Paper Lantern

 

Somewhere in the past, I wrote about celebration and sorrow - that they are never very far apart. As I look out my window at a perfectly ordered fall day it seems all is well. The birds relax at the feeder with no fear of the pesky squirrels.  A few gently floating leaves whisper of a coming seasonal change, but today the sky is blue and it feels like Indian Summer. Go look outside. Creation helps us  remember that every ordered day is a new cause for celebration - we have never seen this day before so we (should) open our eyes and celebrate the order and beauty of another 24-hour gift.

As we open this gift of one day, we hope for good things - safety, wellness, good news.

But we know full well we will  be asked to face difficult  and dark challenges.

Somewhere between celebration and sorrow, we find ourselves. 

And we must decide who we will be with both.  How are you doing with that?

In my last 24 hours, I received news of an uncle's death, waited for news from a medical procedure, learned of the death of a talented young man, and responded to a request for support for a person facing critical health issues.  Maybe your day has been similar.

Just a few days ago, I witnessed celebration and sorrow in a matter of hours. Participating with a group of church volunteers, we helped host a visitation day for men and their families. These men, called returning citizens, have almost completed their prison sentences and are soon to be released. They were allowed a few hours with their families to visit, play games, enjoy music and a meal together. The joy and celebration among these families was palpable. And then, time flew and the visit was over. Celebration quickly turned to sorrow as families clung to each other, knowing it would be a while longer before they could be a family again.

And so we  must decide who we will be in the midst of our sorrows as well as our joys. 

In the beautifully painful book, Prayer in the Night, Tish Harrison Warren writes about suffering. 

 "The people who I most respect are those who have suffered but did not numb their pain - who faced the darkness. In the process they have become beautifully weak, not tough as nails, not bitter or rigid, but men and women who bear vulnerability with joy and trust. They are almost luminescent, like a paper lantern, weak enough that light shines through."