But I do not understand why others are able to find new life..." I understand--in the sense of having a deep compassion--why some people take their own lives. But there is a part of me that will never fully "get it," because there is, within me, a hopefulness and resilience that has carried me through some pretty dark moments. Like Palmer, I don't understand why I am able to find new life and others aren't. But that is part of the mystery of life--a mystery that can't be "figured out," but can simply be pondered, with reverence and humility.
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