In a New York magazine I recently read this statement: “We remain human beings… and we orient ourselves in time, looking forward to the future. When that future has been suspended, humans come undone.”
And this report is even sadder.
I will say here what the writer of the first article said, and what the Doctor in the 2nd article surely felt: “I began to loose it this week”. I echo his words; my heart grieves. The time is getting long and longer. You know it also; it weighs on all our hearts.
Several years ago, August 2011 to be exact, I was sitting in this very same house when a rolling quake went up the entire Appalachian chain. And, with incredibly no loss of life, it yet put a visible crack into the pinnacle of the Washington monument, 400 miles away. A few weeks later after that quake, in a remarkable set of unplanned circumstances, I was to stand in front of that monument, observing with my own two eyes the crack on its top. For me: the quake experience and that subsequent sight was a serious sign. When my house jolted, when my ceiling fan started to wildly wobble, these words of Jesus came fast into my head: “But all these things are merely the beginning of birth pangs”
Birth pangs. I remember when I was in my own first labor, when a nurse on the next shift came in and pronounced something about her expectation as to the length of my transition. My body hadn’t done this before; we did not know. But this nurse’s glib assumption, turned out to be incorrect. The signs were obvious, but the timing was not. And here’s the substance: the birth did happen; and in the end, that was what mattered. A couple years later, when labor commenced with our second child, the early signs were now familiar. Previous experience had prepared me, but it was no less ominous — for once that progression started, I knew I would not be able to stop it, no matter how long it took. That recognition was the worst part of the entire birthing — more than the physical pain, was that sense of control loss. The process was hard; the result was sure. We’re in a time like that now and I recognize it.
Labor is a sign, and signs are only that: they point to something else, which is much more substantive. Signs signify, but they are not the true event: only the preparation for it. A red hexagonal metal stand with the letters STOP is not the intersection but rather the warning before that place. Small earthquakes are not “the big one” but rather an indicator of others coming. Labor pains are not the birth, but the necessary movement toward that event. Are my eyes on the prize or on the pain toward getting there?
We’re all in a certain labor, and many feel it worse than I do. But I had a sense of the weight of it this week; it put me under for some hours. It reminded me of the glib words of the nurse who did not know my time and made a false prediction. When it comes to whatever is ahead, best be sure, and that’s why Jesus’ words catch my attention. I feel we’re on a moving train, like a progressing labor, and we simply can’t get off. Something is coming ahead, and being prepared is only wise.
JRR Tolkein said “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near one.” But hold this in your heart: the dragon is not the Signifier. That Signifier we await has authority over the dragon, over any virus, over my sinking heart.
What is settling out as newly evident to you as you hold this tension, as lesser things hold less value? What is it you are trusting?
For me, it does not end here. My future may be somewhat certainly suspended, but temporal expectations are not my end; I am loathe to make something tangible here my end. I am going to hang on until the promised birth, if God gives me the grace to do so.
I image an older piece here entitled “The Valley of Achor” taken from Hosea’s words for holding on and for looking ahead. The prophets all spoke of the Signifier.