This Is Why
My friends Shari and Debra ask me every Friday "What are you doing this weekend?" "Work!" I always reply with a grin (admittedly sometimes a wry one). Then they lovingly berate me for not getting more R&R. I appreciate this as a sign of their friendship, though of course I don't usually even attempt to explain what disasters would occur if I took their advice.
Last Friday Debra said to me, "You're twenty-four! You need to... you know.... Be young!"
I had to laugh. "Young? People keep asking me whether I'm Marjorie's younger sister. Really!"
"Well, you look young, but listen to you! You sound old!"
"I am old," I replied, very softly. Then quickly and brightly, "But just wait until I'm done with this Redesign project!"
I don't tell many people what my life is like. I don't really want them to know, because they are kind and they'll be concerned. They worry that I'm letting my heyday pass me by, or that I'm going to get really sick, or that I'm far too busy to spend time doing the things I love (exercise, gardening, long walks outside, pleasure reading, cooking, sewing, theatricals, music), or even normal activities like taking care of myself, going out with friends on a Friday evening (or any evening), finding a guy and settling down, or whatever twenty-somethings are supposed to do.
"I hate it when you say you're married to your job." - Mom
"I'd hate it worse if I were trying to divide my attention between my job and a guy. That wouldn't be fair to anybody." - Me
"Well, aside from changing your job, I don't know what to tell you." - My doctor
"Well, changing my job isn't an option, so I'll keep wearing the wrist guards." - Me
"You need to get a different job so you can have your wisdom teeth out!" - My dentist
"Doc, I promise. Just give me another eighteen months." - Me
"I'm worried about you." - Casey/Jessica/Mom/Brittainy/Shari/Debra/Girls in My Caregroup
"I know." - Me
Somehow, not many people (not counting those who already know the answer) ever ask me why I do it. And that's a shame, because "Why?" is not only a very important question, but it's also the one that I could actually answer. And what an answer I'd give! So, for all of you who worry about me, I'll give it here---now. This is why.
How old was I? Not old enough: a Senior, not yet twenty-two. It was an evening in late November. I was supposed to go see Les Miserables in DC that night, and I sat on my bed waiting for the shower to be free so that I could wash and dress. I was at school; I remember how my dorm windows that semester looked out over the pond. I remember it was almost dark already and the lamps were beginning to glow all over campus.
Against my ear, a cell phone. Mama on the other end. Mom's voice excited, enthusiastic. "Honey, we've just had a big meeting. We're going to do a Redesign project, honey. And we think you're the right person to manage it. You can do your literature revisions too. We want you to consider coming home next semester and working for us."
It was utterly unexpected. No one else was in the room. I remember staring at the wall opposite my bed. I remember thinking of all the people at school whom I would have to leave behind---one or two in particular---the Senior Spring that I would miss---the parties, the gaiety, that last glorious April of childhood. I saw it all so clearly in my mind's eye, as if it had already happened. Being a winter baby, I had always been a little older, a little behind. But now I was being asked to become an adult six months early, and I knew that this April would never, never come again.
It was quiet, but perfectly clear. The Spirit moved in me, and the voice that we Christians know said "Yes." I was so young---I had so little idea of what I would be committing myself to do. But I said "Yes." Like the day six years before when I said "Yes" to the Gospel, it was immediate. Like that day, too, I have never even seriously considered changing my answer.
"But your Senior Spring?" Mom said, concerned already for what I would be giving up. "It doesn't matter," I said. "It doesn't matter. My answer is yes."
When we hung up, I was shaking a little. Four weeks later, I arrived at home for a Winter Break that was not to terminate, as all other Winter Breaks had, in my return to school. Oh, in the months that followed I would return to campus for brief spaces and even live there again for weeks at a time, but I had made an irrevocable transition and nothing would ever be the same. Not for me, and not for the friends from whom I was gradually separated. Not for my fairies, my warm-voiced spirits that lived in the lamps.... not for any of us.
If I had known what I was signing away in this stroke, would I still have done it? I think so. It has cost me dearly, so dearly in mind and heart and friendships and love and time and all else, that if I had had any inkling of the true cost then, I would have shrunk from it in horror. But I would still have had to say yes, for what else can you say to the Spirit?
