Beauty and Pain
We're walking the streets of New York City. Excited and in awe of being in this surreal place that I've only ever seen in movies. The sounds, sights, and smells are almost overwhelming, but I'm just happy to be experiencing it. Then I remember that my relationship is on its very last leg, and a quiet sadness washes over me. I keep walking, though. Through Central Park, stopping in bakeries for cake and coffee, climbing a rock to overlook the city, riding the subway while a quartet entertains us, sitting on a bench in Times Square. Up the Met steps, paying $25 to see Monet and Picaso and Degas and Rembrandt. The whole experience gives me chills. Standing before these paintings makes me want to cry, they're so unspeakably beautiful and important. I'm sad, but I'm grateful to be here and the art is strangely comforting.
We're walking the streets of Princeton, New Jersey, strolling through colorful neighborhoods, in and out of buildings that have stood there for hundreds of years and hold so much history. We stop in a tiny gelato shop and I get two scoops of chocolate mint, and sit on a bench outside admiring the quaint storefronts and glorious flavors. I think about the hard conversations that will happen in the coming days, and I feel tired and sad again. But then we get up and keep walking, and I'm seeing things that are so beautiful, they somehow make me think that it will be okay.
I'm sitting on my bed at night, and I've been reading several different books of the Bible in the past weeks and journaling more than usual. Jonah, Micah, 1 Timothy, 2 Chronicles - there's so much within their pages that I don't understand, but still plenty of verses that give me comfort and point to the sovereignty and holiness and mercy of God. I feel alone for a moment, because in a lot of ways, I am. The conversations have been had and they've left an undeniable silence in their wake. There's no longer an "us," and that reality keeps hitting me. But the powerful pages of the Bible have given me words, hopes, and prayers to write in my journal. I am fellowshipping with God. I am pouring everything out, and I'm seeing with my own eyes His mercy and feeling His presence. His comfort is thicker than my sadness, and His presence makes my aloneness completely bearable.
We're walking through a parking lot and I stop to take my sandals off because the pavement has turned to sand. Now I'm looking at the utter beauty that is Lake Michigan. The sun is starting to set and even though it's a crowded summer night, the scenery is too beautiful to be obstructed by the hoards of people. We walk down a path, onto a pier that leads us to a glorious spot overlooking the water. It suddenly hits me - again - that I've broken a heart and he is hurting. I feel...heavy. Heavy and burdened and just so sorry. But we keep walking. My 11 year old cousin wants to hold my hand. He has no idea that his tight grip is a comfort to me.
I'm sitting in the middle of a colorful baby shower. There's loud chatter and laughter and so many gifts. I look around and almost every left hand has a wedding ring on it. I'm still smiling but also wondering - will I ever get what they have? They have husbands, children, the whole package, so it appears. Everyone seems so positive. They're all in conversations with each other, seeming to have this life thing figured out. Late that night, after the party is over, I hear the stories of several of those women; their deeply sad and hard lives. My heart hurts for them and I can't imagine going through their trials. It is a good reminder that their lives aren't better than mine, and there is often pain behind smiles.
I'm sitting on a couch with my two dearest friends on either side of me. There's a plate of cookies in front of us and tears streaming down my face as I explain to them why it's over. I have to stop talking because my voice won't work. I wipe the tears off my face and we talk for hours. They encourage me, they tell me that they're proud of me (!), they listen and affirm and say words of wisdom that haven't occurred to me before. I'm learning from them and being challenged and convicted. Before we say goodnight, they both pray for me, then wrap me in a hug. I am so thankful for them. I think about how I don't deserve them, and how their friendship gives me comfort and strength. Our hardships have brought us closer.
This is life. There is unexplainable joy, and sometimes there is unspeakable, unexplainable pain. They are rarely separate from each other, as I once naively thought.
We are living in the already-but-not-yet. We are already children of God, saved from our sin and given mercy. We can already see redemption played out over and over. We already experience fellowship with the saints, but that fellowship is never perfect because we are sinners. We already see glimpses of the glory that awaits us, but it hasn't been fully revealed - yet. The pain in this life causes us to have eager expectation for the life that is to come.
