by Christie Purifoy | Apr 6, 2012 | Faith, Family, God's Love, God's promises, grief, Jesus, Lent, motherhood, Uncategorized
I thought it would be hard to fit Good Friday into Spring Break. I thought it would be difficult to clear space for the cross in a week devoted to beach, pool, and mother-daughter shopping.
I was wrong.
In the car, on our way to the dollhouse store, her voice pipes up from the back seat. It’s hard to hear, the radio too loud, but I know she’s just said something about Daniel. I want her to stop talking. I can’t bear to hear any more about Daniel.
“That’s where Daniel lived.”
“Daniel is gone now.”
“Daniel is the first kid my age to die.”
Then she repeats the words I’ve heard so many times these past few weeks: “I wish I knew what happened.”
My daughter wants to understand how her second-grade classmate died. She wants to know how his little brother died. And how his mother died. We’ve talked about it a lot, but when it comes to the details, I’ve been vague. I’ve spoken of mental illness and accidents. I’ve never spoken the word murder. I can’t bear for her to know how dark the darkness really is.
It’s amazing, really, that she doesn’t know. With all the television cameras camped in front of her school, the grief counselors gathering the children into circles on the floor, the adults whispering at the bus stop, and me, trying to turn the tv off, the radio off, whenever she walked into the room, it’s a wonder that we managed to protect her from the full story. Because, of course, the full story only leads to an unanswerable question: why?
Why did this happen to these beautiful boys? God, why did you let this happen?
The small voice from the backseat says, “Daniel is in the ground now.” With these words, I find my voice again, and I tell her what I believe.
I tell her about Good Friday. I share the word gospel, and I explain that it is so much bigger, so much more beautiful than I understood when I was her age.
When I was a child, growing up in the church, I thought the gospel was this: “I am a sinner so Jesus died and rose again to reconcile me to God. Now I can have a relationship with God.” But I only understood a small part of the story.
My personal salvation is precious to me, but it is only one, small part of the Easter story. When I face evil, like the darkness which led to Daniel’s death, my personal salvation starts to look small. Insufficient. Sometimes, I even dare to whisper this dreadful doubt: “Do I want to be in relationship with a God who allows such things?”
Confronted by the brokenness of our world, I want more … so much more.
On Good Friday, God gave more. He entered history at one, specific moment and he bore on that cross all the brokenness which came before and all the brokenness that comes after. Including Daniel’s murder.
When God’s own son, Israel’s righteous King, chose to suffer and die he unleashed rivers of justice and peace that will one day flood all of creation. This is a kingdom flood. A flood of living water. A flood to make all that is broken whole again.
When Jesus spoke his final words, he meant not only that his ministry on earth was complete, he meant that death, sin, and all the brokenness of creation were ended.
It is finished.
Can we trust him when evil continues to rear its head? Should we turn to him when our questions push us towards despair?
We know that God gave his own son to suffer and die. We know that God did not abandon his son to the grave. I am convinced that he has not abandoned Daniel. He will not abandon me.
He has not abandoned his creation. He is making it new.
Sometimes we see only a trickling fountain. Sometimes we glimpse the roaring river, but we who have pledged ourselves to this King have been given living water.
For now we share that water with our thirsty neighbors, and we look forward to the day promised each Easter, the day when there will be no more desert. No more thirst.
“Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.”
Isaiah 9:7
Shalom.
(photo by yours truly)
by Christie Purifoy | Mar 27, 2012 | Jesus, poverty, Stories, Uncategorized
A good friend of mine just returned from a trip to India, and she came by recently to share her stories. Stories of hopelessness. Stories of darkness. Stories of Jesus in the midst of it all.
In addition to her stories, she gave me another gift: a gorgeous, hand-sewn bag covered in the faded colors of vintage sari fabric. The label inside says it was sewn by Shamoli.
My friend told me about visiting Shamoli and her coworkers at SariBari in Kolkata, India. She described the laughter and happy conversation that fills the space where they sew blankets, pillows, bags of all sizes, and (this I’m really excited about!) baby blankets, changing pads, and diaper bags.
These women have been rescued from slavery. Their happiness testifies to the truth of another label tucked into my bag. This one says: “making life new.” And yet, for every woman given hope and a new livelihood, so many women and girls continue to be trafficked into the darkest forms of suffering. We wonder together, my friend and I, if it’s enough. What is a little happiness when set against so much ongoing evil?
Is Jesus enough? Is Jesus enough, even when the darkness remains dark and happiness is unimaginable? I think we should all be asking this question.
For me, it took being bedridden by asthma, pregnancy, and various nasty cold bugs (not to equate these three but, physically at least, none is a walk in the park) to acknowledge that I haven’t been happy in a long time.