Besides obedience, however, it is worth asking: "Why do I do it?"
Dear, beloved reader, how can I make you understand? I have no words for this---none adequate for this. What rises before my eyes at three in the morning, when I am bone-weary and stiff and my wrist aches and my mind seems like jello, when my memories crowd in to remind me of all I have foregone, and my enemies whisper "Pity yourself, pity yourself. Look what you gave up and are giving up! Look at how you are spending your youth!" What is it that makes me go on?
Beloved, at first I see the children. I see the quick ones, the slow ones, the talented ones, the ones who feel unsure, the ones who want to love all that is beautiful, and the ones who scarce know what beauty is---those who are already great in their faith and those who, like myself at that age, scarce know what faith is. I see them all and each, and to each I extend my hands, having forgotten completely how they ache: "This is for you. This is so that you will know a little more of beauty, a little more of truth; so that you will see a little more of Christ and enjoy a little more of Him; so that you will be a little better equipped to discern lies; so that you will be a little more satisfied that any experiment in living, no matter how grand, is nothing if it has not God for its basis. It is so that you too, perhaps, will celebrate the Gospel in your stories and poems and plays."
Then just behind the children, I see their mothers. Ah, you queens---you great ladies! Let me to offer you this, humble as it is (and I know as no one else can how really poor a gift it is) for the work that you have accepted from God's hands. My sacrifice is nothing compared to yours, but God grant that it may be a slight support, a hope, an easing of the way, a glimpse of beauty and truth for you too, an encouragement. I honor you, beautiful ones. God bless you!
Children and mothers, I do it for you. And then, when you have been remembered, I have not been forgotten. I am old; bowed down with responsibility and cares beyond my years, true, but also aged by constant contact with the long, strangely lovely, yet also tragic history of the human heart. For I have been given the freedom to wander about these three years in the world's literature, which is the expression of its heart.
How many lives of authors have I touched? How many pangs---joy, grief, struggle, longing---have found an answering ache in my heart? How much artistry has been unveiled to my dazzled and delighted eyes? How many experiments in living have I lived, vicariously, and how much wisdom have they taught me? Above all, how often have I trysted with Christ, always coming upon Him where I least expected to, always finding new cause to call Him best beloved, always, always, always seeing Him at work in the dark places, always discovering Him at the heart of the bright places? How much have I learned to know---to love Him? Oh, much! Much.
From my soul, gentle reader, I will not give up this job unless and until my Lord calls me from it. It is a calling and a ministry. It is a life-work. It is the gift I leave behind, wrought with no great skill (I know this well!), but with all the love that I possess. Dear reader, imagine---what if the children and the mothers see a particle more of Christ's loveliness though my own enthrallment with Him? What if? What if they, by being shown a way, a perspective, that has helped me to adore Him as I do (though not as He deserves!) and adore Him more themselves as a result? What if? And what of my own soul, which is so heated by these fiery trials that it waxes white-hot with love for Him... not always, but often? Is this not worth my youth---any person's youth?
I beg you to believe me. It is.
Let me only stay out of the hospital for one more year, and then you can do what you like with my body. Let my mind only hold together for eighteen more months, and then let it shatter or stand as God wills. Let my heart be cut and cut again by what I read, and by the loneliness of my life, for my heart grows. Let me be plagued with questions, with problems, with deadlines, with sleeplessness. Let me forego the pleasures of my age and situation. Let me (hardest of all) be cut off from the sunlight and the change of seasons day after day.
Let it all be just like that. What though it pains? When did relief from pain become an end in itself? Besides, I carry the sun about with me, down here in the heart of the world, and I will not stop for anything but the Spirit's voice. Let Him say "No" if it is to be no. Let Him say "Stop" if it is to be stop. Or, let Him say "Well done" if it is to be allowed to me to do well---for I know, I know, that if it is well done it was by allowance, by gift, not by anything in me. I have merely had the privilege of sacrificing so that it might come to pass.
Last Friday Debra said to me, "You're twenty-four! You need to... you know.... Be young!"