One day - sooner than it can sometimes feel - we will be with Him and every sadness, from the tinge of it to the overwhelming ocean of it, will make sense. Beauty and pain won't mingle anymore. There will be nothing but fulfilled joy. Nothing but His beautiful holiness.
We're walking the streets of Princeton, New Jersey, strolling through colorful neighborhoods, in and out of buildings that have stood there for hundreds of years and hold so much history. We stop in a tiny gelato shop and I get two scoops of chocolate mint, and sit on a bench outside admiring the quaint storefronts and glorious flavors. I think about the hard conversations that will happen in the coming days, and I feel tired and sad again. But then we get up and keep walking, and I'm seeing things that are so beautiful, they somehow make me think that it will be okay.
I'm sitting on my bed at night, and I've been reading several different books of the Bible in the past weeks and journaling more than usual. Jonah, Micah, 1 Timothy, 2 Chronicles - there's so much within their pages that I don't understand, but still plenty of verses that give me comfort and point to the sovereignty and holiness and mercy of God. I feel alone for a moment, because in a lot of ways, I am. The conversations have been had and they've left an undeniable silence in their wake. There's no longer an "us," and that reality keeps hitting me. But the powerful pages of the Bible have given me words, hopes, and prayers to write in my journal. I am fellowshipping with God. I am pouring everything out, and I'm seeing with my own eyes His mercy and feeling His presence. His comfort is thicker than my sadness, and His presence makes my aloneness completely bearable.
We're walking through a parking lot and I stop to take my sandals off because the pavement has turned to sand. Now I'm looking at the utter beauty that is Lake Michigan. The sun is starting to set and even though it's a crowded summer night, the scenery is too beautiful to be obstructed by the hoards of people. We walk down a path, onto a pier that leads us to a glorious spot overlooking the water. It suddenly hits me - again - that I've broken a heart and he is hurting. I feel...heavy. Heavy and burdened and just so sorry. But we keep walking. My 11 year old cousin wants to hold my hand. He has no idea that his tight grip is a comfort to me.
I'm sitting in the middle of a colorful baby shower. There's loud chatter and laughter and so many gifts. I look around and almost every left hand has a wedding ring on it. I'm still smiling but also wondering - will I ever get what they have? They have husbands, children, the whole package, so it appears. Everyone seems so positive. They're all in conversations with each other, seeming to have this life thing figured out. Late that night, after the party is over, I hear the stories of several of those women; their deeply sad and hard lives. My heart hurts for them and I can't imagine going through their trials. It is a good reminder that their lives aren't better than mine, and there is often pain behind smiles.
I'm sitting on a couch with my two dearest friends on either side of me. There's a plate of cookies in front of us and tears streaming down my face as I explain to them why it's over. I have to stop talking because my voice won't work. I wipe the tears off my face and we talk for hours. They encourage me, they tell me that they're proud of me (!), they listen and affirm and say words of wisdom that haven't occurred to me before. I'm learning from them and being challenged and convicted. Before we say goodnight, they both pray for me, then wrap me in a hug. I am so thankful for them. I think about how I don't deserve them, and how their friendship gives me comfort and strength. Our hardships have brought us closer.
This is life. There is unexplainable joy, and sometimes there is unspeakable, unexplainable pain. They are rarely separate from each other, as I once naively thought.
We are living in the already-but-not-yet. We are already children of God, saved from our sin and given mercy. We can already see redemption played out over and over. We already experience fellowship with the saints, but that fellowship is never perfect because we are sinners. We already see glimpses of the glory that awaits us, but it hasn't been fully revealed - yet. The pain in this life causes us to have eager expectation for the life that is to come.
One day - sooner than it can sometimes feel - we will be with Him and every sadness, from the tinge of it to the overwhelming ocean of it, will make sense. Beauty and pain won't mingle anymore. There will be nothing but fulfilled joy. Nothing but His beautiful holiness.
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