And I’m not talking about ordinary struggle. “First world”
problems, as my friend, Mike, calls them (when our already privileged luxuries
do not work to our advantage): my giant SUV won’t start, I accidentally bought
regular Coke instead of Diet Coke, and my mother-in-law is driving me crazy.
But real struggle, from hunger so
prevalent around the world to the loss of a close friend or family member.
In 2004 I wrote an essay that suggested Mary (the virgin
one) was actually a rape victim. It was an experience that left her afraid and
heartbroken and Joseph wary and undecided. She was so empty and lonely. For all
intents and purposes, she was dying. And yet a warm, innocent infant grew
inside her, a moving, kicking reminder that she was stronger than the sin that
betrayed her. Mary carried the Light of the World through the most treacherous
darkness. And out of that cruelty and violence, out of that helplessness, came
Jesus. A conception that nearly killed her ended up saving us all.
Starvation is a timeless tragedy, killing people daily or
creating long, intense suffering from which there is often no recovery. In
those aching stomachs and malnourished bodies, there is emptiness the likes of
a manger. An emptiness that must be a
vessel for a savior.
My grandpa was one of my closest relationships and the first
person I watched slowly break down into death. Even though I knew it was
coming, I still cannot get the images of his last few days out of my head.
People tell me that someday, I will be glad that I was there with him as he
took his final breath. That moment torments me, though, and I fail to see any
cause for “gladness”.
Based on my born-of-tragedy theology, I try to replace my
nightmares with different visions. The hospice pastor that prayed with us
before my grandpa’s body was taken away described a scene where Jesus ran,
excitedly, to meet my grandpa and take him into the light. I imagine them
embracing as old friends, laughing, and entering heaven together. I can hear
Jesus saying, “I’ve been waiting for you, Gene, and your wife isn’t nearly as
patient as me.” They laugh again. No longer disabled by his Parkinson’s and
failing body, Grandpa can run to meet Chiemi, the love of his life. There is so
much brightness in that vision.
I think, when Jesus ran to greet my Grandpa, that brief
moment that he was in between the world of the living and the dead, he left a
bulb of light behind for me to find. In my emptiness from losing my grandpa,
Jesus left a seed of faith to birth at a later date.
This advent has been filled with grief and suffering, it
seems. I have heard more of death than I have of life. But it is at this, the
darkest of times, that the savior is reborn. Jesus does not come to us because
of tragedy, but he is born from it,
again and again.
That light Jesus planted for me, in my empty soul, back in
March, is becoming more apparent. I find it filling me up, allowing me to
grieve. And a religion and a faith that I dismissed over a year ago are finally
returning to me.
In a small, joyful innocence, this baby savior, molded from disaster,
brings me a bit of hope.
