Let the Sunshine In

Oh, yes...the concluding song of Hair. I've actually never been so moved in my life as when I saw a performance of the infamous musical in my home city. And as I happen to have Old Navy's "Retro Rock" CD of three summers ago, I can listen to this song endlessly.

But here's the thing -- the great thing -- that's been happening lately. I'm slowly starting to come out of the night of the soul that set in with the coming of winter. The sun is usually shining, the leaves are maturing on the trees, and it's getting gloriously hot. I'm waking up eager to greet the new day, go to work with my coworkers who are becoming my friends and with whom I've been spending a great deal of after-hours time, and give life more of my all.

And it reminds me: We go through seasons of faith too. (Cue "Every Season" by Nicole Nordeman.) We have a spring, a birth-time, when everything is new and fresh and stirring and we're unbelievably in love with God; we have a summer, when all is deep joy, relaxation, trust, and contentment, and when all our gifts are ripening toward harvest; we have an autumn, when our gifts reach a peak and begin to sink down to fallowness; and we have a winter, when everything is desolate, when our hope and our joy and even our love hibernate, and we wonder if we'll ever know peace, rest, or certainty again.

One of my friends -- I think it was Adam -- said the other day that there is beauty in recognizing that we have an organic faith -- that even the best and the strongest of us are subject to grief, fear, doubt, frustration, and loss of trust in the divine. But the death phase itself does not last, even as the "mountaintop experiences" never last. We change, the seasons change, our circumstances change, and often our faith or experience of God changes (and grows) with them. We know that this is biblical by examining the Psalms and the book of Jeremiah. We will without fail know moments of bleakness and extreme doubt as well as moments of hope and powerful faith. It's all part of the process toward being "mature and complete, not lacking in anything."

This is where David's (of the last post) challenge comes in: While we can rarely muscle our feelings out of deep grief or disappointment or vast loneliness, we can accept the circumstances and live through them. Oftentimes this means nothing more than getting up, fulfilling your obligations for the day, and surviving. Oftentimes this means grieving into your popcorn bowl while watching "While You Were Sleeping" for the twentieth time alone. Other times this means readjusting the straps of your burden (like a backpack full of heavy textbooks) and walking forward. And still other times (pleasanter ones) it means celebrating.

There is a natural, good time to grieve for the hopes deferred. There are times when keeping a stiff upper lip is impossible. And there is a point where we have to put the mourning away. Recognizing where grieving crosses the line into wallowing takes some serious discernment; it's even harder if you know you're actually depressed. But at some point, there's a time to grip whatever's hurting you with both hands and keep walking anyway. Or to throw it away if you can.

I've been in a period of mourning for the past four months. It's getting to be time (helped by the weather) to start doing something about my life. There's a lot to do. But I'm getting started. It helps to know that there are small decisions of courage I can make each day -- even if it's the courage to smile at someone. It helps to know that it's nearly summer, when I can take evening trips up to Lake Michigan and stare over the water. It helps to know that this past long stretch of sadness will not be fruitless. It helps most of all to know that "those who have sown in tears will surely reap in joy."

And as for a summer challenge -- I'm in! How many points do I get for participating in a triathalon when I'm NOT athletic? I'm looking forward to it!