Sunday, 5 May 2019
All I know is the dark
“…all that I know is the dark.”
Psalm 88:18
This psalm haunts me with its hopelessness. The psalmist feels utterly rejected, decrying
that God has “deprived me of my friends…” (8), “plunged me to the bottom of the
grave…” (6); filled with misery and cut off from hope, he feels “like the slaughtered
lying in the grave,” (5) forgotten even by God.
But unlike so many psalms of sorrow and suffering, this ends not with an
affirmation of trust or hope (a verse about God’s faithfulness, His saving
mercy or love), but instead with a final inescapable resignation, “all I know
is the dark.”
It is a supremely powerful expression of our utter
helplessness and isolation. One senses no hope in this prayer, not even a plea
for hope. It is simply a statement of God’s unconcern, God’s hard justice, God’s
pitiless wrath.
“I am finished! / Your anger
has overwhelmed me…” (15b-16)
What are we to do with such feelings of hopelessness? The
psalmist offers no comfort, only complaint, only witness to the truth of
it. One wonders that such words, such a
prayer, would have ended up in the canon of scripture. What were the rabbis and scribes thinking? What
made them feel this was appropriate as part of God’s Holy Word?
And yet I can attest to the truth of it. In a house riddled with depression and feelings
of isolation and loneliness, my prayer too often echoes it. I am overwhelmed by the needs of others,
unable to find comfort in prayer, or rest, or even a bowl of onion dip, I feel “finished.”
Opening my Bible, in search of solace or inspiration, I feel lost; sometimes I’m
so exhausted I find it hard even to just focus on the words on the page. My vision blurs, my head throbs. I close the Book
or close my eyes and all I know is darkness.
I sit down to write, and nothing comes. Even these reflections; nothing. My efforts
to read at least a chapter of the Bible a day and write something (in my
journal) about it every day has fallen by the wayside. Initially I was set to blame the Psalms
themselves. I tell myself they are less
interesting to reflect on because they already are themselves a reflection (of
a kind) and so when I sit to write (to reflect on them) my words feel like little
more than a pathetic restatement of their own themes.
Yet, with the year we have had thus far, I would think
spending more time in prayer and reflection would be my only hope. There has been anxiety about work, one daughter
in the hospital, one daughter moving to Minnesota, a leaking roof, cracks in the shower tiles, broken
dishwasher, broken dryer, repairman visits, car troubles, struggles just to get
to mass (let alone on time and with a smile), all while worrying about one
daughter aging off our insurance, worrying about hospital bills for another,
and occasionally trying to figure out how to make time for a date night with my
wife. Not to mention wondering if we will ever be able to afford to retire (and
if so how big of a cardboard box we will need to comfortably live in under the
freeway overpass). This is clearly a time for prayer! But, during this strange season of anxiety and
over eating, this time of near constant therapy visits, when I should be
turning to God for comfort, instead I turn to a carton of onion dip and a bag
of chips. Of course, this isn’t healthy
and can lead to trouble even with my closet full of “comfort waist” khakis. Between September and January, I put on close
to 15 pounds; one of my daughters sweetly referred to my little “Santa Claus
belly.”
Aargh! I truly felt “finished!” Not only was I having trouble praying, but suddenly
I needed to exercise and avoid the chip aisle at HEB as well. I needed to stop eating so much, needed to
exercise and needed to find comfort in something other than chips, dip and Shiner
Bock. But how?
As a writer, I was feeling lost. I was constantly trying to
make time for writing, but each time I did –I felt dread and anxiety welling up
within me. Felt overwhelmed by the very
thought of putting a word on the page; almost disgusted by the very idea of
it. Though I would write something each
time (even if it was only a few words or a few sentences) I always felt sour
when I was done. There was no comfort in the act of writing. And though I’d recently sold 2 poems and had
another published in an anthology, instead of feeling affirmed in my creative
efforts, I felt even more worthless; my achievements belittled by the critical
voices in my head. Nothing I did was good enough; my efforts felt pathetic; worthless;
instead of pride at being published, I felt shame and regret. I not only wanted to hide my achievements, but
I wanted to hide from them. I began to isolate myself, to hide not only from my
family, and friends, but from myself (and in the end from God). Like the
psalmist, I knew only the dark, and
in a sense, began to find my only comfort there.
