This world can be a very dark place. Our expectations meet reality and produce bitter tears. From the distasteful gaze of a co-worker to the bleating headlines in the newspaper, tragedy knows no boundaries. It bleeds over the lines and into our lives no matter how high our dam. It reminds me of a saying I used to shout at my brother and sister as a child, “You can run but you can’t hide!” The poor dears suffered immensely under my reign of terror. To this day my sister can’t climb the stairs without looking behind her to make sure someone isn’t goosing her rump. We may run. We may even try to hide, but pain will find us.
Pain is the great equalizer. It reminds us we are fragile, both psychologically and physically. Be it loneliness or injury, death or the careless insult, our hearts remind us we are soft and tender. This weekend our family tried to escape the world and the harsh reality of pain for a few days. We took advantage of the holiday weekend and fled to the country. My expectations are never so high as when I am fleeing the city. I exhale the polluted air and inhale sunshine in the great splendor of the outdoors. When the first crackle of the leaves under my boots collides with the errant ray of light cascading through the pine needles, I shrug off the dead skin that covers my heart and sigh. The forest is a shield from the sadness that permeates my regular days. As such I am able to bathe in the glory of spider webs, spring-fed river water, and a crackling fire.
We were there thirty minutes when we realized we forgot one of the tents. I opened my mouth to speak when my husband(who packed the truck) said, “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. We still need a tent.” He knows me so well. When pain interrupts our best laid plans, our first inclination is to point a self-righteous finger at the person we deem responsible and—if possible—poke them in the eye. The nearest store was a 20 minute drive away and sunset a mere hour away. Knowing my family as I do(I am the cook), I was instantly aware that I would be making our dinner in the dark. I knelt down and picked up that coat of stress I had just schluffed off and wrapped it back around my shoulders. Then off to the store I went.
After our bellies were full and all the children were dutifully shouted at for tormenting each other, we climbed into our sleeping bags to (lay awake all night)sleep. My youngest boy(6) adores frogs. He loves to chase them, man-handle them, and love them near to death. What he does not like, is when they take their revenge by singing in a loud chorus while he is trying to sleep. We tried in vain to fit ear plugs into his tender ears. He even tried shouting at them, “Shut up you stupid frogs!” The frogs were too engrossed in their bliss of sound to hear him. There was nothing to be done about making them be quiet and he began to cry. The frog song was truly painful to his delicate senses. So it is with pain. Sometimes we have no power to make it stop and all we can do is cry.
I felt so powerless in that moment. Who could have imagined that the chorus of nature would be so disruptive to my little boy? The sounds that fill me with awe were like a hammer against his ear drums. I didn’t know what to do, so I offered to sing. I sang the words I have sung to my little boy since he emerged from the womb, “Weak and wounded sinner, lost and left to die, raise your head for love is passing by… “(Chris Rice, “Come to Jesus”) His cries diminished as he focused on my voice. I should note that the frogs did not cease their activity, but as he focused on the sure and steady love of his mother, he found comfort and, eventually, sleep.
Yesterday I emerged back into the real world and instantly all its shards of glass penetrated my tender heart. The terrible suffering of my neighbors in Syria and down the street came crashing in like an unexpected wave. As I lay panting on the shore, I heard the voices of my co-workers chattering over lunch about—what seemed to me at the time—the most trivial things. As I considered the physical hunger of those refugees fleeing their homes, and the desperation that drove them to commit crimes in the name of self-preservation, I looked down at my lunch and despaired. I had refused the cookie, the bread, and the soda that came with my free lunch in an effort to maintaining my waistline, and I’m still a white, fat, American. I wanted to scream at myself, “Hypocrite!” But all I could do was sit there and ponder my helplessness.
It is no different as I speak to my friend Joyce. She recently lost her son and is drowning in a sea of sorrow. There are no answers to the questions she and her family desperately seek. They grasp at the air and water the grass with their tears. The world doesn’t bear up to their cries for help. She told me a recent phone call to local authorities was met with callous indifference. My words are inadequate for such pain. I feel like a sheet of paper flapping in the wind as I speak to her. But there is One who will comfort her and those she holds dear. He is the maker of the universe. His love bends low and takes our sorrows in His hands. So when I fail to say the right things, when my arms cannot fight the sting of death, when my care won’t ease the suffering, I know that He can. He is enough. His name is Jesus.
Many years ago He said to me, “For a brief moment I deserted you, but with great compassion I will gather you. In overflowing anger, for a moment I hid my face from you, but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you,” says the Lord, your Redeemer.” God is the great redeemer of pain. He is the great physician who will one day wipe the tears from our eyes. He will take the loneliness, the disappointment, the great cacophony of frog sound, and wrap us in His great arms of love. I am confident of this and I cling to it, like Princess Leia to Obi-Wan Kinobe, “Help me! You’re my only hope!”
I didn’t exercise this morning. Instead, I got up early and made peanut butter and chocolate chip muffins for my boys. It is a small thing, an act of love they completely take for granted. Their mother’s muffins are boring. So is her homemade bread. But of this I am glad! My children take the love I offer in small doses. My love is imperfect and ordinary, but it is real and hearty too. So while I cannot erase the pain that comes into their lives, I will continue to sing as loudly as I can over it. It is a song I learned from my Savior. He sings it to me daily, even while I water the grass with my tears.
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