Life and Death in Little Women

Just those first few notes of music and I am wholly caught up in a story that I am never wearied of. How many times in my life have I watched or read Little Women? I don't know, but the number isn't that important to me. It's the weight of all of those years of loving that story. Louisa May Alcott wrote these characters from life into immortality, taking from her own childhood to create what she knew. And so it is a true story, as real as anything found in the nonfiction section, though the characters and events may technically be fictional. It is a story of separation and reunification, of growing up and growing older, of living and dying, of love and confusion, of hope and despair. I find myself reflected in the words and dreams of the sisters, more so in some than in others but connecting with each.

The most wrenching scene in the entire movie takes place when Beth dies, and I think it captures the heart of the tension. Jo, having just had her literary hopes dashed by Professor Bhaer, returns to her room to find a telegram from Orchard House where Beth is at last succumbing to her prolonged weakness. She rushes home in time to spend a last few hours with her sister, reading Dickens to her and trying to spoon feed life back into her. But it is too late for that, and Beth lovingly submits to those exertions because they help Jo though they do little for her. She doesn't mind death. And I understand, I think.

You see, what Beth senses is the world in tumult, always turning, always changing. In The Silmarillion, Tolkien refers to the mortality of Men as the “gift of Eru,” though they do not recognize it as such when they enviously consider the immortality of the Elves. But there is pain in immortality, as there is pain in change. The closeness that I shared with Maria when we were children is not the closeness that we will have as adults. Perhaps we will not be the less so, but there is no more innocence, no more of that casual negligence that one can have toward a relationship that practically maintains itself because the two of us lived together and could hardly hope to avoid one another on a daily basis. It's true that we treasure something least until it's gone. Beth asks Jo bitterly why everyone wants to leave. She loves home and what the four sisters had there. They did not lead a charmed life, but they had one another and what more could they desire? But the other sisters did desire more. Meg gained her John, not a wealthy man but a fine one, and as good a husband as she could hope for. Jo chased after her literary dreams in New York City, itching to leave the confines of Orchard House for Europe or somewhere big enough to hold her boundless imagination. And Amy traveled with Aunt March to Europe, pursuing art and a good match. The only person left to love the papers and fragments of the life they lived together was Beth, dear Beth who did not want to leave.

And perhaps that is what kills her. Because she can't move on from there to something else, the old memories and nostalgia draining her strength as she struggles to somehow justify the joylessness of the present against those fondly remembered days. But her life is a brief and therefore potent example of the gift that death is to us. I will never say that death is good. It is wholly and without a doubt a result of the Fall. But I think that it was God's grace that led him to prevent Adam and Eve from eating of the tree of life in their fallen state. Pain was a reality for them, as was separation. The perfect unity of their souls could be no more, and to live forever in such a state would be Hell. In order to relieve the awful burden of that separation, God allowed them the ability to die, to be removed from the immediate cares and pains of this world until he might renew it in its entirety.

I don't fear death, though it may involve physical pain. I would fear far more the thought of living forever. And as John Donne says, “One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally / And death shall be no more ; death, thou shalt die.”

Bloom

You're killing me.

I just thought you should know.

Once upon a time there was a bud:

tightly closed against the world,

afraid to open, to smile, to radiate.

But it felt a ray of warmth,

a single golden beam that felt like love.

In the moment of decision, it chose,

and chose wrongly.

To open and be known,

to shed the mystery and allure,

was the beginning of the end.

I learned as I gazed outward and upward

that the sun's warmth was impersonal:

it did not love me anymore than poison ivy,

treated us alike,

and in its heat I withered away.

You're killing me.

And it wasn't even worth it.

________________________________

Occasionally I wonder if those crackpot theories about positive and negative vibes are true. Only occasionally, and usually I come to the conclusion that "crackpot" is still an appropriate designation. But these past few days have made me wonder more than is my wont.

