The Practice of Lament and Embracing the Mystery of God
(Part 1 - Finding Eden, Here)
I'm going to be sending this letter as a series. After what has felt like six months of writer's block, as I sat down to write over the past few days, the words came pouring out. I started writing with one topic in mind, and before I knew it, I was headed in a completely different direction. It's good, I suppose —proof to me at least that the Spirit is still speaking, still teaching, still correcting, still guiding.
Today, I'm reminding myself, and perhaps you, of why I started writing in this little corner of the world. As I have been living in a year that has felt like the inside of a pressure cooker, I have arrived here, nearly the end of August, wondering where the time has gone. I keep saying that I need time to process all our family's changes. There have been very few moments when I felt like I could catch my breath. Instead of succumbing, I'm on a mission to find my way through it. I'm working this out in real-time, so bear with me.
I've realized I have been living this year with a very zoomed-in view. It has felt like hiking treacherous terrain where every step matters. To my right is a cliff, where one misstep could result in a fall. Staying hyper-focused on the next step is critical. Steep switchbacks keep me wondering if I'm going anywhere at all. We know the payoffs—views you would not otherwise see without this kind of effort. Those moments you catch a view of the valley below remind you of why you attempted this in the first place. They remind you to keep going. We challenge ourselves to do these things physically for a good reason. They provide the age-old metaphor for life. The things that require the most from us, the ones that push us to our limits, the ones where we are momentarily broken to the point of cracking under pressure, ultimately define us.
Around the middle of June, I started paying attention to my body. It had been sending me signals for a few months that the stress had been building, and had nowhere to go. Our bodies are wise; as Bessel van der Kolk puts it, they keep the score. One way I tend to my body is to run. It is a lifeline to me. A place to work my body and my mind. As my heart rate increases, so does my awareness. I often have revelation on the open road. It's where I do my best praying, and God's voice speaks the loudest. It prepares me best to care for my family. Even still, it's been hard to find between times when I can breathe in (one-two-three) and out (one-two-three).
I was flipping through the Psalms the other day (as I am inclined to do when I find it hard to absorb the Bible), and I landed on one that I usually skip over—Pslam 77. I love the Psalms because they represent the fullness of our lives—a model of prayer and honest expressions of joy and pain, triumph and trial. If you are included to skip genuine moments of expressed despair, this is not the Pslam for you. Reading it the other morning, I was struck as Asaph pulls no punches in defining his present moment. For nine verses, he goes on with brutal honesty about where he is in the present.
I cry aloud to God,
aloud to God, and he will hear me.
I sought the Lord in my day of trouble.
My hands were continually lifted up
all night long;
I refused to be comforted.
I think of God; I groan;
I meditate; my Spirit becomes weak. Selah
You have kept me from closing my eyes;
I am troubled and cannot speak.
I consider days of old,
years long past.
At night I remember my music;
I meditate in my heart, and my Spirit ponders.
"Will the Lord reject forever
and never again show favor?
Has his faithful love ceased forever?
Is his promise at an end for all generations?
Has God forgotten to be gracious?
Has he in anger withheld his compassion?" Selah
Psalm 77:1-9
Not exactly the guy you would like to invite to a party, is it? Luckily, this isn't where the story ends, and we will get there eventually, but we will move through it slowly. This is where some of you will click away. We aren't good at taking our time, are we? I love that about the Bible, though. This Psalm may be one of the book's more dramatic expressions of despair. Though I don't necessarily relate to the level of discomfort that Asaph is expressing here in my present moment (I am OK, mom!), it is still oddly refreshing that this got printed in the very scriptures that are used to guide our lives.
These nine verses give us a framework for lament, a practice widely underused in our society. We bend towards avoiding uncomfy feelings here in the Western world. We have too much to do, after all. We have underdeveloped muscles in the areas of grief, pain, and suffering. We live too quick of lives to stop and tend to such things. The problem is, like an untended garden, if we ignore the reality of the harder parts of our lives, eventually, they will take over, spilling out in all sorts of ways that don't lead to flourishing. Furthermore, if you read the same Bible I do, the overarching story is one of finding hope, but not without wading through the waters of sin and pain and grief and discomfort. The road to hope goes through, not around.
I started this newsletter with this mission. I wanted to carve out a space committed to finding and preserving what is good, noble, and true. This is an inspiration from our brother Paul, who often had encouraging words to admonish the saints. This particular sentiment is found in Philippians 4:8.
Finally brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable — if there is any moral excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy — dwell on these things. Do what you have learned and received and heard from me, and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.
I have known for a while what I tend to be prone to. I can easily find what is missing in any given scenario. Some would say I can focus on the negative. I would argue that I am keenly aware of my perpetual longing. Longing for what, you might ask? Ultimately, it is the final renewal of all things— the new heaven and the new earth. That is the ache of every Christian, the constant void that sits with us when life gets quiet. I have mentioned Pslam 27 several times in this space. It sums up my longing better than I ever could. I don't wish to pass the time here until we are in the new creation. I remind myself often, maybe even daily of these words.