Yet, in the middle of all this I was invited to read a poem
and say a few words about poetry to a group of middle schoolers at a Diocesan
Poetry Festival (over at St. Francis de Salles). Feeling so overwhelmed by life, the last
thing I wanted to do was face a bunch of pre-teeners and 13 year olds and see my
own true worth reflected (and confirmed) in their bored eyes. The invitation actually filled me with panic! But the event was being organized by a friend
of mine (Maria) and I had bowed out last year (and the year before that) and
the fact that she still asked me again made me feel guilty about saying no,
again! I could feel the rising of one
more failure looming before me –a failure that seemed somehow worse than boring
a group of middle-school poets and their parents—it was the failure to say yes
to a friend when she asked for help. So,
instead of making an excuse or finding a way to bow out, I said, yes. Though I
secretly hoped something would come up at school to keep me from being able to
go. Though I said yes, I guess I was still
secretly hoping for “no.”
But in the end, I went.
I got lost on the way. Parked near the church instead of the school,
then headed in the wrong direction when I tried to walk to the school (mistaking
the nearby public school’s playground for that of the church school), but in the end I found my way to the
festivities and when I arrived I was greeted with great joy and given a seat of
honor (near the winning poets). And when
it was time I was introduced and got up and spoke (for 3-4 minutes) and read my
poem and as I finished I could feel the weight of the silence –palpable-- and
the gaze of those young and old eyes so intense; they weren’t bored. They had
listened. They had cared. They had
needed to hear a message about the importance of what they (or their child) was
doing –the making of poems—and they had needed to hear the poem I had given
them, had needed the comfort of those words.
What had happened in that auditorium qua cafeteria had not been about me
(or for me)—it was for them! And by
saying yes to Maria’s request I had (for a moment) stopped thinking about
myself and my weight and my failures and my ego and my loneliness, and I had
thought about Maria and her efforts to create a Poetry Fest for these young
writers. A chance for them to shine, to
realize the importance of words, of art, of poetry. Of truth.
The importance of standing as a witness to the truth. To stand up and
say: This is true. This is what it feels like to be 13 and in love for the
first time. This is what it feels like
to discover life, the world, a buttercup (or a butterfly) for the first time;
this is the truth of being 13 or 12 or 11 and feeling amazed by the stars or the
clouds or the birds in flight! And this is how it feels to be 13 or 12 or 11
and alone and unloved. This is how it feels when all you know is the dark.
To be a witness, to be a presence, to be a voice in God’s
great song, we don’t have to be amazing, we don’t even have to be good, or joyful
even, and (as Mother Teresa said) we don’t even have to be successful. But we
do have to show up. We have to be willing to say yes, even when the whole world
is busy saying no.
That was the lesson I learned that day. And even though walking
back to my car I got lost again and wandered half way round the church before
finding it, I felt a whole lot better. In fact, I even felt a little lighter.
Quite possibly even a little radiant. Of course, my life is still full of stress,
and my house still needs repairs, and there are still bills to pay and my pants
are still a little tight, but I said yes to a friend in need and none of that
other stuff matters quite as much now… In fact even the burdens feel a little
lighter now.
Anyway, part of what I want to say is this: When all you
know is the dark, don’t be afraid to say it. Someone might need to hear your words to let
them know they aren’t alone. But also
this, always remember that even when you are in the dark, if someone reaches
out to you and asks for help, don’t be afraid to say yes. It is quite possible
God put you there for a reason. And (oddly enough) that reason may have nothing
to do with you.
