The quote by C.S. Lewis about the megaphone of pain has outlived its usefulness. God whispers in tragedy, too. God doesn’t need to scream at everyone. We don’t all need a blitz to give him our attention. God can give us a pretty good nudge in the ribs in our everyday life. It is our complacency that is the enemy.
Right now, as I’ve mentioned, I’m reading Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy, a book on lament, The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison (more on that later), and The Power of Mindful Learning by Ellen Langer. The first and second, and the fact that we had actual snow Friday and I have nowhere to go—has led to me to contemplation.
The last twenty years…..yes, what a whirlwind. People marvel at what I accomplished. Looking back, I do too. I will pick these last twenty years because at the start, by son was moving into high school and needed less of my attention (or so we think). In the whirlwind, I lost something, and now I am trying to find it. It is mindfulness and attention and rest and peace. I really contemplate taking a year off for only family and solitude, no money, etc. I don’t think that will be possible.
In those twenty years I taught hundreds of classes in communication, English, first year experience, research methods, senior thesis. I started one doctoral program and finished another. I started a Center for Teaching and Learning, I led two QEP efforts, I was an interim Vice President, and I led an academic department for nine years. Each of these had many subachievements. I wrote a textbook used all over the world; I had several academic presentations and a few publications (not a priority where I work). I won four awards at the college for my work.
I started a writing group that still exists. I taught Life Group at church every week or every other week. I read hundreds of books. I sponsored a Christian group on campus, saw it almost died, and was able to see it reinvigorated to health.
This does not get into my family or artistic side. I lost my brother and mother and was there when both of them died. I lost my mother-in-law and many friends. I lived with my mom through hospice for cancer and through a year of chemo. I endured mental illness from my husband, who did not work in that time period, making me the only wage-earner. I had him put in for observation for five or six days (well, my son did) and went to court for him to leave me alone. I put my son through private college (he helped quite a bit though). He earned a graduate degree as well. I executed two estates. I am the conservator for my disabled brothers and still oversee the estate of my mother-in-law. I saw my son marry a lovely Latina and the birth of our precious nieta. I have reconciled, somewhat, with my husband. I bought my own house to escape him and his hoarding. I traveled on two cruises, to the Netherlands, South Dakota/Wyoming/Colorado, New England twice, saw the Pacific twice, and other places.
Artistically, I published ten novels, saw two plays produced, and wrote a collection of short stories that I haven’t done much with, although two won recognition in local contests. I am a finalist for a prestigious literary prize in Atlanta.
I walk two to three miles everyday (weather permitting), own two dogs, saw one put down, weigh pretty much the same (although too much), had a heart ablation, suffered through a number of tests for heart and other functions, and seem to have a kidney issue.
Yes, I am almost 70 and I should be tired. What I feel is a desire to slow down and savor life because I do not feel that I have been mindful.
I could go on, but back to Lewis. Not to contradict St. Clives, but he wasn’t right about everything; some things he just said in a timely and clever way. God is speaking to me and I am not in particular pain right now.
NOT, as the kids (used to) say.
In all this busy-ness, I am hardened to pain, my own and others, and thus not able to lament my own, my friends’ and family’s, and my nation’s. All of that seems to be vicarious, although it’s not. I want to write about it, but not feel it. Reading Toni Morrison reminds me that is not possible. She writes majestically about the everyday African-American experience mid-century and before. She felt it, she lived it. I know I must stop and feel what I have gone through—some pretty hard crap, despite the career “good stuff”—before I write about my mother’s death, or having a husband with bipolar, or a severely developmentally disabled brother. In all my whirlwind, I have pushed away feeling deeply, and it scares me some. Not some, a lot.
Lament in the Bible is not wholly personal. It is communal, corporate, together, fully aware of the other.
What I want now more than anything is tears. I don’t need a bull-horn from God. I need quiet and His whisper.
Comments
Post a Comment