Having already been home for Thanksgiving break, I was not and am not keen to be home for Christmas. I should be, I know, and it's not that I don't love my family, friends, or job, but I would rather be depressed at IMPACT than depressed at home. Nonetheless, I went to the necessary lengths to ensure that I would not be trapped in the south by an ice storm in North Carolina, leaving at 8:30 on Friday morning. I thought that was sufficient, but was I ever wrong...

The day is going fairly well. Despite the fact that we were the last of the three vehicles composing the northern contingent, Randy and I managed to pass Grace and Jackson along the way and we were making excellent time heading into Virginia. I expected to be home no later than 12, and that as the traffic and Acts of God estimate. Then things just went funny. First, Randy realized that our directions were taking us in a really roundabout, extra long loop up into Richmond and then down south to Norfolk. But we figured we might as well just keep following them until we couldn't find our next step, so I turned around and went back down I-95 south until we reached a route that Randy said would get us to Norfolk.

Finally in Norfolk, I discovered that Randy lived there much of his life, but has not been there in a long enough while to get lost while searching for Five Points. Getting there involved an illegal u-turn at a busy intersection, wrong turns because I am directionally challenged at the best of times, and wrong turns because Randy didn't know where he was going. At long last, tired and frustrated, I dropped off Randy and turned my car north on I-64. Surely it would be a straight shot from there, and I could hold off on stopping for gas and food until I was out of the VA Beach/Norfolk/Hampton/Newport News area.

Bad idea. In the space of five minutes, pouring rain became freezing rain became heavy snow that was thick on the roadway. Traffic came close enough to a standstill as we crept along at an adrenaline-inducing 20 to 30 miles per hour. Three hours later and I finally reached I-295, but it was pretty clear that I would not be driving home that night. Thankfully, Katrina had a clearer head than I and booked a room at a hotel. After stopping at long last for gas and getting some food, I drove to the hotel and crashed with no clear idea of what tomorrow would bring.

The next day, I peered out the window to see a cessation of snowfall. Hoping for the best, I turned on the weather channel, only to find my hopes dashed as commentator after commentator went on about the storm that was stopping everything in D.C. and Philly. There would be no drive north that day. But I recalled an offer the night before from an IMPACT alumni who contacted me on Facebook. Corinne lives in Williamsburg and when she saw from my status that I was stuck in Richmond, she offered to help however she could. I took her up on that and drove on the mostly clear roads 40 miles back down I-64 to Williamsburg. The day was spent largely talking with Corinne and Cameron, another IMPACT alum staying with her for a few days. At last I slept and the next morning set out, determined to reach home but still feeling less than happy about the next two weeks. About twenty miles north of Richmond, traffic slowed to a grinding 5 miles per hour. Great. This again. Twelve miles in two hours, and I was ready to kill something, afraid that heavy volume would make this jam the par all the way through to D.C.

This was not the case, as I found out eventually, and most of the way was fairly clear and fast travel, although the McDonald's I stopped at for a late lunch proved to be quite a long stop with all of the drive thru traffic and a badly plowed parking lot. Everything was going well and I seemed to have a straight shot north, especially as the day wore on, but at long last I had to stop for gas just four miles inside the PA line at Shrewsbury. Having refueled, I went to turn my car on again, but it refused. Great.

An hour and a half later, parents and tow dolly arrived to carry dear overworked Izzy and myself home and not quite in the fashion I had envisioned. But we're home now and safe, although it'll probably be at least a week before Izzy is fixed and driveable.

Back to the negative emanations though: I don't understand how so many awful things could happen on one trip. The only thing that could've gone wrong and didn't was that I was able to get out of the unplowed hotel parking lot, but Izzy is one tough girl and thanks to her front wheel drive and grit we got out just fine. The weird part of the whole mess is that I kind of wanted it to continue, to delay the inevitable. But now I'm home. 13 more days. One day for every hour that my 60 hour trip ought to have taken. 13 days and I'll be in North Carolina. 14 days and I'll be back at IMPACT. Somehow I don't even want to go back to IMPACT, but I don't want to be here. I don't really want to be anywhere at all. Is that a bad thing?