I had to laugh. "Young? People keep asking me whether I'm Marjorie's younger sister. Really!"
"Well, you look young, but listen to you! You sound old!"
"I am old," I replied, very softly. Then quickly and brightly, "But just wait until I'm done with this Redesign project!"
I don't tell many people what my life is like. I don't really want them to know, because they are kind and they'll be concerned. They worry that I'm letting my heyday pass me by, or that I'm going to get really sick, or that I'm far too busy to spend time doing the things I love (exercise, gardening, long walks outside, pleasure reading, cooking, sewing, theatricals, music), or even normal activities like taking care of myself, going out with friends on a Friday evening (or any evening), finding a guy and settling down, or whatever twenty-somethings are supposed to do.
"I hate it when you say you're married to your job." - Mom
"I'd hate it worse if I were trying to divide my attention between my job and a guy. That wouldn't be fair to anybody." - Me
"Well, aside from changing your job, I don't know what to tell you." - My doctor
"Well, changing my job isn't an option, so I'll keep wearing the wrist guards." - Me
"You need to get a different job so you can have your wisdom teeth out!" - My dentist
"Doc, I promise. Just give me another eighteen months." - Me
"I'm worried about you." - Casey/Jessica/Mom/Brittainy/Shari/Debra/Girls in My Caregroup
"I know." - Me
Somehow, not many people (not counting those who already know the answer) ever ask me why I do it. And that's a shame, because "Why?" is not only a very important question, but it's also the one that I could actually answer. And what an answer I'd give! So, for all of you who worry about me, I'll give it here---now. This is why.
How old was I? Not old enough: a Senior, not yet twenty-two. It was an evening in late November. I was supposed to go see Les Miserables in DC that night, and I sat on my bed waiting for the shower to be free so that I could wash and dress. I was at school; I remember how my dorm windows that semester looked out over the pond. I remember it was almost dark already and the lamps were beginning to glow all over campus.
Against my ear, a cell phone. Mama on the other end. Mom's voice excited, enthusiastic. "Honey, we've just had a big meeting. We're going to do a Redesign project, honey. And we think you're the right person to manage it. You can do your literature revisions too. We want you to consider coming home next semester and working for us."
It was utterly unexpected. No one else was in the room. I remember staring at the wall opposite my bed. I remember thinking of all the people at school whom I would have to leave behind---one or two in particular---the Senior Spring that I would miss---the parties, the gaiety, that last glorious April of childhood. I saw it all so clearly in my mind's eye, as if it had already happened. Being a winter baby, I had always been a little older, a little behind. But now I was being asked to become an adult six months early, and I knew that this April would never, never come again.
It was quiet, but perfectly clear. The Spirit moved in me, and the voice that we Christians know said "Yes." I was so young---I had so little idea of what I would be committing myself to do. But I said "Yes." Like the day six years before when I said "Yes" to the Gospel, it was immediate. Like that day, too, I have never even seriously considered changing my answer.
"But your Senior Spring?" Mom said, concerned already for what I would be giving up. "It doesn't matter," I said. "It doesn't matter. My answer is yes."
When we hung up, I was shaking a little. Four weeks later, I arrived at home for a Winter Break that was not to terminate, as all other Winter Breaks had, in my return to school. Oh, in the months that followed I would return to campus for brief spaces and even live there again for weeks at a time, but I had made an irrevocable transition and nothing would ever be the same. Not for me, and not for the friends from whom I was gradually separated. Not for my fairies, my warm-voiced spirits that lived in the lamps.... not for any of us.
If I had known what I was signing away in this stroke, would I still have done it? I think so. It has cost me dearly, so dearly in mind and heart and friendships and love and time and all else, that if I had had any inkling of the true cost then, I would have shrunk from it in horror. But I would still have had to say yes, for what else can you say to the Spirit?
Besides obedience, however, it is worth asking: "Why do I do it?"
Dear, beloved reader, how can I make you understand? I have no words for this---none adequate for this. What rises before my eyes at three in the morning, when I am bone-weary and stiff and my wrist aches and my mind seems like jello, when my memories crowd in to remind me of all I have foregone, and my enemies whisper "Pity yourself, pity yourself. Look what you gave up and are giving up! Look at how you are spending your youth!" What is it that makes me go on?
