The important stories can be the hardest to explain.
I spent part of the afternoon comparing my limited Arabic vocabulary to the story of Jesus’ birth. Not a pretty comparison. My teacher had suggested that we look at versions of this story from the Qur’an and the Gospels, as our language class tonight. But after re-reading Luke’s version of the events, I was awed at the gap between the power and intensity of this story, and my ability to communicate.
That’s how I feel when I sit down to blog lately, also.
The stories that burn in my heart are the hardest to put into words. Saturday I woke up with no plans. My rhythm of relaxation is still developing. So unplanned days here are often open spaces meant to be refreshing, and also reminiscent of people and places I miss…
In the evening, I would Skype into a wedding of good friends in New York. I’m grateful that technology allows us to connect, but let’s be honest: hugs don’t transmit electronically. So my Saturday stretched ahead of me, less like shade, more like shadow.
After coffee– still not feeling awake, just restless– I found myself reading Psalms. My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent (Psalm 22). I had said goodbye the night before to visitors from the US, including one from home. I had gotten to process successes from this season as well as the struggles, the places where I still feel the darkness, where God seems silent. I thought of those conversations as I kept reading. I will fear no evil, for You are with me (Psalm 23).
And somehow the familiar phrase brought light to cloudy thoughts.
Basking in its warmth, I curled up to sleep again, and on the way to dreams I let the ancient truth percolate: Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. The darkness is real. But it has not overcome the light. He walks alongside me.
How do I write about kitchen table revelation? How do I explain how different my day was, when I awoke the second time? How do I share with you some of the warmth and light that thought gave me, and still acknowledge the shadows that you and I experience?
How can I describe watching, from a screen on the other side of the ocean, as my friends said their vows– how I celebrated, deeply sensing that You are with me, with no other person in the room? How can I explain why tears still fell, when the screen was off?
Slowly. Starting with facts, but trying to help us see together the Face behind them. And praying that He will tell us the soul-strengthening truths that go beyond words.
Kind of the same way I tried to tell the Christmas story tonight.