It was not a good day. I’d woken up in a cloud of sorrow for myself and my loved ones. My heart stayed heavy from hard conversations and many things that should not happen.
Then I sent an embarrassing typo in a letter to 65 people and couldn’t just shake it off. I felt stupid and inept.
Then, mid afternoon, a dead battery at work kept me from doing my job. It was a special size–half the length of an AAA battery–and there were none on campus. I didn’t have time to run to town to get one, but I needed to take time.
On the way to town, I said no to ice cream and no to chocolate. I couldn’t afford a sugar rush when I was already so stressed. Instead, I turned on brass band music. Loud. I love trumpets because they’re so powerful and delicate at the same time. They can blast you away, then caress your soul in the next second. They can be playful and exuberant and serious in the same phrase. (Recommending: “Amazing Grace” and “Hallelujah Chorus” by Canadian Brass.)
On the drive to town, surrounded with trumpets and a soulful tuba, I looked for colorful leaves, sunshine, and perspective for my woes.
I thought of the gentle, buoyant man I met recently. He’s a retired nurse, a photographer, and jazz enthusiast. He told me he was on his way to pick up a new camera that day because his old one broke and his friends tell him he’s not dressed without his camera. What he didn’t tell me was that he was also going to see the doctor. At that visit, the doctor told him his stage 4 stomach cancer is in remission, but the man knows it could go into metastasizing rage anytime.
“You didn’t tell me you had stage 4 cancer when you introduced yourself to me,” I said later.
“I can’t let a disease define me,” he said.
I also remembered an interview I’d heard with a young woman whose dura mater is damaged from a lumbar puncture gone wrong. The connective tissue of the dura can take months and months to heal. When the hole recurs, her cerebral spinal fluid leaks from the hole, forcing her to complete bed rest. She has traveled the world and climbed mountains in the last year, and then bent over wrong, and busted the hole open again. She remembers the agony of being horizontal for seven months, and she fears that will happen again. She’s been flat for a week now, waiting to go to patch the hole, which is a dangerous, unpredictable ordeal in itself.
And I think I’m stressed and troubled?
On the drive from town, I kept looking at the sunshine (a rarity in these parts) and kept groping for perspective. “I don’t have stage 4 stomach cancer. I don’t have a cerebral spinal fluid leak. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus.”
Those people’s positivity in the face of crushing pain and fear shames me for my complaining, and tells me to be quiet and observe.
Sorrow expands the soul. If I let it.
Joy does the same.
And beauty. That’s why I sometimes listen to trumpets. Loud.
To be unmoved by sorrow, joy, or beauty means our souls can’t become larger, fuller, more developed. Pain and sorrow don’t diminish a soul by default. It is selfishness and bitterness that make the soul wrinkly and withered, small and ugly.
Only the soul that knows the mighty grief
Can know the mighty rapture. Sorrows come
To stretch out spaces in the heart for joy.
– Edwin Markham
5 thoughts on “Stretched Out Spaces”
Hmmm… I’ll have to admit that I used to think of how amazing a person I’d probably become if I had to go through a difficult and stretching experience (illness, death, etc.)… And then my baby won’t sleep and my toddler throws his toys in the toilet while I’m feeding his brother and I see the mound of crusty dishes in the sink that won’t go away and I’m tired, tired, and I look at the ceiling and say, “Maybe not, Jesus. I guess I’d rather stay small and comfortable.”
So glad He doesn’t listen to me, sometimes! Loved the post!
Maybe that’s why moms have such big hearts–they’ve been stretched out big! You’re a good mom, Ria, I know it.
You seldom see sunshine?? I’m sorry. I would find that difficult. ‘
Just because you don’t have it nearly as bad as those friends you mentioned, doesn’t make your load easy, only easier. I’m glad the sun shone on you that day, and that God helped your perspective. May the Lord give you grace. LRM
The sun was hiding for about a week. It’s back now! But the winters here are longer and darker than I would choose.
It sounds like a nasty day, but your stories of other friends’ griefs helps put it into perspective. I like how you allow yourself to feel what you feel, while engaging your world with compassion, joy, and a brass band. 🙂 Beautifully said. And lived.