Friend?

Lie to me, I said.

I can't handle your truth,

the bleak expression I spy

beneath the cracks,

the places where your mask wore thin.

There were moments,

fleeting seconds

that slipped through my fingers

like a cool mountain stream:

headed elsewhere, giving only a passing nod,

but they were mine and I surrendered them.

Now you're gone.

You and your dancing feet

have danced out of reach,

and all I want to say is,

"I love you."

Tumbling

A single soft snap
and you own temptation:
bloody sheen of apple blush
contrasting vividly against your skin.
Looks like you've been caught red-in-your-handed,
but nobody sees it, sees beyond the fruit,
to the tar-weighted soul.

You think it through
   -I know you do, don't scoff.
Before the taste caressed your tongue,
   you imagined it.
Every agonizingly pleasurable second:
    the crunch of taut skin;
    the sweet sin savor of juice
      bleeding from the tender white flesh.

Redemption. Grace. Just words?
   You're so good at imagining, imagine this:
Every agonizingly loving second:
    the crunch of bone on nail;
    the sour stench and sting of wine;
    the blood flowing, reddening the tender, pale flesh.
A savior's pain for a second's sin.

This is not judgment,
    no minute guilt-trip to the other side of the world.
You see, what you imagined?
    I did too.

And when I lamented, cried also, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabacthani,"
    He said,
        "I haven't."

Thoughts on Poverty

Take my will and make it Thine

It shall be no longer mine

Take my heart it is Thine own

It shall be Thy royal throne

Take my love, my Lord I pour

At your feet its treasure store

Take myself and I will be

Ever, only, all for Thee.

“God has blessed me so much with …” I've heard a lot of words filling that blank. A roof over my head, a family that loves me, a new set of mattresses. The many things for which we are thankful. And it is a wonderful thing to be thankful. We may have an entire holiday dedicated to the practice of thanksgiving, but it is a sadly dying lifestyle. Be thankful, please do, but think about those words for a moment. I know that after two recent experiences, I will have to pause briefly before filling in the blank. “Why?” You may ask, and I reply that there are people, Christians even, without a roof over their heads, without food in their stomachs, without clean water. Those blessings that I have taken for granted so much of my life are lacking in a very present, desperate way for some people around the world. Has God chosen not to bless them? What makes me so special?

The first of those two experiences was a three day trip to the SIFAT campus in Alabama. SIFAT stands for Servants in Faith and Technology, and the organization's mission is to train indigenous missionaries (the local pastorate in developing nations) in sustainable community development initiatives. At the same time, they use their campus to give Midpew Americans a taste of what life is like in those nations. I knew none of this going into our weekend there, just some vague notions of staying in some village and that it might be cold. Believe me, I was in for a surprise. We had a few activities during the afternoon as we got to know what they call the “global village,” a conglomeration of houses typical of countries such as Bolivia, the Philippines, and Uganda. But as night drew on, we were all gathered together and informed that in the upcoming simulation, whatever food, drinking water, and shelter we got would be what we would have for the night. With this rather vague explanation, we entered the slums.

Darkness. Mud. Confusion. Those were my first impressions of what were to be a very long two hours. We were forced to question the various slum dwellers to figure out what we had to do, which turned out to be working odd jobs for a cantankerous, persnickety woman to make money to buy what seemed to be very overpriced soup. Certain actions could send a family member to jail, but justice was not a concept the guard understood. As the evening was drawing to a close, everything seemed to go haywire as some of the students rebelled against the guard for selling drugs and other oppressive actions. At this point, I was sitting in a house that we had managed to purchase with another family, still pretty clueless. In my head, I knew that all of this was a simulation, that in a little while we would be leaving, going back to America where everything is sane and calm and normal. But every other part of me was terrified. I did not know what was going on outside; I just wanted to survive and get out, but someone was upsetting the order of things in which I understood my place and accepted it. As Chaarity can tell you, I was standing in the dark praying aloud to God. And suddenly everyone was being pushed into their homes and the slum dwellers were walking through the main way as they sang “Amazing Grace.” It was so surreal.

