Surprised by Beauty

The light caught and reflected off the white feathers of the birds in flight, creating a moment of utter splendor in an otherwise drab scene. It reminded me of C.S. Lewis and his description of being “surprised by joy” - only in this case it was being surprised by beauty. 

Moments like this take my breath away. They come without warning and often in the most prosaic of settings: the sky is dark and threatening, and then thunderclouds part to reveal one shaft of streaming silver light, in full view as I travel down the freeway on my commute to the city. Lake gulls reflect the light as they fly over the industrial part of town. A single delicate blossom opens to the sun in a sidewalk crack.

Twin Falls, Idaho - July 2010

It could perhaps be just the incongruous setting that reveals the beauty, but I don’t think so. I enjoy the splendor of the sunset in a gorgeous landscape just as much and perhaps even more than when it is over a junkyard. What makes these moments special for me is their unexpectedness. I was not looking for sun-reflected feathers on my way home from running errands yesterday. And on my drive to work I am usually preoccupied with the upcoming tasks of the day or worried about how snarly the traffic always is when it rains. When beauty thrusts itself upon me in these moments I experience it as sheer gift. 

Sunbeams and silver linings are another way of talking about joy in dark times. Sometimes I think my blog may seem preoccupied with sadness, with trauma, with grief. I do often reflect on these things, for the simple reason that so many of those I know and love are in the midst of heartache. But my intent is not to dwell on the sadness but to celebrate the light that pierces the greatest darkness, the bright bits of hope and love that remind us that storms do pass, that there is greater meaning and purpose to life than our own small selves. And to thank God for that. 

Helpless

Two stories, both unimaginable, both tragically real. One is recent, still raw; the other many years ago, but inscribed in my memory.

- The grandson and great-nephew of some friends was killed in a freak accident at a chiropractor's office. Some of you may have heard about it on the news: the 18-month-old crawled under a therapy table and managed to push the button to lower it while he was still underneath. The office staff had left the room and his mother was immobilized, helpless to prevent it.

- Twenty years ago a colleague of mine was traveling over the Thanksgiving holiday with her husband and two young adult sons. They were in two cars, with the sons following mom and dad. The roads were icy and somehow the sons’ car started to spin, sliding directly into the path of a semi-trailer truck. They were killed at the scene with mom and dad watching in their rear-view mirror, helpless to prevent it. I will never forget her devastation.

I have been thinking about helplessness a lot over the last couple of weeks since little Ben died. I was so struck by the idea of not being able to pull him out, to stop him, to stop the table. As adults we are watchful, vigilant; we do not want any child to be hurt. We do our best, especially with the little ones, and we certainly have been given both the ability and responsibility to keep them out of harms way. 

Ultimately I remembered, however, if truth be told, we are all helpless. We did not give ourselves life; we cannot stop death.  We may be able to hold it at bay, but that’s not the same thing. I have several friends going through this right now with cancer.

Crucified by Dorie Bliss (pastel)

For me, this all makes the Incarnation that much more amazing: God took on not just "flesh" but the helplessness of humanity. I heard a priest on the radio one morning talking about once having trouble with fruit flies in the wine at Mass (I think he was in the tropics). He was praying over the bread and wine and said he added (silently) kind of jokingly, “Lord, couldn’t you do something about these flies?” And in his mind he heard, “when I was hanging on the cross, covered in blood and unable to move, I was a feast for the flies.” The priest said he hardly could speak the words of consecration after that, he was so overcome with grief.

In a strange and wonderful way it is the helplessness of Jesus on the cross that brings peace to us in our own despair and weakness. You would think it is, or should be, the glorious victory of the resurrection. But somehow the remembrance of the process - that a great sacrifice was made for us, not just of death but of helplessness and shame and suffering - gives a deeper meaning to the conclusion (especially when we are in the midst of grief and loss). Through sharing in our helpless state, God transformed it into something beautiful and worthy that leads us to new life. 

For two thousand years theologians have sought to understand and explain why the cross had to precede the resurrection. It is a mystery. But in that mystery is comfort, peace and reassurance in the face of our own helplessness. 

Psalm 63


O God, you are my God, for you I long;
for you my soul is thirsting.
My body pines for you 

like a dry, weary land without water.

So I gaze on you in the sanctuary
to see your strength and your glory.
For your love is better than life,
my lips will speak your praise.
So I will bless you all my life,
in your name I will lift up my hands.

My soul shall be filled as with a banquet,
my mouth shall praise you with joy.
On my bed I remember you.
On you I muse through the night
for you have been my help;
in the shadow of your wings I rejoice.
My soul clings to you;
your right hand holds me fast.