Friday, September 11, 2009

Dearest God,

How do we pick up the pieces of shattered lives? How do we will ourselves to go on, to breathe again, to say yes to life?

My own experience of shatteredness is the feeling of enormous loss. During those shattered moments not only are pieces in my life crushed, some pieces seem to be lost forever. No matter how hard I try to find them, they are simply gone. Dealing with a crushing blow that leaves so many tiny little pieces, some beyond recognition seems exhaustingly overwhelming. It's like a healthy beating heart that suddenly becomes dangerously erratic when the main pathways lead to dead ends rather than to a natural flow. Without immediate assistance it will give up, surrender and die.

9/11 devastated us as a nation. As a pastor I tried to help people that day. I tried to comfort them, tell them that you were with us. I hugged people harder, held on to them while they cried. I tried to bring whatever normalcy I could. I held a worship service that evening. We were one voice, a true community of people. We spoke, sang and prayed our faith. We grabbed hold of you; we prayed for our lost brothers and sisters and their families. We prayed for our leaders. We did what we could. We questioned whether we could ever recover.

But we went on. Four years later on 9/11 my only red-haired granddaughter was born. She was a breath of fresh air on an otherwise painful day. She was a new heartbeat, a strong, steady one. She gave proof that life goes on.

So often, dear God, it appears that faith is dormant, hidden away gathering cobwebs. Perhaps not much more than a set of beliefs, it's like an unused book on the shelf, one that is so little used that it is forgotten. It's like the unhealthy heart that has just so many beats left.

And then the unimaginable happens. We are knocked off our feet. We are beaten up and bruised by life. Someone forgets us, someone we loved so much. And we think to ourselves: How can this be? How do you forget someone you have loved? How is it possible? We can't wrap our minds around such a thought. That's when the suffering begins. There's not enough pieces left to put the puzzle back together again.

But that is when faith is at its finest. It shakes the dust off itself. Like a player not yet picked for the game it cries out, Pick me, pick me, pick me. Its voice is heard, even if a far distant one. It is the sound of hope in dismal despair. The measly set of doctrinal beliefs speaks to the weary heart: I am more, I am more than religious thought. Faith is like a booster shot. The body has a new resource, one that is willing to work hard. Although some pieces may never be found, like the bodies from the twin towers, faith fills the empty spaces. It is like that stuff when poured out it molds itself to the remnant pieces. In time you can barely tell where the real stuff is and the repairs.

I weep for my own lost pieces. I feel robbed never having had the opportunity to look at them one last time before I buried them reconciling myself to their loss, saying goodbye, thanking them for the gifts. I feel cheated and overwhelmingly sad. My grief is deep.

But then I hear faith's call. At that moment I realize what I had set aside. My insides catch a whiff of fresh, new air and I breathe in hope, a new idea in a deep, dark place. I reunite myself with this long lost friend. I confess my sin and fall into its arms. It's quiet at first while I wail out my pain. And then it pours out its sweet nectar and I feel a new strength inside. I see light. I feel its warmth. A new vision forms before my eyes and I am enabled to stand again. In time I take my first step into life.

Oh the many
sorrows in life,
dear God,
that tear
at the fabric
of our being.
My how
they change us,
calling us
to a
new day.
In those
pitch black moments
where we
are blinded
to everything
around us,
you invade
our spirit
like that
fresh breeze
that suddenly
blows out
of the northeast.
Every pore
feels the
welcome change
and we recognize
that we are
not dead yet,
but alive.

Gratefully, Andrea