Something Beautiful

I hunched down in my uncomfortable bucket seat on Chicago’s commuter train heading to the suburbs. Unfortunately, I’d picked one of the few actually facing other passengers. Tears sliding down my face, I was embarrassed, so I tried to make myself even smaller, hiding in layers of winter clothing. A young woman next to me quietly asked, “Are you okay?” and I mumbled something about leaving my daughter who’d just gotten her first post-college “real job” downtown. She tried to be encouraging, saying I would see her again, but what I’d revealed to her was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There was so much more.

The larger, simultaneous issue was in returning to my son who attended a Christian college nearby. He was wrestling with a complex, persistent health condition that, sadly, in some circles is not only misunderstood but dismissed as not fully appropriating the Spirit, or even demonic. While I had a modicum of prayer support, the real impetus of my sudden trip to the area was mostly unknown to our group of friends. I felt alone, wholly unable to process and bear the weight of what our family was facing.

Where are You
In the midst of this
unsettledness, pain?

Not knowing who to tell, 
what to say, where to look for help.
“How may I specifically pray for you?”
They want to know.
Please don’t say mental illness,
just anxiety.

I recently came across this reflection I’d written then about that confusing, life-altering season, and I’d like to tell my younger self a few things, although I’m not sure I would’ve listened. There’s just something about trudging through the trenches and hard-won insights that doesn’t seem to be realized apart from the struggle. And my message is surprisingly different than I would’ve thought had I telescoped forward at the time.

I’m continuing—slowly sometimes, with heels digging in the sand—to experience new ways of seeing.

Sitting in the student center,
overwhelmed, numb, hopeless, 
watching workers grab a game
of break-time pool.
Then, above their winter caps,
on the wall…

Did those students know
when they did their art project—
maybe a senior seminar, even—
a heartbroken mother,
whose son was at that moment
in a behavioral health hospital,
would need to see those very words?

I would’ve been sure then I’d have reasons galore now why this happened to my bright, full-of-promise son, or to his parents, who tried with everything in them to equip him for a “flourishing, not languishing” life. Certain God would’ve used it for “good,” knowing even if my limited understanding of that ubiquitous word was different than God’s, something, anything, with a quantitative, definable positive outcome would’ve transpired by now.

There, a large clock face,
encircled Ecclesiastics 3:11—
“He has made everything
beautiful in its time,”
and scattered around the edges,
disparate puzzle pieces.

I’d say longing for reasons why God allows (or, depending on your theology, causes) something in our lives to occur is so understandable and, well, human. But it also appears to give us a measure of control when, in reality, it’s an illusion and actually out of our hands. I’d give myself lots of grace for wanting those meaning-filled explanations because it’s what we, especially Christians, do—we look for answers and, even more, purpose.

That’s where You are God,
in the clock-time-hands,
through the moments,
strung together,
arranging the confusing pieces,
making a beautiful picture.

I would say nine years in, you still may not have, and may never realize in this life, that beautiful picture. But perhaps it’s not about having the puzzle pieces slotted together to make the anticipated glossy image complete; instead, it’s trying to find the sometimes indefinite beauty of the individual pieces. Maybe the beautiful thing, if not the picture, happens especially if it doesn’t all fit because God is still there. What if He’s not as interested in the particular image as we are, but He wants to paint His presence in the midst of the ongoing hard and, somehow, that becomes enough?

I just can’t see it –
yet.

I’d tell her, while it may not always feel like it, there’s something life giving that occurs during the process of seeing, not just receiving the perceived desired end result. Much like the kind stranger on the train who, looking through metaphorical and literal layers that cold January day, saw her, God also saw her, and He still truly sees me—the uncovered me. And likewise, I witness my son and continue to discover him, the real him. I wonder if part of the purpose is seeing. Maybe that’s where glimmers of healing, hope, and beauty lie and, also, perhaps where glimpses of God can be found.

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Jeri Wallin splits her time between the western North Carolina mountains, where she and her husband can often be found exploring a new hiking trail, and the Atlanta area near her four adult children. A lover of beauty, creativity, and words, her favorite pastimes include playing with color in her studio and immersing herself in books. In this season of life, besides delighting in her two grandchildren, she’s been thinking about what it means to accompany someone and the much discussed, but rarely practiced idea of lavish grace.