Everyone was surprised to see a policeman on our doorstep, but he greeted us politely then jumped straight into questioning. Within a few minutes, the girls were peering out from behind their blankets, adding information. The exchange lasted a few minutes, but its impact would hover round the flat a while longer.
The policeman thanked us and excused himself. From the home downstairs came some barking, knocking, and yelling. Within half an hour, the sergeant left with a reluctant passenger. The whole affair was sad and it took my husband a while to put the experience in a context the children could comprehend. I managed to keep my thanksgiving groove and continued baking in the kitchen, but I found myself upset and praying.
The poem was written by David Roderick and is found in his new book The Americans. It was titled Dear Suburb and the last line of the poem came washing over me,
The next time you text me, I’ll be high
On magnolia pollen
and munching chips
near the bluebird house,
amazed I can thrive here so close
to a city’s lost eminence,
where you bring a golden stillness
to everything
I touch, where I go whole years
Without suffering
So much as a splinter 1.
Confession: I deeply miss suburbia and living in a house. I hate living in an apartment with its insta-community crazies and the blatant thoughtless behavior. I miss the splinter-less bubble a house provides. Apartment life isn't for cowards and this Thanksgiving morning grief was making a bold play for my heart. But before I could step into my freshly drawn bath of self-pity, a parallel metaphor came zipping across my kitchen.
Church life can be a lot like the suburbs. I can wake up in my Christian house, put my children in Christian schools, allow them to join Christian sports, send them to Christian youth groups in order to live as far from pagans as possible. I confess this was the life I was building for myself, the life I desired, before God interrupted some years ago and my world got smashed… to splinters.
The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines a splinter as “a thin, sharp piece of something (such as wood, glass, etc.) that has broken off a larger piece.” They hurt, sometimes a great deal, and it takes time to fish them out. They are inconvenient, unpleasant and vexing.
At Christmas time, the world of unbelief doesn't like to talk about splinters. It prefers to paint pictures happiness without any problems or shortages. But on this first day of Advent dear friend, as we prepare to remember incarnation of Jesus, I think splinters are worthy of discussion.
Do you have any splinters in your life or heart this Christmas? Any people or circumstances that you would gladly part with? Celebration is easy when there is no lack, but it takes a believer to worship when an illness takes over and all strength is gone. A perfect Christmas dinner is wonderful, but a Christmas dinner that extends to an unpleasant lonely relative is glorious. So many of us are living non-perfect lives, will you come, problems and all and worship with us?
My hope friend, is that you would decorate, celebrate and meditate your way through the season. My fear, is that you will try to create a Christmas without splinters and in doing so, you will miss the cross from which they come. Many things that drive us to our knees are pieces of His cross. A piece of suffering, broken from the wood of glory and given to you, overseen by a loving God. Do not despise your pain and grief this season. Bring it to the light of Christmas and allow him to touch your brokenness. It might not be a perfect Christmas, but if it involves the reality of suffering, the very reason why he came, it will be glorious.
Praying for you this week,
xoxKaren
1. Roderick, David. "Dear Suburb." The Americans.© 2014 University of Pittsburgh Press. P63-64
No comments:
Post a Comment