The Story That Goes On Forever: An Advent of Believing in Believing, Part 3
Consent leads to liberation, death leads to new life, and the end of the story leads to the story that goes on forever. This is the logic of Love.
When people ask why I’m traveling this weekend, it’s generally with the kindest form of curiosity. Oh! Starting your Christmas travels early?
Chris says that my penchant for authenticity can throw people off (read: Debbie Downer) and that I don’t always have to tell them the full story, especially at a holiday cocktail party, or in line at the grocery store. Fair enough, but it feels weird to say, “I’m heading to my mom’s for a shopping weekend!”, which is the story I told the stylist painting on my partial highlights this past Tuesday. I was tempted to tell the whole of it, but I heard my husband’s voice gently reminding me that I don’t have to share all the hardest things in my life with all the strangers. So I kept it light. Christmas shopping will happen this weekend, the two-year anniversary of my dad’s death. But, I don’t know, it’s weird to call it shopping when the real story is grief.
When I think about my dad’s death, I think of the hymns we sang to him, the stories we told around him as he lay between us. And I think of the popsicle stick sponges I bought the day before he died, once he’d stopped drinking and I couldn’t stand to see his lips so parched. Dipping the tiny pink sponge in water, and pressing it to his mouth, watching the water drip down his chin, wiping it away.
I think of reading the last few pages of C.S. Lewis’s The Last Battle aloud to him in the middle of the night, while we took turns sitting up with him, my brothers and mom grabbing a couple of hours of sleep in various parts of the house.
“…the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them,” I read aloud to him in the dark. “But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.”
Did I believe that my dad’s real story was finally beginning? I don’t know what I believed. I’m not sure I know the difference between belief and hope. Do you? When I remember reading the final page of Narnia’s adventures to my dad during his last night on earth, I always flash further back to memories of him reading to me: Sweet Pickles books and his original stories. Me under the covers and his form beside me in the soft light, doing all the voices. If any one taught me to love what words can do, it was him.
“…at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story,” I whispered. It was 2 am. “Which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever.” The work of helping my dad into the next story was holy and heavy with love. And the words I spoke lived in the realest part of me. I think that’s what it means to believe, even when doubt is ever present.
By January and February, I was making it through some days without tears. But church always broke the grief right out of my body. And usually it was when we recited the Apostle’s Creed. That last little bit:
I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting.
The resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. The body and the life. His body so recently had lain beside me. And then it was gone. This choice to believe that somehow he was now himself again, fully whole in the real and healing presence of God—ever and lasting—it gutted me every time. I realized that somehow, despite all the reasons the rules of the world might say otherwise, I believed the story of life everlasting. The great story that no one on earth has read. The story that goes on forever. I believed, not because I understood it, but because I had so recently been present for its opposite: the end of a story, the silencing of a life I loved. And somehow, in my dad’s leaving, there was light and love and courage. The presence of Love at his death had confirmed something deep and good in me. I believed in resurrection.
Maybe it’s strange to write about death during Advent, a season of waiting for a birth. But birth and death go hand in hand, and I’ve been thinking we should consider them together more often. Last week I wrote about Mary’s choice to give birth to a child from God, and how her consent led to her powerful song of liberation. How does consent lead to liberation? The same way that death leads to new life, the same way the end of a story leads to a story that goes on forever. This is the logic of Love. And the door to that Love somehow has to do with belief.
Despite its sweet hymns, its play-acted nativity performances, its evergreen decor and twinkle lights, Advent is a season about waiting, not a season about joy. Joy comes later on Christmas Eve. The weeks leading up to it are for the rest of our experiences. To prepare we have to reckon with fear and loss and endings. Otherwise, how can we recognize joy when it arrives?
Advent reminds us that while the life everlasting can feel impossible to cling to, we all long for stories of transcendence: Mary who risks everything because she believes an angel’s promise, who sings of oppressors defeated and weak ones lifted to power. A baby who brings the presence of God to everyone, regardless of culture, opportunity, or ability.
Advent invites us to believe in a world turned upside down through Love, a God who reaches into death itself and begins a new story. One that goes on forever.
I believe in resurrection. And I’ll believe it this weekend as I visit my dad’s grave with my brothers and mom, as we head to a breakfast of huevos rancheros at our favorite local spot afterward. I’ll believe, not because it’s natural, but because I’m practicing, waiting, preparing. And because all good stories start with Love.
A Slow Practice
All good stories start with Love. Throughout this advent season, I’m encouraging to practice a five-minute centering prayer every night before bed or every early morning.
This week as you sit for prayer, light a candle, and focus your attention on a word that speaks to opposing experiences in your life. Where are you being invited to hold death and life, fear and courage, belief and doubt in the same hand? What will it mean for you to embrace the hope of God-With-Us in the mdist of the deaths, losses, and endings in your life?
Spend some time considering this and ask God to reveal a word to you that encapsulates the opposing realities in your life.
Imagine holding that word in your heart in the presence of the Spirit of God. When we practice centering prayer, we sit in silence, focus on breathing deeply, and whenever our mind wanders we bring it back with gentleness to the word we’ve chosen.
Set a timer for five minutes. And begin.
Breathe in: Welcome God-With-Us.
Breathe out: Bring hope to the world.
Breathe in: I invite Your Story That Never Ends.
Breathe out: Teach me to wait for it.
Breathe in: I welcome belief and hope.
Breathe out: I’m making room for faith.
When you’re ready to settle into your time of contemplation, use your imagination to hold your word in the center of you. Breathe deeply in the presence of God, and return to the word whenever you feel your mind drift.
When your timer goes off, you can close with this prayer that comes from The Last Battle:
Here I am, Lord, watching for the beginning of the Great Story. Which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever. Teach me to wait with hope.
Like you, I tend to over-share with the well-meaning people in checkout lines who say "Are you ready for Christmas?" The best answer would be "Not yet, but I'm working on it," but I keep saying true things instead, like "I buried both my mother and my dog last month, and I'm having a hard time celebrating this year." I needed these words so badly. Thank you for providing a compass I can use to navigate all the complicated feelings during this "season of joy." Here's to our mutual survival!
I sit here with tears streaming down my face, almost 5 years after my husband Mike died. Your words are like a balm on my heart and I can't thank you enough. People don't really want to talk about grief, particularly at Christmas, I feel like we just had a conversation. Bless you! I forgot all about the Last Battle (going to buy it today). Trying to help my daughter, Molly,navigate this has been so difficult. But, today, I think I will try and have her practice WITH me the Centering prayer... ( it never crossed my mind... Dear Jessie). Thank you for the gift you give so many. I am so very grateful for you today.