An Open Letter to the Buried
March 2, 2010
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I’m fortunate enough to get my fair share of emails throughout the day, and from all sorts of people—family, friends, those who are not yet friends but will be, and so on. I like my emails. It’s nice that people think enough of me to drop me a little note to say hello or thanks or please.
Lately, the ones most on my mind are the ones who say please.
As in, Please pray for me. Please help. Please listen.
Though I don’t often do this, I blame the times. It’s the world’s fault, a place that each day seems to spin a little farther from straight and bends a bit more crooked. Life has gotten much more difficult for a lot more people in the last few years. I have sixteen pieces evidence to that fact in my inbox.
There is sickness and death. Jobs lost and homes gone. Hearts broken. Hopes dashed. Love failed. There is fear and anger and sadness. Dark souls and darker futures. And hanging over them, pushing down, is one question that may go unsaid but is never unfelt:
Why is God doing this?
“This” can be best explained by a friend who wrote to say that his job of twenty years would be no longer in less than a month. His house will surely go soon thereafter. His wife cannot work due to health issues, which has already emptied their savings. Their furnace is on the fritz, and the last snow damaged the roof of their home.
“I’m not sure we can pull out of this one,” he wrote. “I feel like I’m being buried.”
I wrote him back as well as the sixteen others. Yes, I said, I will listen. And pray. And help all I can. But then I wondered about all the other people out there who were feeling buried themselves. What would I say to them if they decided to write, too?
I thought about that, which didn’t take very long. I’ve had a lot of experience in feeling buried. So if such a letter would drop into my inbox, this is what I would say in return.
Dear Buried,
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly life can turn. How we can be going along steady and straight and then suddenly find ourselves in places both unfamiliar and dark. We can neither go forward nor back for fear we’ll get lost even more, and so we’re left to sit there motionless and hope the clouds eventually break.
We’re taught the principle of What Goes Around Comes Around from an early age. Many of the troubles in life are the result of neither God nor the devil, but of our own poor choices. And while that’s true, there’s no denying there are plenty of troubles that are beyond our own doing. I’ve always thought those were the worst troubles to have. Those are the ones that will make you fear life and dread tomorrow. That make you wonder not only what’s coming next, but that there isn’t much you can do about it.
The more religiously inclined would say now would be a good time to trust in your faith and your God, and I would agree in principle. But while those words might be easy to say, they can be pretty hard to put into practice. Especially if, like me, you’ve caught yourself thinking He either has too much to do or too much to keep an eye on. Because it sure seems as though He lets a lot of things slip through the cracks sometimes.
He doesn’t, of course. I know that. You know that, too. But knowing it and understanding it? Well, that’s just not the same.
If there’s a good thing about enduring one’s fair share of suffering, it’s the wisdom that comes on the other side of it. And since I’ve endured my fair share, this is what I offer:
You’re right to feel like you’re in a deep hole and there’s no getting out. That it’s dark and damp and cold. That you can’t get out. It’s right to feel as though scoop after scoop of more of the same is being tossed on top of you.
But God is not burying you.
God is planting you.
He is sinking you into this world, not as punishment, but so you may grow and blossom and bear fruit. So you may offer shade and rest.
And so He can prepare you to not only be good, but also be good for something.
Best,
Billy
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IfI’da
March 1, 2010
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I remember the first time I read Robert Frost’s poem, The Road Not Taken. I was still in high school, and my English teacher was one of those literary types who thought the sun rose and set in people like Dickens and Shakespeare. Me, I didn’t understand any of it. That poem especially.
She went on and on about the beauty of Frost’s words, of how those two roads diverged in a yellow wood and he chose the one less traveled. What magic! she said. Oh, what courage!
But I didn’t think she had it quite right. I didn’t see much in the way of magic and courage at all. To me, it sounded an awful lot like Mr. Robert Frost decided it would be a good thing if he took that road until he found out where it led. To me, that poem meant that even though he kept walking, something inside him always wondered what that other road was all about.
I can understand. I’m the same way. I spend a lot of time wondering if some of the choices I’ve made through the years were the right ones. How would my life have turned out differently if I would have done this instead of that? Or if I would have not done this instead of that?
It very nearly drove me crazy.
But then I happened upon an idea that helped to put all of that wasted thinking in perspective. I wrote about it today over at katdish’s blog, and I invite you there to read it. Hopefully, like me you’ll find that the decisions you’ve made in life, the ones who’ve led you right where you are, are the means by which God has brought you to exactly where you need to be.
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Shining a Light
February 26, 2010
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Princess Amy
Once upon a time there was a princess her name was Amy. She had blond hair and colorful dresses. Princess Amy was determined to find her true love. One day she started singing “My true love I will find . Oh yes I will find him”. Then a handsome young boy heard her over the palace wall. He came in the garden gate. She soon saw him. She started to sing.”Now that I found you I will love you”. She came down the stairs and they met in the garden. My name is Amy she said. My name is Jeremy he said. Then she introduced him to her father. Soon they got married.
THE
END
My daughter’s first attempt at authorship.
Despite the fact it’s filled with references to things no father in his right mind believes his eight-year-old daughter should be thinking about, it’s rather good. And I told her such. All the elements of a good story are there—characters, plot, scene, and the tension of whether or not Princess Amy will indeed find her true love. And of course there’s the happy ending.
We have spoken at length in those quiet hours before bedtime of her desire to be a storyteller one day. “Just like you, Daddy,” she says. I’ve at times wondered if that wish would correspond to anything I happened to be. If I were a garbage man or a dentist, would she spend her time picking up the household trash or staring at teeth?
I somehow doubt it. Indeed, she spends as much time with her nose in a book, whether one that’s written or one she’s intent to write, as I do. And though I have my misgivings about encouraging anyone regardless of age to take those first steps upon the road to publication, I do so with her. It gives her joy, and I’m all for allowing anyone to drink his or her fill of that.
