Unlikely Partners

There is a park not far from my parents' house. I seldom go to it these days, but I grew up careening around the massive playground there. It’s a convoluted wooden castle with jungle gyms, wobbly bridges, and tire swings weaved right into the structure. As a kid it was the destination for field trips and play dates, and even on into high school it was a spot for late night hang outs and a good natured game of Sardines.

Today I went back to it, but I skipped the play ground and walked straight back to the small oblong pond that opens the way to several trails through the woods in that park. The pond is lined with giant stone bricks, spaced several feet apart and perfect for perching on to watch the sunset or rest a bit from walking the trails. Fall stopped a moment to grace us with her presence this year - just long enough to peek in on us and make sure we were still tucked away here in Texas. She’s a fickle one and sure to flit off to another latitude soon, but for now, she’s with us.

The park is packed, but there’s still plenty of stone benches to choose from so I sit on one at the end of the pond and take in the view. The oaks are all bright gold as if King Midas himself came and traced his fingers along the tree-line. There’s a group of middle school boys playing a rowdy game of soccer to my left and a couple having a picnic further down towards the overgrown bank of the pond, their small shaggy dog dozing next to them on the blanket. On my other side a man sits right on the edge of the reeds reading a book, while his fishing pole sits propped up with its line in the water. A young couple sits on the stone seat next to mine and passes binoculars back and forth so they can see the world through the same eyes for a minute. The wind blows chilly against my face from the pond, but the sun beats warm upon my back. I brought my own book with me, and I settle in cross-legged on my rock to read. It’s a perfect day.

A few days ago, a friend asked how she could pray for me. I told her that I mostly felt pretty content, but I was finding myself missing certain things and certain people more. She happily agreed, and encouraged me that it was wise to see the Lord bringing new life out of grief. “I forgot I was grieving,” I told her, and I laughed a little.

It was true. The Lord had done so much regeneration that I forgot there was something lost in all of it and part of me was already starting to forget I was grieving. The other part of me was actively ignoring it. I had this unconscious fear that if I let grief enter the dialogue, all the good work that the Lord was doing was somehow undone, maybe even completely untrue. So I was running full speed ahead with the new life He was giving me. It’s a natural response, honestly. When the Lord moves in miraculous ways, we can easily try to race forward to gain lost ground. After all, what is my testimony if I still have grief?

That conversation was a gentle reminder that I am still grieving, and that grief is not a bad thing. For so many years of my life sadness was the enemy because I only knew her oppressive sister - depression. But depression and sadness are not the same. I’m learning now that real joy doesn’t run from sadness, but embraces it tenderly like a friend. Joy tends to the wound from which sadness is born and the Spirit uses both to heal us. It would be remiss to count sadness as the unwanted guest we could do without. Whatever death we carry, she is there to instruct us and help us grieve and lay our death at the feet of Jesus.

Sadness teaches us also compassion. If we only look at joy and cannot contend with our own sadness, how will we ever sit with another in their grief and mourn with them? If we are always, ever, rushing towards happiness, how can we walk with someone in their valley? What damage will we do when we do not allow them to experience their death but instead try and take them immediately to triumph? Joy comes not from skipping healing, but from walking the sorrow-laden path it sets. And it is ironically one of the greatest joys to sit with people in their own pain while the Spirit does his work. Is that not one of the very reasons Jesus came in body and suffered upon this earth? For we do not have have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weakness.

Sadness has long been my friend, and it is sweet now to be able to embrace her as such and watch her clasp hands with joy. It reminds me much of sitting on this rock, with the cold breath of the wind on my face, and the warm hand of the sun on my back. Two opposing forces in the same moment that mingle to create something altogether more beautiful than either on their own.

I’ll leave you with this poem by Kahlil Gibran. It struck me deeply when I first heard it, and it graciously came to mind again this week. Read it slowly and don’t be afraid to let your joy embrace your sorrow.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, "Joy is greater thar sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

-Kahlil Gibran