This is the year of silence. Of water.
I find them, I take them, wherever I can.
For example, 11:29 PM on a Tuesday, after an afternoon of body-throbbing and toddler laughter, taking late naps—myself, not the toddlers; they watched Bluey—reading Toni Morrison’s Paradise.
“Although life in life is terminal and life after life is everlasting, He is with us always, in life, after it and especially in between, lying in wait for us to know the splendor.” —Reverend Richard Misner, in Morrison’s 1999 novel, Paradise. (307).
This is why I read literature—
“to know the splendor.”
Is it a Morrison novel if she has not imparted some splendor by the last page? No. Many people on Goodreads (follow me!) said Paradise was too sprawling in breadth, too splintered in plot to follow, even compared to her other novels. With around one hundred characters and not one a Main, I can see the foundations of their complaints. But even so—splendor, “especially in between.”
I make my home in Between.
Between two homes (neither I would have chosen); between stories, chapters in my Story, overlapping, without clear beginnings or endings; between my life-vision and my bank account; between life and death. The throbbing in my body I variously experience reminds me, I have died, I will die, I am dying—along with everyone I know. Everyone I love.
After my mom’s recent diagnosis of breast cancer, I’ve returned to White Lighter (2013), a concept album from indie artist Typhoon (who Jay discovered on his first trip to Canada, summer 2018). The songs tell of lead vocalist Tyler Morton’s chronic illness, his grappling with death on the undulating edge of life.
In his song, “Morton’s Fork,” he realizes:
“the sun will explode and not before you and everyone that you’ll ever know will be gone, long ago, you are alone in this together.”
When I listen to the rock rhythm, the cerebral and vulnerable lyrics, the brass instruments framing everything, I hurt. But I keep returning, because of the splendor—
in the splintering of linear narratives,
stories I never would have chosen
my dying dreams
the bloating bodies of dying stars
in our dying bodies, our dead or dying or somewhere-in-between lives,
there is and will be and was—splendor.
Until now, I did not perceive the tenderness, the quiet joy of Paul’s assertion to the Corinthians:
"We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies... "So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal." —(second) letter to the Corinthians, Chapter 4.
I don’t read much of Paul these days. He’s too harsh, critical, postulating, for the rambling stories I’ve lived. My experiences don’t fit nicely into his demanding narrative of the Gospel. But, rather than a strong-man stand against evil, I see a quiet strength here. A strength that acknowledges the peril, the inevitable outcome, the reality of life on earth, but seeks the splendor too.
With Paul, I am not losing heart.
I’m looking to the unseen—in the emptiness of silence to think, to be, to breathe, and the translucency of water to drink.
With God, I lie in wait to know the splendor, of this year in between.
Why else are we alive.
Christianna thanks again for the great reminder of this post. As I read it making my morning coffee and your mom’s morning dose of hot cereal, I needed to remember though things feel like they are wasting away God is still working in and sustaining and renewing us. Then when I went to my morning devotions it was on this exact passage. I’m trying to find the splendor but it has been elusive. Thanks for helping me more centralize my search. Love you!
Typing out Paul’s words last night, I was thinking especially of you. God knows what he’s doing, always. He’s holding you, Dad! There’s some splendor in his arms. I pray you find and hold onto that, even when you can’t see/feel it. I love you!