Thus far it is the romance she seems most interested in pursuing. She’s tried her hand at poetry and managed to fill a few pages of “Roses are red, Violets are blue…” Not her thing, she said. She’s gone the non-fiction route and written two paragraphs on Easter Island and bunnies. Too boring, she announced. No, it’s the romance for her. That’s her thing.
Knowing my feelings regarding talk of love and marriage to anyone other than her father, she’s asked my blessing to continue her stories. I’ve given it—how could I not?—and whatever reservations I had were nicely disguised in layers of excitement. And to be honest, I am excited. Not that she may soon be penning stories in which she marries herself off to someone in her second grade class, but because of what those stories may eventually lead to.
Truth.
In the end, that is the aim of all writing. We tell our stories so that we may come to some morsel of truth in the end, however uplifting or sad that truth may be. We write to give meaning to our lives and the circumstances within them. It is a holy act, a means by which we elevate ourselves above chance and fate.
Which is why I consider all writing to be of value, whether they are written for the ages or merely for the times. Every book, every letter, every blog post is a victory over the crushing weight of anonymity that presses down upon us.
Fantasy is just as relevant as literary fiction. The young adult novel is just as meaningful as a poem. Each medium and genre, however different, still contain within them the very same struggles and hardships. They speak of the human condition, of our shared fears and hopes, our triumphs and struggles.
I didn’t tell my daughter that; I’ll let her find that bit of treasure on her own. But I did tell her this, and now I’ll tell you:
Putting pen to paper is unlocking the door to a very dark room to which you intend to bring light. It matters not if that illumination comes from a lantern or a candle or a flashlight. All that matters is that, for even the briefest of moments, a bit of the darkness is chased away.
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The Art of Rejection
February 25, 2010
Writers compare rejection notices like veterans compare war wounds. And that’s appropriate, I think. The two are very similar, evidences of battles not necessarily won or lost or even stalemated, but simply fought. Both begin as a bitter pain that seems unendurable but, with hope and God and perseverance, may become points of pride later.
See this? we say. Got that one three years ago. Hurt like hell, too. Doesn’t really bother me much anymore though, except when it rains…
For those of you who might have missed this post the first time around, Rachelle Gardner has been kind enough to repost it for me today on her blog. We both invite you over to read it.
And remember — always try one more time.
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Music in the Madness
February 24, 2010
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I have friends who can navigate the labyrinth of hallways and departments of the local hospital with equal measures of grace and ease, as if they are walking through their childhood homes. These are friends who do not work at the hospital, though. They are not doctors or nurses or radiologists. They merely have had the misfortune of an accumulated number of instances in which they’ve been forced to endure the suffering of being there.
I myself am thankful that I require very specific directions on where to go and for what. I don’t like the hospital. Never have. Aside from the birth of my two children, every thought connected to it is a bad one.
And now I can add one more to the list. Maybe.
A few weeks ago I exercised every bit of grace at my disposal and slipped on some ice disguised as snow. The thump resulted in a bit of salty language and a sprained shoulder, which required a trip to the seventh circle of hell and its radiology department.
I was not alone. The forty-something lady beside me offered a hello and then resumed her crocheting. When I asked what exactly she was creating, she said she had no idea. That was when I knew I was in trouble.
The retiree on the other side of me paused in his crossword puzzle, shook my hand, and asked what was wrong with me. I was halfway through my childhood before he clarified and asked what was wrong with me physically.
A two-year-old girl, sweetly unaware of the pain and suffering around her, was using the chair across from me as a jungle gym.
Among the dozen or so others were the young and the old, the professional and the blue collar, the bruised and the broken, all shepherded by two nurses with tired faces and thick glasses who guarded their flock with Nazi-like efficiency.
I spent the next ten minutes leafing through an old newsweekly (Can Obama Win? asked the cover) and the ten after that listening to the two-year-old girl screaming in agony because she failed to stick her landing off the chair. I was about to ask the crossword-working retiree beside me if I could borrow his pen and jam it into my eye, effectively putting myself out of my misery, when an announcement came over the intercom that someone was stroking.
A flurry of activity outside the open door. Nurses quick-walked. Electronic doors whooshed and shut. Elevator doors pinged.
Despite my normally stoic and reserved nature, the whole experience was beginning to wear on me. I decided x-rays weren’t all that necessary. People went for thousands of years without x-rays. And in a way I’d be healthier without having all that radiation zapped into me. I grabbed my hat and coat and sat them on my lap in a first step toward leaving.
The truth? I didn’t want to be around all that pain and suffering. I didn’t want to be reminded that life was in fact a fragile and fleeting thing. Life makes much more sense outside of a hospital than in one. It’s more permanent, more solid.
More beautiful.
But then mixed in with the cacophony of beeps and sirens and chatter came a noise I did not expect. Wafting through the door came music. Someone had decided to sit at the baby grand piano in the lobby to score the day’s events.
I checked my place in line with one of the nurses and decided I had about twenty minutes to spare, then I strolled out the door in the direction of the tinkling ivories. There at the piano sat a young man in faded jeans and a leather jacket. A pair of sunglasses was perched on top of his head, which moved back and forth a bit in concert with his melody.
The songs varied—classical, jazz, and blues. Especially the blues. If there was ever a place for the blues, it was a hospital.
The nurse stuck her head out the door to tell me I was on deck. I never got a chance to talk to that man. Never got an answer as to who he was or why he was there. He was gone by the time I left.
But I like to think he played that piano often and for no other reason than he felt he should. For proof that music can be created in even the worst places.
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I’m a writer whose first novel, Snow Day, will be published by FaithWords in 2010.
But don’t let that fool you. I’m just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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