"I would have lost heart unless I believed I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." (Psalm 27:13)
Another way of saying this is I long to find Eden, here.
A mostly good longing, you would say? Yes, however, it can also lead me down the road of idealism, and when things are less than ideal, I can take a wrong turn fast. We are either taking our longings to the Lord, using them to create something beautiful, or throwing our hands up, inching closer to growing old and curmudgeonly. I'm aiming for the former, but in doing so am bumping up against the places where I'm more prone to complain than I am to doing the work and finding the good in all things. Our world is head-scratching at best, so if you find yourself in a place where you would rather give up, live off the grid, and avoid it altogether, you're not necessarily alone. I've been there, but I tend to think that's not our call as believers in Christ.
It's as though God knew I would be more sensitive to this particular ache. Or it's the ache that has caused in me an equal and opposite reaction, as Newton would say. That reaction, for me, is to move through the world with turned-up senses. I pay attention to the world around me so that I'm not merely moving through scenes but continually registering what is in front of me. Some would call me an empath, and I suppose I am. Whatever you wish to call it, it is safe to say that I am an observer. I am naturally curious, always searching for beauty and a dose of meaning behind my daily interactions.
There can be implications to this, of course. Back to that pesky state, I can find myself in called idealism. What does that look like? Think about family pictures. I have experience on both sides of the camera. It is a whole thing. You pick a date, hire a photographer, assemble outfits, and pick the perfect location at the ideal time to catch golden smiles at golden hour. The only problem is that Davey doesn't nap the day of pictures, and Annie is in a mood. This propels one or both parents to begin the bribes in the car so we can get one good photo to send to our three-hundred-address-long Christmas card list. News flash: Family photos never go as planned. In my days working behind the camera, I mostly encouraged mt clients to at least try to enjoy each other as if I wasn't there. Most of the best photos come in the in-between moments, the ones you least expect. That's where the real story lies, anyhow. It's the ones where mom is comforting Davey, who is clearly tired from skipping his nap, or dad attempting to make Annie-in-a-mood laugh because she is not budging on the smile, no matter how tasty the post-session ice cream will be. Try as we might to look a certain way; those attempts are often futile. I know this, and even still, I fall victim to the same game.
My ideals can extend to ordinary moments, too. Ones where I set up a moment to be perfect, and a child reacts less than ideal. Or a way I wish for a holiday or a vacation to look. Those built-up moments often fall short. But then, simple, everyday, in-between moments take my breath away. They aren't planned or manipulated and don't come with exceptions. They just happen right in front of us.
About a week ago, I had one such moment. It was golden hour at home, a hundred degrees outside, and my daughter was still in her school clothes, a bit tattered from whatever it is that first graders do that makes it look like they have been through the wringer at school. We had finished dinner, and something about the sun, despite the crazy heat, was calling me outside. I asked my daughter if she wanted to go on a walk. I wanted to show her the country road behind our house that ministered to me in ways that likely nobody will ever know. It was an easy yes for her, so we grabbed her scooter and went off. I reached for my camera as we ran out the door.
For the next forty-five minutes, we shared moments that I won't soon forget—I had reached a metaphorical peak out at the valley in the middle of a treacherous hike, and it was beautiful. A moment where the sore muscles and all the time focused on the very next step in front of me paid off. It was simple. Tender. Fun. Surprising. It was good and noble and true. It was a moment when we both breathed deeply. She freely bounced around as she does. That girl's feet are continually off the ground. We laughed. And I captured much of it with my camera. None of these frames were forced. I simply let her do her thing and did my best to freeze these moments in time.
What a gift.
As much as I can relate in this season of life to Asaph's lament, I still have a hard-wired response, a longing to see God at work in the midst. That evening walk with my daughter gave me a picture of where we are headed, always toward the new heaven and the new earth, forever getting closer to the renewal of all things. It's knowing this that propels me to find Eden, here.
I wanted to leave you with this picture. In the coming days, I'll send out part two, exploring the first nine verses of the 77th Psalm more in-depth. We will look at the topic of lament and how moving through it, uncomfortable as it may be, is critical to unlocking the fullness of our lives in God. This part is one we would rather skip. We will stay zoomed in. We will sit in lament and explore its purpose. In part three, we will continue our hike through Psalm 77; only then will we zoom out. We will stop to look back at the valley blow. We will practice remembering the Lord's faithfulness. We will fix our gaze forward in part three, embracing the mystery of God. I hope you will work this out with me in real time, even bear with me as I fumble my way back to life.
I read all of your posts, Julie Cannon. You are a treasure. Loved this one in particular. Thank you for sharing your heart, friend. 🙏🏼
Thanks for posting. This was really well-written and resonated with me...we're in quite a season of lament at our house. I read this quote just before reading your post. Perhaps it will encourage you as well:
“The deeper our faith, the more doubt we must endure; the deeper our hope, the more prone we are to despair; the deeper our love, the more pain its loss will bring: these are a few of the paradoxes we must hold as human beings. If we refuse to hold them in the hopes of living without doubt, despair, and pain, we also find ourselves living without faith, hope, and love.” – Parker J. Palmer