Of Course

Our family went camping two weekends ago. It was our first go of it as a family of four.  Among other things, I was looking forward to a little respite from the daily onslaught of news which has been so intense in recent weeks. We were so deep in the woods we actually didn't get good cell coverage, aiding us in our desire to disconnect, to avoid the temptation to "just check one thing."  Then, on a pre-dawn drive with Luca, who was delighted to wake up next to me at 6:15, when I stopped to buy the things I'd remembered forgetting in the middle of the night (not our best night's sleep, you may be gathering), I looked down and saw the headline in the local mountain paper that RBG had died.  My heavy heart sank lower.

We returned to Atlanta and I returned to work and caring for our family and catching up on what we'd missed. There was more hard news to come. Another grim milestone of 200,000 deaths in the pandemic. Another "not guilty" verdict in the case of a woman shot to death while sleeping in her own bed. Confessions that Trump will not peacefully transfer power if he loses. The Senate has the votes and will rush to confirm another justice.  

It feels like too much.  Heartbreak upon heartbreak.  Outrage upon outrage.  One bitter, divisive battle after another. When will it end?  How long, O Lord?  I am under no pretense that the weight will magically lift on November 4 if things go the way I hope (though it will certainly help!) No matter who wins, we will still be in a pandemic, still be bitterly divided, still have such gaping racial wounds and inequities, still be a nation struggling to find a way forward together.

By mid-week, I was utterly exhausted and depleted. Some days, I still just can't believe we're here. I remember visiting other countries in college and learning about the corruption, authoritarian rule and bitter divides, and naively thinking, Thank God, this will never happen in the United States. So much for American exceptionalism; it was always an idol anyway.

Let me be clear. I believe God will ultimately redeem all people, all nations, all things. I believe God is working at all times, even now, to heal and redeem, to bring new life out of chaos and destruction. I believe in Jesus, that following his way of self-giving, nonviolent love is the way to Life.

But I also believe God leaves us totally free to make our own choices, and that we can and often do wreak absolute havoc, hurting ourselves, wounding others, causing massive unnecessary suffering, and even threatening life on the planet itself. I still remember Archbishop Desmond Tutu saying repeatedly in class that God has such a profound respect for human free will, God would rather us go freely to hell (though he also believed that even then, ultimately the grace of God would prevail), than force us into heaven, believing those categories to be present in the here and now, and not just in some distance hereafter. I remember that even God's beloved Jesus was not spared the vulgarities of humanity, as he was declared an enemy of both religion and state, and strung up by an angry mob to die a shameful, torturous death.

Whatever comes, I believe God will be with us, that all shall be well in an ultimate sense, as Julian of Norwich reminds us. But that does not mean that I am not deeply troubled, or even scared about what we humans might do to one another or the Earth in the meantime. There is so much suffering and hardship that is utterly beyond our control. But I believe we should do everything in our power to prevent what we can. In fact, I believe we are called to join God in the repair of the world, in moving us toward the Beloved Community here on Earth, not just in some by and by.

So when others chide, "Do not be afraid. God is in control. God is King of kings," I try to trust they mean it as a word of comfort. But it feels dismissive and shaming, rather than acknowledging it's quite human and natural to be pained and scared in a time like this. More than that, it feels like spiritual bypassing, an avoidance or denial of the real pain and loss of being human, of the terrible injustice and suffering among great swaths of humanity. And what is the cross if not a symbol of God entering into the heart of our suffering, rather than trying to escape it?

Last week, when I was feeling so much heaviness and despair, I heard the two divine words that have saved me time and time again:   Of course. Of course, you're feeling tired and depleted; you've been living through a global pandemic for six months and many of your sources of inspiration and nourishment are not available to you in the same way. Not to mention, that camping trip, as fun and lovely as it was in other ways, wasn't exactly restful. Of course, you're grieving; like John Lewis, another beloved mentoring figure, an exemplar of the long nonviolent struggle for freedom and justice, one who had made the way for you as a woman, has crossed over. Of course, you're enraged; the lying and deception, the brutality and injustice, the greed and corruption are as out-of-control as the wildfires in the West.

Sometimes, we just need permission to really feel what we feel. To be fully human. To let our hearts ache and break. To fall apart, unravel. Without adding guilt or shame to the hurtful mix. Without comparing ourselves to others who seem to be "more together" or reciprocally to those who "have it so much worse." Without chiding ourselves to buck up or hold it together. Good gracious, we can be so very hard on ourselves, especially when we are in pain!

But I hope we can listen for another voice. The still, small voice. The one that says, I know, my love. Of course, you're hurting. Me too. I've given you a heart of flesh, not stone. You are not alone. I am right here with you. You can scream and rage, you can cry, you can completely fall apart. And I'll still be right here, loving you.

So that's what I did. I let myself feel lost and off for days. I listened to and watched RBG's funeral, YouTube tributes, and the movie, On the Basis of Sex, and let myself cry and cry some more. I raged to Michael and posted some angry rants on Facebook. I expressed my fear to a beloved friend. Also, I ate chocolate. I listened to Brene Brown. I went to bed earlier. I laughed at Schitts Creek. I delighted in the pitter patter of little feet, the smothering hugs of ramped up boys.

I waited patiently for the Beloved,

            who heard my cry and came to me.

Love raised me from the pits of despair,

            out of confusion and fear

            and set my feet upon a rock,

                        making my steps secure.

~Psalm 40:1-2

This morning, after another restless night's sleep, I appeared at the bottom of the stairs, glasses on, Covid-hair disheveled, half in a ponytail, cinching my threadbare gray robe around the waist. Theo cheerfully met me, gave me a huge morning hug, drew back, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Mommy, I like you best like this." I stepped over the baby gate onto the most solid ground I've felt for weeks.

Don't feel like you have to get your act together to come to God. Whether you're in a desolate pit, a raging fire, a miry bog, or a cold, gray cell, I hope you can open to the God who comes to you. Listen for the voice, saying, I know. Of course, you are. I'm right here. And I love you. Just like this.

Grace and peace to you, 

Kimberly