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At the house where I lived for the first year and a half of my life, there is (or was) a gigantic weeping willow. I know this because my uncle owned the house and we used to go visit him and pick blackberries and raspberries from the bushes in the backyard, and then we used to visit the people who lived there after my uncle sold it because they happened to be friends of my dad’s from work, and they let us come berry picking, too. As little kids, my sister and I would run up under the tree branches and pretend it was a giant fort, or we would swing on the branches, jumping up and down like we were yo-yos and the branches were the strings. The branches, of course, couldn’t hold us and we would slide down them, pulling leaves off as we went, and leaving long bare strips of weeping willow branches in our wake. We weren’t necessarily trying to be cruel to the tree, but we were generally bored by the time we got to it (it was right next to the driveway, and Mom was usually standing there talking for ages before she hollered at us to get back in the car) – and it was always interesting to see what the tree branches looked like without leaves. As an older elementary school kid, I began to view the tree as sort of a sad but yet still beautiful thing. I would stand under it and listen to the wind whisper through the branches and I fancied it really was weeping…
Tonight I stood outside in my driveway and looked at the stars. I can’t name a lot of the constellations, but I can always find at least one of the Dippers, Casseopeia, the Hunter, and Orion. Orion was my hero when I was a kid. I’m not sure what about his story made me like him when I first read about the constellations – I don’t even remember who he was – but I like that there is a big bunch of stars in the heavens that looks like a warrior; you can see his belt, and his sword, and his dagger, and for whatever reason, as a kid, I felt safe if I could see Orion.
Standing in my driveway and star-gazing tonight, I thought back over the countless times in my life I have stood out in the cold, looking at Orion and wishing or hoping for something – sometimes with tears of deep sadness, and other times with tears of deep joy. Orion, in my adult life, has become a symbol – an icon, really – of God’s sovereignty, protection, and promise; I suppose, in some ways, I’ve looked at him like an angel sent to watch over me, though I know that’s not really the case – but for some reason, when I see him, I remember more clearly that there is a God in heaven who loves me dearly and sees every tear, shed and unshed. I’ve gotten in the silly habit of looking for Orion and saying hi – but that little ritual is actually an active remembrance that I am cared for, and no more irreverent, I suppose, than Madeleine L’Engle’s laughing Buddha.
I have a lot of unshed tears tonight, and I am not exactly sure why. They’re the sort of unshed tears that make your throat get all tight and feel like you’re going to choke.
Part of it could be the fork I dropped, tines down, on my foot, as I sat down to eat dinner at 9:00 pm.
Part of it could be that I didn’t get dinner until 9:00pm. It’s crazy how food can affect you… 20 days into a 47 day fast from a whole lot of things, I am intensely aware of that.
Part of it could be that tonight I went to a church service largely attended by people I didn’t know well, but also attended by people to whom two weeks ago I was (for better or worse) a spiritual leader, and to whom now I have no idea who I am. Our college and 20somethings ministries merged tonight, and I know that it was the right thing – I know God wanted it to happen – but in the midst of that move, I’ve lost any sight of where I fit, or even if I really fit, and I think tonight I began to experience the loss that comes with that displacement. I was supposed to lead worship tonight, and (long, frustrating story) I didn’t get that chance. And I suppose I’m supposed to learn something from the long, frustrating story, but mostly what I feel as a result of it right now is…. not valued. Which I know isn’t true, but it feels true.
And part of the unshed tears have to do with other losses – a friendship, time, health.
And I argue to my unshed tears that they can stay unshed, because at least I have a fork, and a kitchen to keep it in, and food to eat with it. That they can stay unshed because no matter who treats me unkindly, the God of the universe loves me completely. That they can stay unshed because friendships easily ended weren’t worth keeping, and there have been other and better friendships that have taken its place. That they can stay unshed because time is just time, and is never wasted, even if you don’t spend it the way you wish to. That they can stay unshed because health lost is simply an opportunity to cling to God’s mercy and trust in His provision and healing power….
And my unshed tears reply that if my nose wasn’t so stuffy and if it wouldn’t be a miserable experience, they wouldn’t be quite as unshed as they are.
So I picture myself a weeping willow tonight, branches dragging, heart heavy. And Orion, in a blaze of fiery, starry glory charges off across the night sky to avenge every tear.
