Children of Light

I was asked to write a reflection piece for Holy Week a few weeks back for my aunt's church. I look back at what I wrote back then and see how apt it is for what's happening at the moment.

I tried writing about what is "happening at the moment", but I dare not yet. Not yet. 

In any case, here is what I wrote.
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As a child, in a strange way, I associated Holy Week with sadness. Understandably, I suppose, since the passion and suffering of Christ are often at the forefront. Even Palm Sunday has a rather sad undercurrent to it: The people had heard about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Some took this as a sign that he was the real Messiah and rejoiced. Meanwhile, the “chief priests made plans to kill Lazarus as well, for on account of him many of the Jews were going over to Jesus and believing in Him” (John 12: 10-11, NIV). Amidst all that joy, Jesus already knew. He already knew he was going to suffer.

I suppose the "suffering" part of Holy Week is easier for us humans to relate to than the "holy" part, terminology notwithstanding. For one thing, I can easily name numerous moments in my life when I was suffering; when I was holy, not as much. It’s almost as if this capacity to suffer, and the very experience of suffering, makes me human. A human in great need of the Father.

In the television production Shadowlands (1985), writer William Nicholson creates a scene between C.S. Lewis and one of his friends, talking about the suffering brought about by Joy Gresham's (Lewis' wife) battle with cancer:

Harry: … I know how hard you've been praying; and now God is answering your prayers.
C. S. Lewis: That's not why I pray, Harry. I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God, it changes me.

This is what this week will be about: the changes that will happen in us with the ebbing and flowing of joy and suffering; the alternation between celebrating and grieving. And inasmuch as it is easy–almost automatic–to call upon the Lord when we suffer, let’s pray that we also seek to find him in moments of thanksgiving and celebration just as easily.

It is no accident that the sadness of this week is bookended with joy–we begin and end with joy. Palm Sunday, the joy of believing in a promise without really understanding what it is (faith); and Easter Sunday, the joy of living in that promise, understanding that we are truly, truly loved (salvation).

So no matter where you find yourself in this continuum as you vacillate between sadness and joy, remember that Jesus said, “You are going to have the light just a little while longer. Walk while you have the light, before darkness overtakes you. Whoever walks in the dark does not know where they are going. Believe in the light while you have the light, so that you may become children of light” (John 12: 35-36, NIV).

Me Being Me

Last night, when the lights were out, Lucia started crying. I asked her what was wrong, she said nothing, she just kept crying. In the dark, we drew closer to each other and she nestled into my arms. (What is gratitude but the profound truth that no matter how big she gets, she will always fit inside me? In my womb, my arms, my heart.)

I asked again, "What's wrong, Ci?"

"I don't like me being me," she said.

Can I tell you how painful this was to hear? Can I tell you how this shattered my heart? Can I tell you how the weight of that crushed my soul? Can I tell you how the light that pierced the darkness when I turned on the lamp illuminated nothing?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She cried for a few more minutes.

In those minutes I thought: What if she absorbed all of my self-doubt? What if she senses how much I hate myself and she thinks this is okay? What if she learns that it is impossible to love yourself because of me? What if she grows up thinking this way? What if she never understands how beautiful she is in every way? What if she never gets to know who she really is—the only true and beautiful thing in my world? What if—?

"Mommy, I want to be you. I don't want to be me anymore, I want to be you..."

Can I tell you how painful this was to hear? Can I tell you how this shattered my heart? Can I tell you how the weight of that crushed my soul? Can I tell you how the light that pierced the darkness when I turned on the lamp illuminated...everything?

She continued to cry.

"I love everything about you, Ci. You being you is the best thing that ever happened to me. I love every bit of you."

She continued to cry.

"Did something happen for you to feel this way?" I asked.

She shook her head. She hugged me tighter. She said, "I want to be you, Mommy."

And in all helplessness and wonder and humility and gratitude and fear, I held her till she fell asleep.