We are in a class called the Brooklyn Fellows and it meets on Mondays. Last winter, when we were applying to be a part of it, the whole "Mondays" thing was a big deal. It meant we could only host Pancake Mondays once/month. Cutting back on the "thing" that is making me love New York felt like a weird step forward, but we thought meeting with a group of folks who also voluntarily applied to something with a required reading list and syllabus was a good enough idea. This past weekend, we gathered with this group around a long table and before we started our discussion on a very thick Church History book (that neither Patrick nor I finished) we sang this song.
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This group of strangers and friends, this city, this body, this mountain, this sea, this grief, this joy, this song, this day, this sorrow, this job, this sunshine, and this.
This. All of this.
I know the sound of His sweet song of praise - the melody of rocks and trees and skies and seas. I can recognize the joyful tune that creation sings and I have often sung along. These are words believers sing - strong words that proclaim a funny paradox. None of this is mine. There is not a particle I can claim, of the beauty I see. Even my own body is not my own because it was bought with a price.
Still, I rush all my particles up against the gravity pushing me down to say, "Not my this. Please let this alone so I can hold it close!" That is when I feel the funny paradox the most. None of this is mine, not even the thoughts I hoard like jewels. But all of this He shares with me. That's a lot of this. And it just expanded more than the weight of the world in the last two and a half months.
... That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world, why should my heart be sad? The lord is King—let the heavens ring. God reigns—let the earth be glad.
This is my Father’s world. I walk a desert lone. In a bush ablaze to my wondering gaze God makes His glory known.
This is my Father’s world, a wanderer I may roam Whate’er my lot, it matters not, My heart is still at home.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done: Jesus who died shall be satisfied, And earth and Heav’n be one.
When this includes deserts and wrongs and sadness and battles on battles, the last lines of "My Father's World" become especially important. Jesus who died shall be satisfied, and earth and heav'n be one. The depth of this is infinitely deeper now because He includes us in His inheritance. Everything I can grasp and hold and hoard in this world pales to that union of earth and heaven becoming one.
But, what I am grappling with today is much more tangible, much more temporary and tactile. There is joy here, in all of this. God did not stop keeping promises when my world got full of grief. He did not stop being abundant life. God did not stop authoring laughter or dancing or sunshine or autumn breezes. He still authors all those things.
This world - all the beauty and all the ugly - is His and He will hear our groans until earth and Heav'n are one. Until then, I will sing, "God is the ruler yet."
Find all our grief notes at this link and join with my family as we mourn in hope.