Two weeks later, we piled into the vans and drove to the heart of Atlanta. There, in the most crime-ridden part of Georgia, sits the City of Refuge, the main homeless shelter for that area. We only spent half a day there, plus a bit of a morning, but that was enough to expose us to real poverty. This was no backwoods simulation. As I walked along one of the streets, I was struck with the realization that this place had been beautiful once. When I mentioned to Lee my thoughts about what it would take to renovate a particular house, he informed me that that is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Atlanta. But now all of the buildings are in a state of disrepair with boarded windows or no windows, crumbling concrete, litter in abundance, and the clinging stench of pot. Many of the residences were abandoned, at least by their legal owners. As I look back on it, I am struck by the analogous relationship between the buildings and the people. This neighborhood was once beautiful, a place where people wanted to live and maintain and love. But somewhere along the line its well kept facade started slipping until it became the mask of despair. The people who live there are beautiful, the face of God on earth. They are, as another City of Refuge worker, Micah, was fond of saying, “the last, the lost, and the least.” Somewhere along the line in their life, they maybe made some bad choices. Or maybe (and perhaps more commonly, especially with regard to the women and children), they were caught in a flawed system that prevents them from rising above their situations. As they were held down in darkness, they assumed the attitude of despair that is overtly manifested in the squalor of their environment.

When I think of these people, the women that we talked to at City of Refuge, the children who greedily grabbed off all of the love we could give them, my own overwhelming confusion and fear in the slums, I hear the echo of David's cry in Psalm 143:3-4. “My enemy has chased me. He has knocked me to the ground and forces me to live in darkness like those in the grave. I am losing all hope; I am paralyzed with fear.” But what now? In an email from one of the staff members at SIFAT, he mentioned a quote, that “The aim of education is not knowledge, but action.” Each of us, myself included, must now figure out how to make serving those people that we met, that we briefly lived like, a reality in our lives.

I asked the question at the beginning, if God has blessed me so much, has He simply chosen not to bless others? And I think in writing this I have realized something. The answer is no. He has chosen to bless them through us. We have so much, but we have been given in order to give. Whatever my calling may be, God has still given me the responsibility of caring for those less fortunate in whatever way available to me as I walk in that calling. In giving of myself to others, I am giving myself back to God. As the song says, “Take myself and I will be / Ever, only, all for Thee.”

The Blessing of Brokenness

"Suffering is one of the sufferer's blessings." (Lament for a Son)

How can this be? How can I ask God for suffering when I beg for its removal in those times when it overwhelms me?

And yet... And yet in those moments of brokenness, of pain and sorrow, when I sit in dust and ashes: He is silent. Is that unexpected? I won't lie and say that I hear God speak in those places, but as Masters asked... "Of what use is language?" ("Silence") In our grief, there are few words that can provide comfort- who can know the meaning of suffering? But the presence of another, someone who understands and holds and loves, does not utter empty platitudes. That person is balm to the soul of that blessed mourner.

In the same way, God is the balm, the healing presence that supports us as we walk forward, slowly, staggering. God is the beauty amidst the ashes. Even as God's love is a suffering love, so must our love also be. I cannot be transformed into the likeness of Christ if I balk at the very thought of pain, for his pain was great. And when He walks with me, silent, there, I think I understand most deeply who He is and what He has done for me.

Break me, God, that in my pain and weakness, I will draw near to You. Fill the sores, the scars, the unhealed wounds. You are all I have and You are all I need. "Batter me, three person'd God, for you / As yet but knock; but breathe, shine, and seek to mend. / That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me..." ("Holy Sonnet 14")