Happiness. Maybe you prefer a different word, but I’m talking about that it-just-feels-good-to-be-alive rush. I’m talking about those days when we wake up singing “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” I’m talking about the days when we’re still singing that song as the sun goes down.
The truth is, I haven’t been really, truly, all-day-long happy since we moved to Florida two years ago.
My confession isn’t a complaint however. My Florida life is packed with blessings: a few friends, a good church, a comfortable home. But I’ve been living this verse: “Just as I watched over them to uproot and tear down … so I will watch over them to build and to plant” (Jeremiah 31:28). Well, I’ve been living the first half, at least.
For two years God has held me in his hand while uprooting old dreams and plans, while tearing down old joys and comforts. In two years I’ve gone from pursuing an academic career to staying home with my kids and stealing hours to write a book that may never see the light of day. I’m content with that trade, but it hasn’t been easy either.
For two years I’ve lived without almost every single thing that used to make me happy: my city neighborhood, my university, my large circle of friends, the apartment in which I hosted dinners and parties nearly every week.
I’ve missed winter, the city skyline, bumping into friends on every sidewalk. I’ve missed apple picking, drives through rolling corn fields, and long summer evenings when it seems that every neighbor you’ve ever known has come down to walk by the lake.
I know that happiness is possible, but I’m not sure that it’s a promise. Or, even, that it’s always in our best interest. Which is why it took a few months of being imprisoned near my bedroom air-purifier to tell God how much I wanted to be happy again.
I accept that the uprooting and the tearing down have been good things, but, oh Lord, am I ready for the building and the planting.
A few hours after my friend’s visit, I carried my new bag to the library. I had one book to pick up and the big bag was overkill, but I was eager to carry it around. Standing at the librarian’s desk, I saw her struggling my way under a tower of books. I expected one book, but it seemed that every book I’d ordered in a month had arrived this day.
I filled my beautiful bag with these long-anticipated library books until the bag overflowed. I stood, considering my bounty, and was suddenly bathed in warm, delicious light. I was standing beneath a skylight, and, I don’t know, maybe a cloud had just blown away from the sun, but it felt like a shower of grace.
In an instant, my heart was filled and overflowing with happiness. My bag – my cup! – overflowed. And then, I remembered the words that come just a little higher on the page: “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me” (Psalm 23:4).
I knew then that Jesus is enough.
I don’t have the authority to speak that truth on my own. Honestly, I haven’t suffered enough. My own troubles are small.
I speak it because others who have suffered say it is so. They have shared their stories. The shepherd David. The Indian seamstress Shamoli.
Before giving me the bag, my friend told me story after story of Jesus’s presence in the darkest places. In my friend’s own words, this Jesus is enough because he “steps into our suffering and brings love, joy and peace where it just doesn’t make sense to have it.”
It’s true in the valley of the shadow of death. And, to my surprise, it is even true in the library.
We all know babies in need of welcome gifts, mothers in need of mother’s day presents, and nesters who would love a pretty pillow. The equation here is actually quite simple. The more items sold by Sari Bari, the more women will gain their freedom from either the reality or the threat of human trafficking and forced prostitution in Kolkata, India. Our dollars are one way we get to be the hands and feet of Jesus in a suffering world.
You can find more beautiful products made by women freed from Kolkata’s sex trade at Freeset and at Love Calcutta Arts (I can personally attest to the beauty of their handmade paper journals).
by Christie Purifoy | Mar 22, 2012 | Faith, God's promises, Jesus, Uncategorized, Waiting
That’s quite a confession, isn’t it? I may as well admit to disliking puppies.
Slowing down, living in the moment, appreciating the ordinary gifts of each ordinary hour: those aspirations have become a kind of religion. Widely admired if less widely achieved.
Like most religions, I suppose, there’s a commendable seed of truth. I do believe that the moment matters. Of what else is our life composed? Whether I’m considering growing children or changing seasons, I want to notice. To appreciate. To pause and give thanks.
And yet, I wonder … why do we find this so difficult? Why is there always something inside of us looking ahead, peering around the bend? Why the inner voice always asking “what’s next”?
I think this voice won’t ever fully let us go because we are not living in some eternal moment. We long for that. We dream of it, but we don’t inhabit it. Not yet, anyway.
Our lives are journeys. Our lives are stories. There are beginnings and endings, narrative lulls and cliffhangers. Mountains and valleys.
To look ahead, to anticipate all that’s yet to come … this is the substance of faith. This is the shape of Christian spirituality.
We pick up our crosses and follow One worth following.
We run with perseverance the race marked out for us.
We strain our eyes looking for promised lands, for God’s kingdom breaking in, for creation made new.
The moment may be good. It may be very, very good. But we know that we’ve been promised even more.
Glorious anticipation.
