In the last few weeks, Annie Downs has been saying, “We’ve never done this before.” It’s a plea for patience with ourselves and with others, and I think it’s a really wise one.
But perhaps, while the whole world is hobbiting at once, we could put our heads together and come up with some ways to cope. Here’s why I think we could: While we truly haven’t done this before — each of us, surely, has done some of it before.
I’ve come to believe that God frequently prepares us for new challenges and adventures in a way we’d never recognize until after the fact.
In fact, I suspect He had me practicing, months ago.
For nine weeks last summer, I had the luxury of living in Jerusalem, writing and catching up with friends I hadn’t seen for years. It was also the first time I have lived alone. By “alone” I mean outside the close community provided by coworkers, friends, and family living just minutes away. I have these things at home; I had them when I lived longer-term in Israel. But that short summer introduced me to a new kind of loneliness, and I was not a fan.
Now, because I was catching up with dear friends in Jerusalem, most days I did have tea or a meal with someone, somewhere, sometime, and that was rich and good. But to see someone, ever, meant I had to plan ahead, and I felt the lack of the casual, off-the-cuff interactions found at work or home. I discovered, too, that my moods and opinions tended to swing towards whichever person — in a string of people — I interacted with that day. I missed the continuity, naturalness, and rhythm of sharing space and time with the same folks nearly every day.
What I learned last summer might not seem very profound: I hate loneliness. I need community. I prefer wider company than the inside of my own head. But I saw other things too: I can purposefully seek out community, even when circumstances are less than ideal, and survive. Because of the purpose behind it, that brief deprivation was well worth it. There was no lasting harm. And the very lack left me with a greater, more conscious love of things I had loved before.
I think He had me practicing years ago.
You see, I used to live overseas. To leave loved ones and fly to the other side of the world feels like a tiny death, every time. To live for months on end without hugging them, without the gift of presence: It felt like holding my breath underwater. I could do it for a while. I did! But as time dragged on and on, my lungs began to burn, and a little desperation began to rise and rise until the bursting point had almost arrived — and then God would do something. I traveled home; a loved one came to visit; I had a good video call; I connected deeply with a local friend; I got a grace-filled second wind…
And the uncertainty! I learned to expect change, upheaval, and discombobulation. I haven’t figured out to skip my initial resistance to being knocked out of my groove (tell me how I can!), but I have learned how, at least, to be fruitful in seasons when my role and my future are equally undefined — and that’s thanks to God’s Spirit and the parable of the talents: In short, to invest the opportunities that I have today.
Speaking of investing what I have: I had to approach holidays in a whole new way, to maximize what was unique about Christmas without my family for instance, rather than mourning what I didn’t have. To live abroad was to find myself wistfully out of sync with the calendar — and to return from abroad? It’s the same thing all over again. Christmas and Thanksgiving in Jerusalem didn’t crowd in on all sides: they had to be courted and coaxed to appear. And now that I’m in America, it’s Pesach and Sukkot I miss and create from scratch. But you know what? From scratch is a pretty joyful way to celebrate. In Israel, I learned through lack that it wasn’t Thanksgiving unless I made some stuffing. (So I made stuffing!) And at home — well, last night I crafted a tiny Seder, and tonight I snacked on homemade matza with horseradish and charoset, the bittersweet flavors reminding me that it’s Passover season.
I guess, while we’re hobbiting, that everything has to be homemade. The holidays. Community. School, work, play. Have you been able to experience what a beautiful thing homemade can be?
And the things that cannot be homemade? Hugging my niece and nephews. Sitting beside my dear friend as she grieves her stillborn child. Helping complete a little house for my brother’s soon-to-be bride. Sharing the actual beauty of my surroundings with city-bound friends. Glancing to the left and right at church to see the faces of friends and hearing our blended voices in the hymns. Walking through the now-closed Jaffa Gate in Jerusalem, a present fact that physically hurts my heart from thousands of miles away.
What’s not evident in A Passion Pilgrimage, written when I could actually go to the places in Jesus’ story is this: a sprained ankle kept me from making the hike across the Kidron Valley. I sank to the floor at the back of the church at Gethsemane because I didn’t have full strength to stand. I sat at the top of the stairs and chatted with the priest near the prison of Jesus, because of this handicap.
I was more than free, however, to make a mental journey that refreshed my spirit. And today, can’t our hearts go on pilgrimage, even though our feet cannot?
In fact, I’d venture to say that these lacks and deprivations may very well make our hearts grow fonder, indelibly imprinting them with a longing that will turn our steps towards all that God meant for us, just as soon as we are free to go.
Blessed are those whose strength is in You,
in whose heart are the highways to Zion.(Psalm 84:5)
Elisabeth Adams 