I also
learned a lot. I learned about the Church and the Mayans and Hogwarts, thanks
to God’s creativity in making different kinds of people and people’s creativity
in writing different kinds of books. But mostly, I learned about myself. At the
end of break, I wrote down 7 “life facts” I had either forgotten or never
realized before. Here’s #3:
“The closer I get to someone, the
messier the relationship becomes. But it also gets better.”
I think this
homely but heartfelt sentence can be expanded on a grand scale. Getting close
to anything means giving it
permission to hurt you. I feel the ache of loss every time I volunteer
at the refugee shelter downtown. For a few hours, I talk with, eat with, play
with, and sometimes nearly cry with a bundle of precious souls. Then, they
climb into a van which takes them to a bus which, eventually, takes them a thousand miles away.
Here is what I wrote one afternoon after coming back from the shelter:
“I can still see Erica and Andrés’
faces pressed against the thickly-screened window. They are smiling and waving.
Tomorrow, they will be in another state, and they will forget the girl who made
beds, swept, watched ‘Finding Nemo’, and danced in front of the security
cameras with them. Now I have their names with their faces and personalities still fresh
and attached. But the more tender, living memories, the emotions and mannerisms,
will slowly be taken from me. Only names will stay behind, like fossils
imprinted on rock: concepts defined by empty space, feeding on absence. It does
not feel beautiful to me right now, the way we touch each other’s lives. So
much of me is lost with each person I encounter.”
If I could
go back to time and talk to the Aubrey who wrote that paragraph, I would tell
her that it’s good she felt something when Erica and Andrés left because it
meant she cared about them. I would also tell her that the presence of pain
does not mean the absence of beauty. Closeness means opening your heart, which
means hurt, but also means fulfillment.
Maybe I should
put it this way…
One item
tops my virtual lists of character flaws, discouragements, joy-killers, lifelong
struggles, etc. This slithering sin has tyrannized me and poisoned life’s
sweetest moments. Its name is selfishness.
I have long
agreed with G. K. Chesterton – “how much
larger your life would be if your self could become smaller in it” – but I
am also very bad at making myself small. Thus, I can spoil a lovely day by snapping
at a family member who interrupts my study time. I can suck all the healing out
of words spoken to a struggling friend by contemplating how gentle and
sympathetic I must look. I can and do repent of these failures, but I also
repeat them. Again and again and again.
Today, it
dawned on me. I finally realized the full impact of a truth my parents have taught
me since I was little: put off and put
on. It’s not enough to put off selfishness; more selfishness will rush in
to fill the void. I need to also put on love.
And what is love? Most would agree that love has to be more than a
feeling if it is to last for any length of time. But love must also be more
than an action – I know because I have “served” my brothers on many occasions (such
as by picking up their LEGO bricks which, only moments before, impaled my bare
foot) without expending so much as one-sixteenth of a milliliter of goodwill.
I do not dare to pretend that I fully grasp what love is. I’m sure there are as many sides to it as
there are thoughts in Dumbledore’s pensieve. But as I mull over passages like 1st
Corinthians 13 and 1st John 1-5, I become more and more convinced that
at least in part, love is identifying
with someone else to the extent that their good becomes my good. That’s why
love is patient: if controlling my tongue is the difference between blessing
and wounding my friend, then I am happy to do it. Love isn’t jealous: if spending
time with someone else helps her to grow, I’ll gladly relinquish my claim on
her schedule.
I believe that
communion – κοινωνία, sharing, fellowship – is central to
love. Jesus didn’t just write us a certification for cancellation of sins; He
took on our decaying flesh, shared in our sufferings, experienced our
temptations, and became sin for us (2 Cor. 5:21). Jesus’ method of redemption
was a sharing of identity - His righteousness for ours, ours for His. And His prayer
for the believers He left behind was a plea for unity: “that they may all be one; even as You, Father, are in Me, and I in You,
that they also may be in Us” (John 17:21). This communion is something Jesus’
first followers preserved: the church devoted itself to fellowship (Acts 2:42),
and Paul shared his own soul with his beloved Thessalonians (1 Thess. 2:8).
Now I press
a few buttons in my mental elevator and descend from the abstract to the personal
level.
It’s
comfortable to hold people at arm’s length, because they can’t hurt me if I don’t
need them. It’s nicer to share articles about refugees on Facebook than to
spend three hours cleaning up a play room that fifty-something children have passed
through. I feel safer when I spill my thoughts in a private journal than when I
let my acquaintances see that I am weak and flawed. So I do not commune, I do
not share my soul.
And then
what?
“The modern man does not immerse
himself in anything he does,” wrote Octavio Paz. “Always,
a part of him remains intact and alert…The solitude that this engenders…is a
total condemnation, a mirror of a world without escape.”
What we
might call being reserved or independent is often a hyper-individualism that shuts
us up inside of ourselves. When I protect myself instead of giving myself away, I am
locked into a room of mirrors. I cannot see what is true, beautiful, good, and eternal; I only see my own reflection staring angrily from every nook and cranny of this world without escape, reminding me of all that I fail to be. I am condemned to confinement within my own
mind.
Life is
meant to be shared. Specifically, it is meant to be shared through Christ. When
we come to people through the One who became like us to save us, we don’t
have to fight for self-preservation or pleasure. Christ has already given Himself
unreservedly to us. And in His presence we find fullness of joy (Psalm
16:11).
This is why
beauty and pain coexist when souls collide. This is why relationships can get
better and messier at the same time. Communion requires a surrender of self to
others, a death of desire. And death, of course, causes pain. But dying to self
is a way of imitating what Jesus did for us, of sharing in His sufferings.
Communion
with others flings ten thousand doors open, letting us explore the new and
unimagined wonders God has placed inside of each person. It splits our little worlds
apart so that we are aware not just of ourselves, but also of the star-like
souls that fill this madly spinning planet and of the One who spoke them all into
being.
My ambition
for 2016 is to love well, to make the good of other people my own good, to live
not in fear of loss but in anticipation of grace. And thus item #5 on my
life-fact list:
“I am part of God’s story and my life
isn’t just made for me; it’s made to fit in other peoples’ lives. Sometimes I
glimpse the big picture, sort of like when Harry and Hermione time-travel in
Book 3 and finally understand why everything happened the way it did. That
makes me happy.”
Oh, and lest
you think I spent my entire break drawing analogies between spiritual truths
and Harry Potter, let me give you #1 on the list:
“I love bugs.”
Do with it
as you will ;)
Love as
always,
Aubrey
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| Sweet Adelaide is... |
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| ...a beautiful soul... |
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| ...who knows how to delight in the world. |