“All I have seen teaches me to trust the Creator for all I have not seen.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
by Christie Purifoy | Mar 19, 2012 | allergies, Faith, God's promises, healing, Jesus, Uncategorized
I’ve been so sick for so long that looking back over the past few months is like staring into a dark tunnel. I’m just glad to be at the other end.
I’m a little too worn out to fully analyze the experience. Maybe some things are meant to be endured and survived rather than understood.
Still, I do know that there is a metaphysical, spiritual conundrum that we never quite escape in this life. C. S. Lewis called it the “problem of pain.”
Why do we get sick? Why do we hurt? And, hey, if we’re going to ask these questions why not go all the way … why do our babies get sick? Why do so many children suffer?
Of course, I don’t know how to answer those big questions. Does anyone? Lewis himself offers a bounty of wisdom, but it isn’t as if even he lets us off the hook. We won’t find the ultimate answer in a book. I believe we’ll find it one day in a face. Jesus’s face. But, I haven’t yet looked into those eyes, so, for now, it’s all hope.
Even if we can’t fully answer the “problem of pain” on this side of life, I don’t think we’ll ever get close if we ignore the little problems. The everyday pain.
When Jesus said to pick up our crosses and follow him, I don’t think he was telling us to suffer in silence. To just shut up about it already! Though, I admit, I sometimes picture him rolling his eyes in response to my whiny prayers. But, in my mind, it’s a fond exasperation.
That picture – of someone picking up their cross and following – is kind of nice, actually. As if Jesus were telling us that even our pain is a part of the story. Even our pain matters in some way. Pick it up, bring it along, I’ll take care of it, he says. Maybe today, definitely someday, it will be dealt with.
I won’t forget the tears you’ve cried.
So, what do we do in the meantime?
I’m not sure, but for the first time in months, I’m taking a good look around.
By the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel I can see blue skies. I can feel a warm breeze. And the scent blowing across my face is the heavy sweetness of backyard orange blossoms.
Here is another moment that begs not to be analyzed. It’s meant only for joy.
by Christie Purifoy | Feb 14, 2012 | God's Love, God's promises, grief, Jesus, Waiting
Alone in darkness.
Someone typed those words into their search engine, and it led them to my blog. It breaks my heart to know this. I wonder if they found what they were looking for. I wonder if they found something else, something good that they didn’t even know they were searching for. Somehow, I do not think they did.
For those of you unfamiliar with the writing of blogs (which group included myself only a few months ago), it is possible for the blog’s author to check his “stats.” One of these stats includes word searches that have led someone to click on that particular website.
These searches usually make sense. Someone searching for a particular poem or literary quotation is often led here. A surprising number of people want to know about southernisms like “bless her heart.” I wrote about that once. And every single day someone types in some variation on “Jesus” and “prostitutes,” which leads them here. That makes me very happy.
Sometimes the words searched are so bizarre I cannot fathom how the google gods led them to my site. I laugh, imagining how disappointed or confused that searcher must have been as my site filled their screen. Yesterday, I didn’t laugh. Instead, I decided that if anyone ever again typed alone in darkness they would find my response here.
Do you feel alone? Has the world gone dark? Then I have something for you.
It isn’t advice. I don’t believe in advice. But, I do have my story, and I know what it is to feel unseen. Unheard. Alone in darkness.
You are not alone. You are not. Yet, I know that it feels that way. I know the weight of it is crushing. There are few things so painful as feeling unseen and unknown.
There is Someone with you. He has always been with you, and he has not abandoned you. He goes by so many names, but the name I know best is Jesus. He made you. He knows you. And he promised that he would always be with you (Matthew 28:20).
Here’s something else I know: when we’re in the darkness we only sometimes feel his presence. Usually, we don’t. We feel alone. It is only later when some grace has drawn us slowly back into the light that we are able to turn around and see rightly. That is when I have known, without a doubt, that I was never on my own. That I was never forgotten. Never unseen.
Why does he sometimes leave us in the darkness? Why doesn’t he swoop in to rescue us? I don’t really have the answers to those questions. “Why” questions are mostly impenetrable. I do have some “whats”, however. I don’t know why, but I do not what has happened to me. Having walked through darkness into light I know that morning always returns. The night never lasts forever. I know that I am loved and that I do not walk alone through the valley of the shadow of death. I know that sometimes I needed to change in ways that only darkness could accomplish. I know that I have never searched for God or prayed to God like I have in the darkness. I am glad to know that I am capable of that. I am forever grateful to know that he always responds, he always hears, even if it isn’t on my timetable.
I will not tell you that darkness is good. I certainly will not say that it is good for you. I do admit that I have been amazed to see how bright the light shines after darkness.
That light is waiting for you. I know you cannot see it yet. Try to hold on. Wait. Pray. Hurl your loneliness and fear at the sky.
He’s listening. He sees.
“I have heard your prayer and seen your tears.” (Isaiah 38:5).
