I spent my birthday week crying.
On more than one occasion
that week I demanded that the weather act in congruence with my heaviness, my
groaning. One of my best friends was visiting (twice now I’ve hosted her
poorly in Rwanda, the first time with a newborn and pneumonia). Anyway, she had purchased a card for me in
advance…with a loud, glittery “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” on the front. But recognizing my
aches she set it aside, found a plain grey card and told me she’d limp with me through
these days and not demand that I move faster or act chipper. She wasn’t
spiritually worried about me: my joy wasn’t gone: the purchased-for-me joy and
hope won on the cross and "found" in an empty tomb makes room for a steadiness despite
circumstances. But my joy and faith weren’t light those days, as sometimes they
are. They were deep. And weighty.
One of my best friends back home lost her sister 12 years
ago tomorrow. Another best friend lost her sister 4 years ago this past summer.
A few people I love dearly are going through unimaginable difficulties. The world
is broken, and as God’s children we groan as we await a Savior to return. Why
do we stop one another from groaning and grieving as if it isn’t taught to us
in Scripture? Grieving without hope—that’s a different story well worth listening to—but stopping
someone from simply grieving/groaning when we live in a world that is deeply broken?
“Look at Jesus. He was perfect, right? And yet he goes around
crying all the time. He is always weeping, a man of sorrows. Do you know why?
Because he is perfect.”- Tim Keller
The book of Romans tells us that those who have the firstfruits of the spirit (the spirit that Jesus gave us that reminds us of the resurrection and our hope)--those people--"groan inwardly as we wait." Not people who don't know Jesus and don't know hope--the VERY people who do know him. Who have his spirit living inside them. Just let the people groan, k?
annnnd jumping off my soapbox.
A friend sent me these words about poetry this week and they
fit so well.
BY LISEL MUELLER
When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.
It was soon after my mother died,
a brilliant June day,
everything blooming.
I sat on a gray stone bench
in a lovingly planted garden,
but the day lilies were as deaf
as the ears of drunken sleepers
and the roses curved inward.
Nothing was black or broken
and not a leaf fell
and the sun blared endless commercials
for summer holidays.
I sat on a gray stone bench
ringed with the ingenue faces
of pink and white impatiens
and placed my grief
in the mouth of language,
the only thing that would grieve with me.
That’s what the past month has felt like to me. EVERYTHING
should stop because of the grief in the world. (unlike what the author above
says, I find good company in the Bible because Jesus will grieve with me. I don’t
often write my own words, I read them from throughout Scripture. So much
groaning. So much asking “how long”. Tears becoming someone’s food. A weeping
Savior. I’ve learned to grieve. And I am so thankful for friends who will stand with me in it.)
Despite the heaviness I’ve tried to sing Hallelujahs every day because the Savior came and
promises to restore. But I’ve sung them while most things around me looked and
felt dark.
But then today came.
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I took a dear friend shopping at one of my favorite co-ops in
town. As a result of poverty and the cards dealt to these women, 100 women in a
nearby neighborhood were unable to feed their children enough. Some waited a
while. Some were forced into the "choice" more quickly. But one of the things
that unite these women was that in order to feed their kids and even consider
education or healthcare, they “chose” to sell their bodies for pennies. That
was their daily work until a woman and then women saw them, heard their stories.
Those women knew that if God noticed even a sparrow fall to the ground, how much more must He
see them, value them. And these women found ways to teach these 100 women new skills.
It
has been a tremendous amount of work. And faith. But today these women sew. And make jewelry. They make beautiful things that remind me of the hope we have.
So today I took my friend to buy some Christmas presents for
people who support their family's work in Rwanda. She happened to need 250 of something. I waited while
she picked out 250 “sparrow” ornaments to give as gifts this Christmas. You
know, Christmas, the day we celebrate that the Savior really did come. A Savior whose life, death and resurrection means He really will make everything the way it was meant to me. And as I waited I
listened to the women worship. I listened to them pray. And laugh. Their beautiful and hopeful--but sometimes with a song more like a bellow--voices were already speaking life to my achy spirit.
And then, as I walked up the steep steps to leave their
property, I heard the announcement in Kinyarwanda (the language here). The woman
who helped us with the purchase told them how many we bought. How many of their
beautiful items made with dignity and skill we selected. How many of their
beautiful items we purchased that would mean food in bellies, kids in school—all
without having to sell their beautiful bodies that God fearfully and wonderfully made.
And they screamed.
They shouted Hallelujahs and sang
out their joy to the One who saw them.
Dearest friends who grieve. I don’t know which day today is
for you—is it a day where you wish you could command nature to obey your aches
and pour out rain on the world? There is room for your groans. They are not too much.
Or is it a day when you’re seeing or hearing
reminders that He really did come?
Today I heard a RESOUNDING hallelujah from women who’ve groaned
and waited. And I felt Jesus' promise and hope of resurrection. I felt the promise of Jess. I love you friend.
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2 “Write down the revelation
