Hope, when it doesn't make sense

I went to El Salvador over the break. I love it there, and there are so many things that I want to tell you, so many things and stories to write. I miss the kids; I want to be there right this second; sometimes I wish I never had to leave.

But there's another side of visiting El Salvador, and that's a tougher side to think about. At some point, along with feeling such joy at seeing all the kids, I feel an immense sadness. It's the kind of sadness that comes from knowing that there is such cruelty in the world. Knowing that parents really do abandon their children. Knowing that children really are kidnapped, that young women are sold into slavery. Knowing that, for someone, other people are simply a product to be bought, sold, profited from.

There are those moments when it seems like you are confronted with all the sadness, sickness, sinfulness of the whole world. That you might be trapped beneath the weight of it all, crushed and hurt and crying for a world that is hurting so much.

It's hard to feel hopeful. It's hard to see the good. It's hard to believe that there is anything but cruelty.

But, in each of the children at the orphanage, I see some sense of hope. I see the immensity of goodness, and I feel a wealth of kindness and love that cannot be described.

Perhaps I feel those things because we are in that season for seeking hope; we are, in some sense, awaiting the Resurrection. We know it has already come, and yet each of us looks forward to celebrating that thing which speaks to each of our souls, which lets us know that there is some greater good, that there is some greater love which allows us to live each day in the hope that this world, torn and broken as it is, was conceived in love.

God bless us in those days when it seems difficult to find hope. God bless those who show us Christ, who give us reason to believe.

Love,

Sara

To everything, a season

Lately I've been reading a lot of autobiographies and memoirs. I'm not quite sure what started this kick, but there's something I love about the stories people tell about their own lives, especially the stories of their families.

In keeping with this reading theme, I picked up a book the other day--The Invisible Wall by Harry Bernstein. Bernstein tells the story of growing up in the time just before, during, and just after the first World War. But, this isn't a story of battles or even of what occurred in the larger cities during that time. Bernstein's family lived in a small village, no place really remarkable. Except that it was remarkable.

Or, maybe that is to say that the village was remarkable in the same ways that each of our towns are remarkable, that each small town or village has a life all its own that sets it apart from every other place. The life of Bernstein's village was distinct not for what brought it together, but for what separated it, the invisible wall of the title. This invisible wall was what separated the Jewish villagers from the Christian villagers; it was that thing which reminded them that they were not alike, that there was no way for them to be joined.

But, the war, which claimed the lives of several villagers, was one thing that briefly unified this divided place. Bernstein, then just a small boy, remembers the reactions of the women as they learned of the deaths of their sons,

"The women cried with one another, put arms around one another, and it didn't seem to matter whether you were Jewish or Christian, you just mourned" (160).

It didn't seem to matter. That's an interesting phrase. So often we say something similar to connote that something isn't important, but what is happening when these women are crying together, embracing each other, mourning each others losses, is something very important because, in their coming together, the invisible wall is briefly brought down.

When I read that part of the book, I thought of the first verses of Ecclesiastes 3:

1For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

2 a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
3 a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

And, I guess what stands out to me is that everyone experiences these things. There is nothing to say that one religion or race or gender will experiences pain and loss, joy and laughter. We all experience these things. We all hurt. We all smile. We all need help when we hurt. We all hope to see other smiling faces when we are glad.

It is in these moments we all share that there is a real possibility of showing Christ's love and compassion, maybe even more so than when someone sets out with the intention of sharing the Gospel. St. Francis of Assisi once said, "Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words." Perhaps it is in our shared moments of hurt, joy, pain, and love that we are ablest to preach the Gospel. If nothing else, perhaps we can try it, and hopefully we will begin to feel our invisible walls start to fall.

Love,

Sara