Mysteries, Yes! (November 3, 2023)
From November 3, 2023
Dear Friends,
Real talk. You almost certainly have more emails than you have time to read, and I'm grateful that you have clicked on this one. I recently shared with a friend how people seem to be more patient as I wander around their inboxes these days. I don't want to abuse their patience, but I definitely want to accept it. So thank you.
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First the stuff that people have been asking about. We are still awaiting the results of the biopsy, and are anticipating getting that report next Tuesday, November 7th. Kathryn and I remain largely at peace with the wait. That almost certainly reflects your prayer gifts, and specifically the prayers for contentment and peace that many of you are offering on our behalf. If ever there was evidence of God's faithfulness and grace, it might be in our how little mind space we are devoting to what might happen, and how much we are devoting to what is happening. Right Here. Right Now.
That is not to say we are in denial or avoidance or employing any of those sorts of coping schemes. That is not it at all. We are certainly aware of, and able to discuss, pretty openly at that, what we might hear on Tuesday. Anywhere from:
"We got it all, the tumor was completely and utterly benign, and there is nothing more for us to do"
to
"We did not get it all, the tumor is aggressive and malignant, and there is nothing more for us to do."
I suppose we will land somewhere in the middle. But even creating or nursing that expectation feels a little fraught. The truth is, we simply don't know, and we are not reading Dr. Google and we are not reading tea leaves and we are not reading palms, and we are not trying to plan for every possible branch or sequel. Candidly, that all sounds exhausting, and seems to reject the gift of peace that we have been offered. And were we to do those things, we would certainly miss the magic that is happening in our back yard every day: Eight-point bucks and golden finches and bluebirds and red-bellied woodpeckers and hawks and all sorts of life that just seems to keep coming and coming and coming - stopping in to say hello before getting on with their days.
Not to mention the lovingly prepared meals that land on our porch and the text messages of encouragement that arrive at precisely the right time and friends dropping off their puppies for the day and get-well cards and flowers and visits from granddaughters and all manner of loves.
All of it way, way better than Dr. Google. We don't want to miss any of it. Not one moment.
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But wait. There's more.
I spent this morning with a dear friend who said something along the lines of:
"The seventh will be what the seventh will be. In a way, you are simply waiting to be told what already is, and you have zero control over that news."
Okay. I'm with you so far.
"But here is what is not determined. The eighth. The day after you get whatever news you will get will be a day all its own, and your choices that day will matter a great deal more than the news you receive on the seventh."
I've been sitting with his question since he dropped me off a couple of hours ago. I don't have an answer, really, but have been wondering just how much what we hear on the seventh really matters to what happens on the 8th. Wondering if, perhaps the gift of this particular crisis is the reminder that no matter the circumstances, no matter the news of the seventh, the gift of life is the gift of life. A gift to be received and cherished and savored.
It's possible, I suppose, that the way we savor it can be shaped by the news, but underneath any external difference is a solid sameness: a confidence in the hereness and nowness and no-matter-whatness of God's love and delight and willingness to share it with us in everything. And no news, no change in circumstances, no anything can shake that love and delight of God's generosity.
( By the way; If you don't have a friend like him, I urge you to get one. In fact, I'll be that friend if you ask. I will.)
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Well, that's where I find myself this morning. Wanting to share this with you, but also itching to get into the backyard to see who might have stopped by. I can't wait, and dare to hope that we'll remember to look on the 8th. No matter what.
Maybe you'll be willing to remind us. Or better yet, share with us what you see when you look in your own back yard with the eyes of your heart.
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In grace and peace,
Chris
P.S. I have not intended to leave anyone off of this email. Please feel free to share with anyone you wish. Thank you.
P.P.S. I'm lingering just one minute more to share a gift a friend - the same one who asked the question today - gave me in August. It seems to me to fit, but I leave that to you to decide. Thanks for indulging me.
Mysteries, Yes
by Mary Oliver
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.
How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of rising. How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken. How people come, from delight or the scars of damage, to the comfort of a poem.
Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.
Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.