Joy and Sorrow Mingled
I continued reading from Ezra this week. In the chapter after the building of the altar, the Israelites at last lay the foundation of the temple. This is the moment they've been dreaming of for seventy years--literally an entire generation. They've talked about it behind closed doors in the cities to which they'd been exiled. They've prayed for it daily. They've imagined it as they've fallen asleep at night. And now, here they are at last.
But things had changed. In the wake of the exile, all of Jerusalem had been destroyed. The city had been ransacked, the monumental stone buildings pulled down and burned. The temple treasures--actually, all of Israel's treasures--had been carried off. The wealth and stability and infrastructure that had enabled the first temple, Solomon's temple, had long since faded away. Instead, this temple would be built literally on the ashes and from the rubble that remained.
As the foundations were laid, there were mixed reactions. The younger generation, those who'd been raised on stories of Jerusalem and God's temple, were overjoyed. Here, at last, was their dream coming true. The foundation represented the hope of a better future, the fulfillment of God's promise that they would return, evidence of all that was good.
To the older generation, though, it was a bittersweet moment. Too clearly could they remember the old temple. Its magnificent, towering walls. Its courtyards and intricate decorations. Much larger, much grander, much more spectacular, they knew already that this temple could not compare. To add to their bitterness, they had the memory of all that had happened in the time between. Of all that had been lost. Of all those who'd longed to return and hadn't outlived the period of exile.
Ezra describes the shouts of joy from the younger generation and the weeping and mourning of the older, and says, "no one could distinguish the sound of the shouts of joy from the sound of weeping, because the people made so much noise. And the sound was heard far away." (Ezra 3:13)
I used to teach a class to nurses and medical staff in which we talked about parents' reactions to the neonatal intensive care unit. I described all of the emotions they might feel: fear, anger, guilt, hope, sadness... And then I always said, "We can feel more than one emotion at once."
This was news to me a few years ago when I heard it for the first time. Maybe your emotional intelligence quotient is higher than mine and you've known this all along, but I thought we could only process one emotion at a time. If we were sad, we felt sadness. If we were happy, it was pure joy.
Learning that we can feel more than one emotion at once somehow helped everything make more sense to me. It made sense of the variegated feelings I had as a mother: the pride, mixed with guilt, mixed with fear, mixed with love. It explained the way I responded to new opportunities: the excitement, and fear, and dread, and hope. It just seemed logical.
Most of life is lived in the complexity of emotions, isn't it? Every facet is touched by a beautiful array of good and bad and in-between. It all mingles together so that, like the Israelites, we can't tell one response from the other.
I feel similarly about this health journey. On the surface it probably seems crazy to suggest there could be any emotion other than anger, sadness, or grief. It takes so much more than it gives sometimes. My life has literally been turned upside down, even on the good days. I often feel scared, frustrated, trapped. I grieve all the things I have to let go--some for a time, others for life. I'm discouraged by the lack of answers, lack of progress, lack of energy. I'm humbled and embarrassed to go out in public with a cane, to ask for help, to cancel plans because of physical limitations.
But there has been good in this, too. It was my health that made me finally slow down. It forced me to assess the things in my life that had the most value. It taught me to say no. To rest. To listen to my body and to take care of it. To acknowledge my own limitations and weaknesses, to strip away my pride.
It was my health that taught me to empathize with others. To understand just a little the feelings of imprisonment and despair that accompany lifelong struggles. To accept "no" from others without questioning their reasons. To show up in tangible ways to walk--or sit--with those who are hurting.
It was my health that drew me closer to my husband in a season when we were slowly drifting apart. It taught my children empathy, understanding, grace for others.
It was my health that gave me hours of laughter and memories as Micah and the kids pushed me in a wheelchair. As I learned, clumsily, to use a cane. As we dreamed up spaces in our house that could accommodate me without looking clinical.
It was my health that brought me closer than ever to God. That gave me a clearer understanding, a more focused view.
As I wrote in my journal yesterday, "I'm at my best spiritually and otherwise when I'm at my worst physically."
How can we hold the good and the bad together?
One of my kids was having a difficult day recently. He sat down on the bed next to me, and complained about how unfair life was sometimes. I had been particularly sick that day, spending most of the day in bed and close to tears. He looked at me and said, "Why do you have to be sick? This isn't fair."
I closed my eyes. I knew too well how he was feeling; I'd felt the same way countless times myself. But then I remembered a verse I'd just stumbled on from Job, "Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?" (Job 2:10)
We talked about what that verse meant. About the complexities of this life. About how seldom we'll find something that is all good or all bad.
It gives us hope in the darkness. Even there, there is light. And it gives us balance in the good times. Even there, we may have struggles.
Life is a mingling of the joy and the sorrow. We live in the tension, in the complexity, of the good and the bad. We hold them both. We feel them both. And, like the Israelites, they blend together to become the hum and the music of our lives.
