Like a Weeble Wobble

I don’t know that I ever played with a weeble wobble. I’m an 80’s kid, so I think they might have been in decline as I was doing my serious playing. But I love the premise: a toy that never stays down. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.

As I’ve moved through the last few weeks, I’ve recognized my own weeble wobble nature that’s grounded in my faith. Despite the dark days and even darker nights – the fear, anguish, pain, and

anger that I’ve felt – there’s something within me that refuses to stay down. Like a capsized boat, I’ve been turned upside down, but there’s an irresistible force that continues to turn me rightside up.

I like to think of myself as a strong, capable person, but I know there’s no way I am righting myself by my own doing. I’m sure someone well-read on human nature could say something about humanity’s preference for status quo and homeostasis or the innate resiliency of the human spirit, but what I feel is not denial for the sake of status quo and definitely not a return to pre-July 4 life. Rather, what I feel is strength beyond my own and glimpses of clarity in the midst of the mire.

In church yesterday, the most striking moment of this occurred as we prayed the Lord’s Prayer. As a pastor, I’m used to being out front, speaking clearly, leading pieces of worship – sometimes in the moment, sometimes considering what comes next. But yesterday, I spoke more softly, sank into the prayer, and let the chorus of voices around me propel me forward. This journey through grief happens despite my attempts at control. And sometimes I am able to coast on the current of my community, which is a blessed gift.

So, I’ve come to the conclusion that I can never right my own life. Whether it’s this current storm or some other that comes along, every human life gets turned upside down at times. Fortunately for all of us, God cast us a line, turns the world rightside up, and gives us the ability to rise like eagles through the work of Christ. It's a work in progress, but thanks be to God.

Tomorrow I travel to Arkansas to attend my father’s funeral service on Wednesday morning. For those of you keeping score, that makes three big losses in just over three months. One of my friends said it must feel like salt in the wound, and it does in a way, but there’s also the odd sensation of having reached almost the bottom. I know there’s more I could lose, and in some of those dark nights I wonder how much pain can live in one body, but in the sweet light of day I know that I have been deep, deep down in the pit and I am surviving. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.

Dark!

That is the exclamation I hear from my 2-year-old son when we walk through the laundry room. I try to observe lots of things to him, from the man walking to the trees along the road, so I’m sure I mentioned that it was dark as I carried him through this small room between our garage and the rest of the house at some point. It has 2 doors, one on either side, probably to muffle the noise of the laundry machines from the rest of the house, but the effect is a pretty inky darkness as you pass through one door, close it, before reaching for the other. Knowing my house like I do, I rarely flip the light switch, intuitively knowing where the next handle is.

The first time we passed through this darkness, I remember James held me a little tighter as he exclaimed, “Dark!” “I’m right here. I’ve got you,” I said. And like so many other times in this relationship, I glimpsed the heart of God in my small, mundane life. How many times have I cried out to God, “Dark!” And, if I am willing, I can feel the arms of God around me, even to the point of carrying me, as God whispers in my ear, “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

My husband, who is a musician, will often talk about people getting dark. Usually it’s a director who’s addressing the band. It was a piece of language I wasn’t familiar with the first time, so I pressed him to explain the first time he used it. For him and for the musicians he’s around, dark is when someone is being brutally honest, really telling you what the problem is – it’s critical but not personal. It’s sometimes necessary to get dark.

Well, brothers and sisters, it’s time to get dark in our faith. It’s the Thursday of Holy Week, the day when we remember Christ’s last Passover with his disciples, as he gathered with them around a table, fed them, washed their feet, while knowing the betrayal to come. It’s time for us to own our faults, the ways in which we betray God daily in our words or actions. Yet, even in the midst of these things, as I lament by failings, I know that, no matter how dark it may get, God is there.

Fortunately us, this liminal space is just that. It is a threshold between here and there, a “time to remember and move on” (This is a Day of New Beginnings, UMH #383). We don’t stand here in the in-between space any more than I stand for any length of time in the laundry room with my son. We experience the darkness, we know it for what it is whether it’s inside or outside, and we move forward to embrace the light. For nothing helps us savor the radiance of resurrection like the dark.