Finding Peace in an Age of Apocalypse

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Silence comes hard for writers even when stories are too young to tell. I have been in a hurry for my words to catch up with my journey. God, however, is not bothered by my impatience.

In the midst of these puzzling, wordless days, I am keenly aware of his presence. Yes, the same God with whom I have so painfully wrestled here on the pages of this blog. That God. He inhabits this silence.

Some days I panic and fret over blog stats and goals. I wonder if I have destroyed my online presence because I don't worship at the altar of the social media gods often enough.

My heart begins to beat heavy until it throbs in my ears. “You cannot grow your brand in silence,” the Type-A me tells the wordless me. “You'll never be one of 'those' savvy bloggers because you just aren't prolific enough. Why you don't even have a free printable, and at this rate, you never will! You'll never catch up.”

I breathe in the God-filled silence long and slow trying to drown out the panic. I hear rhythms of life I have not heard in eons. (Yes. I am that old.)

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When a gas-powered leaf blower three yards over stalls, silence deafens me. Slowly, I can hear again. The scritch-scratch of my rake becomes hypnotic allowing other sounds, long ago sounds, to seep in.

The sounds of a heel tapping to keep a swing in motion melt into the eeee-awww sounds of the swing groaning and complaining as it responds. The breeze lifts my bangs. A wet towel snaps in the wind and a clothespin squeaks as it closes over the towel. Sounds of the past wash me away.

I realize I have been so caught up in the race of life, I have lost the rhythm of living. The unfamiliar quiet is as eerie as it is comforting. I breathe in the God-filled silence and know he is there in the absence of words. I know it is o.k. to wait because I am waiting on him. 

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 I feel words begin to emerge again. Then, news explodes with the awful reality of a hopeless world. Twenty little faces taken from twenty homes even as  we sing about the most magical time of the year.
                                     
Silence seems the only appropriate reaction because there are times words just fail. These days of mourning require a singular silence of the soul.

One does not have to embrace the end of the Mayan calendar to know: we live in an age of apocalypse. Suffering, violence, disease, and mayhem abound even as society is the most advanced, educated, and interconnected the world has ever known.

Media offers a litany of answers from gun control to doomsday prepper survival bunkers. Politicians pontificate and jockey for airtime. Big business promises a shopping rush to distract us while big pharma offers a pill to calm us. Psychologists warn that the fragile among us may do exactly what the troubled young man in Connecticut did as December 21^st approaches – react in desperation.

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There is but one answer for a fallen world calling out for solutions to save us from ourselves. Long ago a child was born to die. In his death, he would bring meaning and purpose to a sinful world. As he faced a certain death, he knew we would face questions that had no sane answers. 

He left a message of hope that will survive beyond the end of the Mayan calendar:

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John 16:33 (The Message)I’ve told you all this so that trusting me, you will be unshakable and assured, deeply at peace. In this godless world you will continue to experience difficulties. But take heart! I’ve conquered the world. 

Romans 8:38-39 (Amplified Bible)
For I am persuaded beyond doubt (am sure) that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities, nor things impending and threatening nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Exquisite Tears

I cupped my chin in my hand to prevent my mouth from gaping wide open. The aerobic effort to hide my state of incredulity at her words left my heart racing. We were genteel southern women. I knew my manners. My hand pressed my chin harder into my jawline. I fought the urge to roll my imaginary set of inner eyeballs in secret derision.

Southern sweet tea would have seemed hard candy sour compared to her. A soft, feathery voice slipped out of perfectly bowed lips. Her lilting speech reeked of well-practiced affectation. She was the kind of girl for whom antique fainting couches existed. I was crass by comparison. I smiled and nodded as she droned on in that syrupy way meant to punctuate the intensity of her spiritual devotion. I'd never be THAT sweet nor THAT spiritual. Sigh.

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It was the season of Advent. Holidays brought out the weepy in her. Truthfully, everything brought out the weepy in her. Life had already battered me enough that not a lot reduced me to tears. Except maybe having to endure much more of this little window into her world. I was captivated and repulsed at once. Maybe there was a tiny little piece of me that wished I was her. Or wished I had her southern sweet tea kinda life.

I had given birth within the previous year. Altho' God created the process of childbirth to include something akin to amnesia, thus enabling any woman to sign up for a 2^nd trip to the delivery suite, my amnesia had not quite kicked in. I remembered. Fraidy cat that I am, I had opted OUT of natural childbirth. She, of course, had panted and focused and chanted her way perfectly through the most perfect of multiple natural deliveries.

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She began to glow as she recounted her birthing experiences and then asserted, “I don't think Mary had a bit of pain from birthing our Savior. I think it was such a joy to bring forth the long awaited Messiah that any pain she felt was swallowed up in the knowledge of her role in history.” I sat up sharply and squirmed a bit at my own memories of waiting on the doctor of wonder drugs to hook me up and ease my pain. It's a wonder I didn't crack my teeth from the force of holding my jaw clenched shut.

In what would have been considered the sedate amount of 'southern time', I let her comment hang in the air while she awaited my response. It was an act worthy of an Oscar on my mantle. I wanted to explode with the intensity of my digressing opinion. I tried to match her polished poise lest I appear as crass as I felt.

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I had not yet lost faith in my good God nor been compelled to go searching for him. Yet, even then, it was apparent that she had an easy, trusting nature. She was that cheerleader kind of girl whom God would scoop up in his lap to love on while I pandered at his feet waiting for my turn. If my turn ever came.

“Really, “I asked, “Really? She was traveling on the back of an animal while 9 months pregnant, maybe even in labor, and you think she didn't have pain? Oh, Girl, I don't think God handed her some supernatural IV epidural. I think she felt everything I felt if not more. I had the comfort and ease of a modern, well staffed delivery room. She had a caravan ride between her and a stable filled with farm animals. No. I think her birthing experience and mine weren't all that different.”

My companion sniffed a bit, dismayed but too genteel to tell me how pathetic I was given my inability to catch the fire of her Advent glow. Doing what genteel southern women do, we agreed to disagree and delicately changed the subject.....before the hair pulling started. Bless our heart, honey.

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Many years later I thought of her when Son #2 made his unexpected way into the world. I was again waiting on the doctor of wonder drugs to deliver my epidural. Balancing on the newest of birthing gadgets, a stability ball, I worked my way through yet another contraction. It was not Advent, but I had an epiphany. The motion reminded me of the few times I had ridden a pony.

My mind slipped seamlessly from the sway of the stability ball to the sway of the pony ride to Mary swaying back and forth on the beast of burden that carried her into destiny and beyond into the echoes of history. The magic of the stability ball helped me cope for just a little while longer. As the pain intensified and I became fretful in advance of the doctor's arrival, I wondered if the swaying journey eased Mary's pain up to a point. I wondered at what point she cried out and wished for an end to the pain. I wondered how it would be to endure the pain of delivery knowing the child she carried was destined to suffer for humankind.

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It is Advent again. As Christmas approaches, I remember both the conversation and my stability ball epiphany. Historians tell us Mary was young enough to be on a modern version of an MTV show about unwed teen pregnancies. Her story was just about as sordid unless you understood how it began and who set it in motion. I wonder how she coped. I wonder how her faith and hope remained secure despite the sensitivity of her situation in her day and time.
I see her on the back of the donkey wondering how much longer, how much farther, how much more pain before it would be over. Her suffering was, perhaps, different than mine. She suffered exquisite pain to bear an exquisite gift for someone she never knew: me. Before I know it, something exquisite happens. Tears flow down my cheeks. Exquisite tears. 
 
 

Luke 2: 4-7 (NIV)

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. 5 He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. 6 While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, 7 and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.