Beloved, at first I see the children. I see the quick ones, the slow ones, the talented ones, the ones who feel unsure, the ones who want to love all that is beautiful, and the ones who scarce know what beauty is---those who are already great in their faith and those who, like myself at that age, scarce know what faith is. I see them all and each, and to each I extend my hands, having forgotten completely how they ache: "This is for you. This is so that you will know a little more of beauty, a little more of truth; so that you will see a little more of Christ and enjoy a little more of Him; so that you will be a little better equipped to discern lies; so that you will be a little more satisfied that any experiment in living, no matter how grand, is nothing if it has not God for its basis. It is so that you too, perhaps, will celebrate the Gospel in your stories and poems and plays."
Then just behind the children, I see their mothers. Ah, you queens---you great ladies! Let me to offer you this, humble as it is (and I know as no one else can how really poor a gift it is) for the work that you have accepted from God's hands. My sacrifice is nothing compared to yours, but God grant that it may be a slight support, a hope, an easing of the way, a glimpse of beauty and truth for you too, an encouragement. I honor you, beautiful ones. God bless you!
Children and mothers, I do it for you. And then, when you have been remembered, I have not been forgotten. I am old; bowed down with responsibility and cares beyond my years, true, but also aged by constant contact with the long, strangely lovely, yet also tragic history of the human heart. For I have been given the freedom to wander about these three years in the world's literature, which is the expression of its heart.
How many lives of authors have I touched? How many pangs---joy, grief, struggle, longing---have found an answering ache in my heart? How much artistry has been unveiled to my dazzled and delighted eyes? How many experiments in living have I lived, vicariously, and how much wisdom have they taught me? Above all, how often have I trysted with Christ, always coming upon Him where I least expected to, always finding new cause to call Him best beloved, always, always, always seeing Him at work in the dark places, always discovering Him at the heart of the bright places? How much have I learned to know---to love Him? Oh, much! Much.
From my soul, gentle reader, I will not give up this job unless and until my Lord calls me from it. It is a calling and a ministry. It is a life-work. It is the gift I leave behind, wrought with no great skill (I know this well!), but with all the love that I possess. Dear reader, imagine---what if the children and the mothers see a particle more of Christ's loveliness though my own enthrallment with Him? What if? What if they, by being shown a way, a perspective, that has helped me to adore Him as I do (though not as He deserves!) and adore Him more themselves as a result? What if? And what of my own soul, which is so heated by these fiery trials that it waxes white-hot with love for Him... not always, but often? Is this not worth my youth---any person's youth?
I beg you to believe me. It is.
Let me only stay out of the hospital for one more year, and then you can do what you like with my body. Let my mind only hold together for eighteen more months, and then let it shatter or stand as God wills. Let my heart be cut and cut again by what I read, and by the loneliness of my life, for my heart grows. Let me be plagued with questions, with problems, with deadlines, with sleeplessness. Let me forego the pleasures of my age and situation. Let me (hardest of all) be cut off from the sunlight and the change of seasons day after day.
Let it all be just like that. What though it pains? When did relief from pain become an end in itself? Besides, I carry the sun about with me, down here in the heart of the world, and I will not stop for anything but the Spirit's voice. Let Him say "No" if it is to be no. Let Him say "Stop" if it is to be stop. Or, let Him say "Well done" if it is to be allowed to me to do well---for I know, I know, that if it is well done it was by allowance, by gift, not by anything in me. I have merely had the privilege of sacrificing so that it might come to pass.
posted by Praelucor at 7:20 PM
3 Comments:
And it is, it is already coming to pass; though I be neither mother nor quite child, I myself have seen and become a little more in love with Christ and what He has made...
Thank you.
You are a true gift from God; a breath of fresh air, a servant like your mother, a joy. I am blessed in knowing you and I will continue to remind you to 'take care of your-24-y.o.-self' because I love you. I am grateful for the way God has gifted you (& your family) and your generous attitude glorifies Him and increases our faith. You remind me to be grateful as I am thanking Him for you, truly!
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