Saturday was a good day.
The sun sparkled in the July blue sky. So bright and so strong that you almost staggered under its light.
The grass and the trees were as green as they would be all year. The tomatoes in the garden were ripe. The roses were blooming and the birds were singing their ode to summer.
And my family was home. After being away at a camp in Kentucky all week, they had pulled in Saturday afternoon, exhausted and delirious.
After a supper of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh tomatoes, and homemade chocolate chip cookies, we all snuggled on the couch to listen to stories from camp and look at pictures on all the phones.
The candles were lit, the washing machine hummed softly from the first load of camp clothes being washed, the dogs were curled on our laps. As the summer sun dipped low and the cicadas started to sing, we laughed and talked. All was well. My family was home.
And yet . . .
And yet, there was a painful silent acknowledgement that only a few hours away from us some parents had no children to snuggle with. No stories from camp. No yummy meal and no laps for dogs to curl up in. A devastating flood in our neighboring state of Texas ensured that there would be no happy reunions from camp for so many.
It almost seemed cruel. To celebrate when I knew others were mourning. To laugh when I knew others were weeping. To smile when I knew others were screaming in pain.
Sometimes the veil is so thin between happiness and sorrow.
I held these thoughts in my head all night. The unfairness of it all. And I wondered how I could hold the heaviness while also holding the joy.
Is it ok to do both?
Is it ok to have the beauty of life in one hand and the sting of death in the other?
Can I possibly manage the weight of sorrow and joy?
Later that night I looked down at my hands. Maybe, I thought, that’s why God gave me two – so that I can hold the beautiful and the broken.
Maybe that’s why I have two eyes – so I can see the hurting and the hopeful.
Maybe that’s why I have two ears – to hear the wounded and the joyful.
Maybe that’s why I have two feet – to walk to those in need and dance with those in celebration.
And maybe that’s why I have a head and a heart. To ask the hard questions and doubt the God I know and to cling to my faith when I do not understand.
Today I woke up early. I sipped coffee on the back porch and watched the dogs chase squirrels in the early morning light. I breathed a prayer for the families who were still searching for their girls from camp. I pictured their sweet faces and asked God to give them all the peace and love and assurance that they would need.
And then I woke up my family. I kissed their foreheads and I whispered how much I loved them. I soaked in the goodness of kids growing up.
That’s all I can do, I guess – love and pray, weep and rejoice, sing and mourn. Move forward while always reaching behind to pull those along who need help.
Hold the beautiful and the broken each by the hand, and walk this path with both.
Your words always comfort me and turn me back to my faith and to something hopeful.
This is one of my favorite poems, and I think it aligns with what you are saying (and feeling) here.
A Brief for the Defense
by Jack Gilbert
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
How beautiful – “We must admit there will be music despite everything.” Thank you for this.