The sun came out for a little bit today.
But before the sun came out, it rained for forty years. During those forty years, much was lost. At times it was difficult to remember if there had ever been a light upon this earth. All we knew was darkness, and in that darkness we experienced anxiety and fear, bitterness and death, cold and suffering, sleeplessness and extreme fatigue, and sorrow upon heartbreak upon sorrow. At times it was difficult to remember the reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
Do we continue to get up every morning because of the hope that today might be the day that the light returns? Or because even in the darkness, there is living yet to live?
Chris goes to Texas tomorrow for a funeral of one of the finest women I have ever had the privilege of meeting. Her death was unexpected and we grieve along with her husband and family and many friends. We grieve for her magnificent smile, snuffed out so soon. We grieve for the many people that she obviously loved in such a admirable, selfless and unconditional manner. We grieve because of the rain that envelops us and chills us through (even though we are in a drought and desperately need the rain). We grieve with others who are sick and dying and others who have lost loved ones. Death seems to have swallowed us whole this last month.
I have grown old this last month. In my old age, I have mourned the loss of beauty and of youth and of freedom. In my old age, I have searched for myself and my God anew. In my old age, I have contemplated the meaning of life, and of love, and of death.
It is supposed to continue raining for the next four days. I will get up each morning and I will live within the darkness and I will build my fire and I will work. I will schedule meetings and schedule phone calls and schedule other peoples’ lives and manage other peoples’ money. And when I’m done with that, I’ll do dishes and maybe some laundry and cook food and try to keep the fire going.
And next week, the sun will come out again.
I’ll put on makeup and go for long walks on the beach and spend time with lovely people and worship the God who took death to the grave and rose victorious and put his bow in the sky as a sign that the waters shall no more destroy all flesh. I’ll take the medicine he gives me each week in his body and blood. I’ll dance when the music plays and I’ll sing all the lyrics wrong and I’ll continue to type my name “Keskue” instead of “Leslie” when my right hand gets one row off on the keyboard.
And I’ll see this guy, who lights up even the darkest day and is a gentle reminder of life and all the goodness that it has to offer. I’ll talk all googly at him, and I’ll help him find his thumb when he needs it because that’s what grandmas do. We just love and cuddle.
And I’ll watch as my second grandchild grows inside this girl, while these two continue to grow in their love for one another in their new marriage.
We heard the new little one’s heartbeat last week. There is life yet to live. Old age may just be the best age yet.