Sunday, May 8, 2011

That Kind of Week

Evidence of summer: avocados on sale.

When I get to the end of a week and I haven't had a chance to write, it usually means one of two things: it has been extremely busy, or it has been extremely hard.

This week has been both.

Monday morning held a rude awakening when I found out that the mother of one of my friends unexpectedly passed away. I was driving down the highway on my way to school, admiring the sun rising above the mountains at such an early hour--a welcome change after a long, dark winter. All of the sudden the details of the sunrise didn't matter. I struggled to remember my lesson plans for the day, to communicate my plans for track practice, to eat my oatmeal before the first bell rang. Life stopped for a moment while I remembered what a delicate existence I really hold, and then it had to continue.

And continue it did...through the planning and execution of one track meet--held in four hours of steady rain--and the planning and paperwork for three more held this coming week. My cold continued, and my voice faded. A wedding shower was a smash hit, and news from another friend came, indicating her marriage seems headed for failure.

And next week will continue as well, with a funeral, three track meets, and picking up the pieces from any potential crises that have yet to appear. Maybe this week will be easier, maybe it won't. All I know is that when I get to Sunday after a week like this I find myself content to melt into the songs and words of sermons and hymns as they wash over me. I wish I could drag endless people in behind me on weeks like this, to experience the peace that comes from a faith in a plan that is bigger than my own, a faith in the redemption of situations that seem cruel. I enjoy so many things in this life that are rich and beautiful and deep, yet this is a very broken world--with intense hurts that we both choose for ourselves and those around us choose for us. And when I am knee deep in anguish for the pain that those I love are suffering through, I crave a life beyond my own, beyond this brokenness that will always exist this side of heaven.

Perhaps that craving should be nearer to me every week, on weeks that are beautiful and filled with satisfaction and beauty just as it is during weeks that are filled with trauma and pain. And yet perhaps that is the beauty of darkness. It takes months of dark days to bring me to appreciate the rich satisfaction of the early summertime sunrise. Yet during weeks like this, the sunrise is a welcome sign that winter has come to an end, just as it always does.

1 comment:

  1. This was a touching post and made me think a bit more about what I should be doing to ensure that Eliza grows up with a faith beyond that which she has in her parents.

    xx thinking of you.