"I am not nearly as much fun as I was a year ago." I made this statement to a friend after she asked what I've observed as the biggest change in myself since I started working as a chaplain. Sitting with others in the depths of their despair, pain, loneliness, and lack of resources is humbling and can be disheartening. It can feel like searching for joy by slogging through quicksand. My pre-chaplain silver linings seem trite as I listen to a patient or their loved one process things deep, dark, and often hopeless.
Lately, these stories overlay news reports featuring atrocities of human war-making, political messes, and the crises of anxiety, loneliness, and other human conditions. It can feel sacrilegious and futile to consider "fun" when so much pain is present in the world.
As I sit to write this submission on the theme of gratitude, my mood resonates with the weather outside my window. The damp, sunless, day-after-a-drenching-rain gloom feels weighty. I am not feeling particularly grateful today. In fact, I notice with mild apprehension that I rarely feel the kind of gratitude I had been familiar with when I was younger. The kind of gratitude that instigates happy feelings of contentment. The "I feel so lucky" type of gratitude indicating that the happiness vending machine is abundantly stocked and God is good. My submission is due today. How will I find words upbeat enough to speak to gratitude?
Seeking inspiration, I search YouTube for songs on gratitude and settle on one I hadn't listened to for a while. I resolutely press the static arrow in the middle of the video on the screen, not expecting much. By the second line, I am weeping.
"For Your mercy never fails me
All my days, I've been held in Your hands"*
Weeping. I note my surprise. Where did this come from? My tears continue as the worship leader sings. Searching my feelings for the source of my tears, I find only deep, aching gratitude. The kind that emerges when one is slogging through quicksand in the dark, focused on the world's lack, and then the body slams full into God's soft, merciful embrace.
This kind of gratitude isn't happiness. It's relief. Relief that emerges when you realize you've never been alone in the dark even if it felt like you were. Like the fortunate toddler in the night who wakes terrified from a dream, only to see that their loved one is still with them. They had never been alone. Their loved one stayed closer than the darkness, ready to defend, always present. Relief. Gratitude.
These words from the Hebrew prophet, Isaiah, resonate with me today:
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. (Isaiah 43:2)
Isaiah's prophetic words speak to survival. To protection. To redemption. To the fact that I have not been consumed. These words don't move me straight to hope and glory. Rather, they let me sit for a minute in the gravity of what happened. These words allow me to wonder at Mercy, who followed me into the dark, and at Goodness, who stayed with me there. They allow me to feel relief and then aching, desperate, wondrous gratitude for the tenacity of God's mercy and goodness.
This is for all of us. These words from Isaiah were originally for ancient peoples in terrifying circumstances. Now, they are for me and for you, and they will be for the generations of the future. For all of time, God promises presence in the darkness. Every time. Always.
I let myself sit with this ache for a while and then turn my attention back to the keyboard and screen. I notice the birds are singing, and a smile plays at my lips.
* "Goodness of God," CeCe Winans (2021); Songwriters: Ben Fielding/Brian Johnson/Edward Martin Cash/Jason Ingram/Jenn Johnson; Goodness of God lyrics © Capitol CMG Publishing
Jill English is an avid encourager of people and a lover of words. She is most at home out-of-doors, especially if the out-of-doors involves a beach. Her most magical moments happen as 'Mimi' while spending time with her well-loved grandchildren and her adult kids. Jill spends her workdays helping others discern vocational call through theological education. Her favorite conversations involve connecting the sacred dots of everyday life and faith. Jill lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with two small, elderly pups.
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