Perhaps it is the fact that coming home for the holidays is one of the few times I am able to give my mind a clear break from the relentless processing of ever-looming projects, or perhaps it is the reminiscing that is inevitable with a return to the people and the place I grew up in, but something about these stays always turns me inward and convicts me. The experience seems to force one to ask questions like: "What have I done with all I've been given? This is where I came from, how will I ever endeavour to deserve it?"
Escaping from my family and going on a walk, I allowed my thoughts to wander where they would. I soon came to the quandary I have countless times since I went to Bangladesh. The quandary of love and fear.
You know that verse about love conquering fear? I believe it, or at least have an ardent hope that it is true... at least, if there is anything that overcomes fear, it cannot be but love.
There are different kinds of fear though. The fear I mainly experienced before this past year was one that sits in the back of your mind, usually just out of your conscious awareness and gives you a dull ache, stealing bits of joy and contentment as you go through your day. This is an important kind of fear, but if it is all you have experienced, it gives you (or, it gave me) a skewed comprehension of the power of that verse. In Bangladesh, for the first time in my safe little life, I experienced physical fear. A real and immediate fear (taking no imagination, and extremely practical) that I could be seriously, physically harmed. The feeling is like nothing I had known before, and I quickly realized it trumped all that I have ever learned in thousands of sermons, Bible classes, and heartfelt devotionals about how to do what is right when it's hard.
I cannot now imagine myself possessing, living, being a love so great that it would overcome this type of fear. I was shocked and am now simply ashamed to admit that I am completely paralyzed in the face of it. Or not paralyzed really. I am able to run away, protect myself. When I was a child I used to think how I would like to be a martyr. I know the idea was the product of an appropriately childish dramatic mind, but I cannot help contrasting that with my feelings now. Now, when I can bring those few moments clear enough into memory, I wonder... I wonder what there might be (a person, ideal, cause) that could give me the courage to submit myself to physical harm. Writing this brings back the disgust I had for myself after those moments, and yet, so much of what I learned last year was that people in general (not only myself) are much weaker than I had imagined before. Or... perhaps I simply never gave all those who are so courageous enough credit, thinking I deserved a place in their ranks, not realizing I was just an actress dreaming of a heroic role.
But I have so much more compassion now for those who live lives of cruelty. Are they blameless? I don't know. I guess I can't be the judge, but what I know is that they are probably afraid; afraid in a way that I have only had terrifying glimpses of. Living in a society filled with metaphysical, intellectual jargon, I think we underestimate the power of physical fear, and from our comfortable thrones judge too quickly those whose lives we cannot comprehend.
I am writing tonight because I have failed miserably in the cause of love, and because the darkness broke through my joy today. This is a resounding theme in my life lately: joy showing up in the midst of pain, and sorrow sneaking up on me in the midst of rejoicing. And lately, (inconvenient as their arrivals often are) I've taken to opening my arms to both when they choose to present themselves. I am regularly labeled as either morbid or inappropriately ecstatic (usually there may be some sort of drug related joke here), but I think my problem is hope. I have hope in these thoughts, perpetuated by this complicated, inconvenient heart of mine. I dare to hope that these leadings (as some of you have so graciously helped me consider) may be the workings of that holy spirit I've heard discussed in vague, and usually incomprehensibly meaningless, terms for so many years. I have hope that listening to these voices will guide me to what I seek: a life of real, fear-defying, love.
Oh friends, is it possible?
If you've made it to the end of this dauntingly wordy and dark message, I ask for your help. You see, I am good at theorizing and confession. I am good at loving with words, but I struggle to no end with action. So if you have won any battles (as I know you have) with learning to live a life of real, practical love, please continue to share with me.
If you'll help teach me, I promise to do my best to return the favor.
Thanks for sharing, Em. This essay reminded me of a favorite quote, author unknown: "Fear knocked at the door, love answered, and there was no one there."
ReplyDeleteI love your posts Emily. I love you. I'd love to talk with you about this in person, as I feel like I couldn't do this subject justice in a comment box.
ReplyDeleteI recently listened to Cormac McCarthy's The Road on audio book. It's an absolutely captivating book, and if I were to sum it up in a phrase, it would be, "fear and love." It's almost as if the world described in that novel were stripped of everything but those two things, there's not even any hope, there is only fear and there is only love.
Too much to write, but please check your facebook inbox for some of the battles we were able to win over the past summer. Hope it helps. Khuda Hafis.
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