LEARNING TO LAMENT

My oldest son once told me, years ago, in the wake of some now-forgotten trial, something to the effect of: "Mom, you run too quickly to joy...slow down, and give space for grief. Let joy come in its proper time."

He was right, of course.

This tendency to fast-sprint to joy was no doubt fueled by many factors.

My personality. Although I have been accused of being gray and melancholy, I prefer light and brightness. I have big naked windows - no curtains or blinds - so that as much sunlight (and moonlight) as possible can come inside. My favorite movies are ridiculously silly. I am wiggly. I would much rather live - and for many years have lived - in a world of imagined goodness painted by self-deception, willful ignorance, and Herculean denial, than confront hard truths or painful realities. I do not want to look in the face of evil, so I cover that face with a mask.

My culture. My faith tradition frequently and enthusiastically sang songs like "Count Your Many Blessings" and "I've Got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy," but it wasn't until I was well into adulthood that I encountered songs like "From the Depths of Woe." Christians are supposed to be happy, right? Dwell on the positive; hope for the best; quote Romans 8:28; be content.

Fear. Fear of dishonoring God. Fear of seeming ungrateful. Fear that exposing darkness and lies might unleash unimaginable evils. Fear that Almighty God just might not be big enough to handle the deep, heart-rending brokenness underneath the surface of so much that appears beautiful in this world.

Laziness. It is so much easier to carry a bucket filled with light than a bucket filled with muck.

EXPOSED!

THIS has been a year of incredible pain, loss, heartbreak...and tremendous growth.

I have become fluent in weeping and lament.

I was introduced to a lovely book in one of my classes this summer: Every Moment Holy, a collection of liturgies for everyday life. (HIGHLY recommend.)

I want to share with you an excerpt from "A Liturgy for the Death of a Dream":

"O Christ, in whom the final fulfillment

of all hope is held secure,

I bring to you now the weathered

fragments of my former dreams,

the broken pieces of my expectations,

the rent patches of hopes worn thin,

the shards of some shattered image of

life as I once thought it would be.

"...take this dream, this husk,

this chaff of my desire, and give it back

reformed and remade according to

your better vision,

or do not give it back at all.

Here in the ruins of my wrecked

expectation, let me make this best confession:

"Not my dreams, O Lord,

not my dreams,

but yours be done.

Amen."

(Douglas Kaine McKelvey, “The Death of a Dream,” in Every Moment Holy, vol. 1 (Nashville, TN: Rabbit Room Press, 2017), 232-235.)

"Your grace is my shelter. Your love is my home. Even in the valley, I am never alone." - Lauren Diagle