Shakespeare sends an email + dispatches from the sorrowing lands of our exile
In the early days of the pandemic, I saw a handful of articles and tweets shaming us into making the most of this unique time because, ya know, Shakespeare wrote King Lear during the plague of 1606.
Friends, let me tell you something. I am not Bill Shakespeare. I cannot even manage a monthly email to you, dear reader, even when I have wanted to. Even when updates, anecdotes, musings, etc. were fresh on my mind.
I suspect that's how many of us feel about this year – some strange mixture of regret and acceptance over lost opportunities and missed appointments. So often our expectations of ourselves – even when we find ourselves in times of upheaval, stress, and Facebook (but I repeat myself) – and our actions are as far apart as... two things that are ironic / funny and really far apart. (Sorry.)
All that to say: it's okay. You don't have to do anything during a global pandemic to prove something to yourself or others. It's sufficient enough to ask God for pity and mercy and to find hope in his steadfast love. In fact, that's more than enough.
So I make no promises about the regularity of this email moving forward. But I want to give it another go. And with that comes some structural changes to the email. In each one, I hope to hit on a few categories:
Dispatches from the frontlines of adopted family life
Updates on the kids' cultural appreciation class, of which I am the headmaster
Curated poetry readings, from myself or (most likely) from other actual poets
Various and sundry items, like links to good or related articles, etc., on an as-needed basis
And if I've lost you over the last several months and you're not interested, that's okay. Feel free to unsubscribe or share this with someone who might find it useful or encouraging in their life.
Onward!
Dispatches
Our family recently finished reading through The Hobbit for the second time. Per usual, it was a memorable and meaningful journey through Middle Earth. We laughed, we sang, we cried, the kids play-acted as dwarves and dragons. Lily, 4, referred to the titular character as "Bilbo Baggin" and remarked once that Gandalf reminded her of God.
After the last page had been read and the cover closed, I read a prayer from Every Moment Holy called "Lament Upon Finishing a Beloved Book." (Maybe you've never thought of praying after finishing one of your favorite books, but there it is.) One of the stanzas goes like this:
Of course I do not want such a story to end,
for it has wedged open for me a way like a window,
through which I have glimpsed a vision of things
more as they will one day be than as they now are
in these hard and sorrowing lands of our exile.
The kids were only barely paying attention at this point, but when I had finished the prayer, James looked up and asked me to define "exile." I said an exile is someone who doesn't have a home. He pondered that for a moment, then said, "Thorin and the Dwarves were exiles. Because Smaug took away their home." I affirmed his observation, and we talked briefly about the parallels and where the parallels break down between The Hobbit and Genesis 3 – what with serpents being involved with the exiling of dwarves as well as Adam and Eve, etc. etc.
But I wonder if James fully grasps that for the first few years of his life that he, too, was an exile longing for home. Is that why he resonated with that line from the prayer? Has he connected that piece of his life's story? I don't know. In time I suspect he will.
It's not a stretch to say, though, that 2020 has been the year of exile for many of us. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that 2020 has been the year that has made us acutely aware that we all truly are pilgrims "in these hard and sorrowing lands of our exile." Let's count the ways:
The pandemic and the roller coaster of lockdowns and semi-lockdowns and the stripping away of those comforting rituals – sports, bars open later than 10 p.m., Thanksgiving – that make our existence on this planet feel so much like, you know, home.
The political climate and election and not feeling at home in a two-party system.
Fires – in October – burned more than 402 thousand acres in or just outside Larimer County where we live. One of the fires came within 4-5 miles from our home as the crow flies. There were multiple days when smoke plumes blotted out the sun and ash fell like black flurries of snow.
For the last couple months, Lindsey and I have experienced an intense season of grieving and processing through a decade of infertility and all that comes with it.
That's my list. Or a portion of it, anyway. Your list likely looks different than mine. Maybe there's some overlap. But the point is, there's a list, and it's not short.
What helps? What helps ease such an overbearing sense of homesickness? Sometimes nothing. Sometimes Psalm 107. Sometimes Psalm 4 and Psalm 90. Sometimes Christmas lights. Sometimes prayers like the one we prayed after we read The Hobbit. Here's how it ends:
May I return now
from the world of this book
to the daily details of my own life
with truer vision and fiercer hope,
trailing with me remnants of that coming glory
I have glimpsed again
in story.
Amen.
And amen.
Cultural Appreciation Class
Speaking of exiles, we watched How to Train Your Dragon for the first time a couple weeks ago. Instant hit. The kids tend to argue about who gets to be Toothless when they're re-enacting the movie. Highly recommend.
Also: an impromptu family dance party broke out in our bedroom a few nights back, courtesy of "Hey Ya!" by Outkast (exiles, anyone?). It was a proud moment. I'm not sorry.
Poet's Corner
Lately, I've been reeling from this existential upper-cut from Mary Oliver.
"The Uses of Sorrow"
Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.
Thank you for being here. See you soon.