Last night I saw a mom pick up her little girl, and, as she draped the child over her shoulder, the girl ask, “Mom…can I cry?”
“Of course, hon, you can always cry.”
“Go ahead, if it makes you feel better.”
And then the sound of conversation gave way to the sound of tears.
And I have to admit, I identified with that little girl.
Except there was nobody to put me over their shoulder.
Which is okay, really, because I think that kind of thing loses its appeal once you reach the height of sixty inches or so.
But it was one of those nights where the things that seem hard to accomplish take on an impossible look; where your dreams feel like a heavy burden to walk around under; and rather than some temporary shadows darkening an otherwise lovely canvas, your emotions feel like a life sentence.
It didn’t help that I was exhausted. That my head hurt. That I was aiding and abetting a few answer-less questions.
Not that I think life is a crossword puzzle and that all of my wonderings will eventually fit inside black and white boxes seven spaces across and is a term of endearment widely used in India.
But it’d be nice, right?
Or maybe not.
Maybe the mystery is a beautiful thing.
Actually, I realized this when singing at a Catholic church. Something I rarely do, since I am not Catholic. But there is a grand feeling of Otherness when you walk into a cathedral like that. Like, this sense of being totally out of your element. It’s an alien feeling, which makes sense, because there’s more going on than just what we see and know here on earth. It’s overwhelming, but in a good way. It fosters a realization that you are not in control–that you can never be in control–but that Someone whose reach is infinite and whose heart is truly kind is running a masterpiece of a show.
And you don’t know the details.
But you know it’s a good story; you know you’re a part of the story.
And the mystery keeps you not only on the edge of your seat, but up and out of your seat, participating in the story in a way that you probably wouldn’t, if you knew every little detail already and how each of them would play out in the end.
Mystery leaves room for fear, yes–but I think it leaves room for hope, too.
And even though I cry sometimes, I’m gonna chase the hope.
Even on nights like that.
And if I don’t quite make it to hope during the night, then I’ll redouble my efforts in the morning until I get there.