That Happened

                I am a woman who loves to contain things.  Baskets, boxes, bins, I love them all.  Once, at Safeco Field, the security guard checking my purse noticed how many sub-purses I had.  One for my lip gloss and lip balm, another for pens and a paper pad, a third for coins.  He asked, “Do you have a purse for your purses?”  “No, but I have a nice bin for them at home,” I said.  This need to categorize and contain spills over into how I process daily events.  When something happens, it’s boxed as “good” or “bad”.  I dropped and broke a plate = bad.  A friend sent me a funny card in the mail = good.  Traffic = obviously bad.  Jelly beans = good.  Jelly beans in large quantities = bad.  Everything has a concrete place. 

                At a certain point, this system became crazy-making.  When the day’s tally was too heavy in the bad column, I felt awful and wondered why I was so mired in badness.  When things were good, I was expecting more bad to come at any minute.  I was going through counseling for some tough stuff and categorizing past pain through the good/bad lens was excruciating.  I’ve never liked the phrase “It is what it is” because it feels so passive, but I desperately needed room for gray between my black and white boxes. 

                Out of this came the phrase, “That happened.”  My roommate and I started using it liberally.  From burning dinner to getting unexpected money to forgiving someone – it happened.  Once, we were walking and a total downpour started.  We turned our faces upward, smiled, and my roommate said, “Well, this is happening!”  There was no more need to understand whether an event was good or bad – usually things are a big, jumbly mix of both those labels, plus a lot more.   When I classified everything before, there was an underlying push to take action, to turn the bad into good.  It’s scary to take action on painful things and usually our human action is not the answer anyway, so they often stay buried.  Saying, “that happened,” is akin to opening a closet full of boxes, bicycles, old toys, pictures, and shining a light in the back corner.  You see what is there, and you’re not hiding it anymore.  It’s there.  It exists.   It matters.  Maybe you’ll do something about it today, maybe tomorrow, maybe never.  The point is, it’s in the light now.

                This past February, I traveled to Uganda for the third time.  Before this trip, I researched story-telling and how it helps people heal and reconcile from their past.  I have a heart for reconciliation and I love, love, love to hear women tell their life stories.  I was so excited to try this idea, along with checking in on teachers at the school where I’d worked in the past.

                I spent two weeks in Kyakitanga, a small village where God led my friend Julie to begin a school several years ago.  During my past two trips, I focused solely on training teachers.  This time, I worked with teachers in the afternoon and spent the mornings listening to village women’s life stories.  With the help of two young ladies as translators and my friend Jill, we visited homes and listened.

                It was a powerful experience to record stories.  The women have had difficult lives.  I prayed that they’d feel safe sharing, and was interested in happy memories as well as sad.  As Jill, Brenda, Mabel, and I asked and listened, ladies opened up.  Tears flowed freely as that light reached the back of the closet where grief had hidden for so long.  At one home, we sat on the floor, just quietly letting the moment exist.  The mother and grandmother cried, and Jill put her arms around them.  It is a rare and beautiful privilege to be let into the rawness of another woman’s sorrow.  After some time of silence, I asked if I could pray for them.  I asked God’s healing and blessing and favor over their lives.  Then, we began singing.  The song was in Luganda, but it was simple enough for Jill and I to join in.  “Weebale Yesu, weebale Yesu, weebale Yesu…”  which means, “Thank You Jesus, Thank You Jesus, Thank You Jesus….”  The two naked bottomed babies crawled amidst us, and got up on their knees to clap with the music.  They squealed with delight, ignorant of the traumas their mother and aunt had just recounted.

                I don’t have answers for the stories I heard and wrote down.  Suffering is difficult to understand sometimes.  I didn’t go to those homes to put these ladies’ life events into boxes and bins.  I went to bear witness.  To say, with my presence and pen, “That happened.”  The pain doesn’t have to be forgotten, or hidden, or manipulated.  Your life happened.  It matters.  You matter. 

While I can contain most everything in my life, one thing I can never contain is the love of God.  It’s bigger and better than any of us could dream up.  It’s one of the few things I don’t want to contain.  I hope and pray that God’s love explodes into every crevice of life.  There will be no limits to the wholeness God brings.  Amen!

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. For those who lived in a land of deep shadows— light! sunbursts of light! You repopulated the nation, you expanded its joy. Oh, they’re so glad in your presence! Festival joy! The joy of a great celebration, sharing rich gifts and warm greetings. The abuse of oppressors and cruelty of tyrants— all their whips and cudgels and curses— Is gone, done away with, a deliverance as surprising and sudden as Gideon’s old victory over Midian. The boots of all those invading troops, along with their shirts soaked with innocent blood, Will be piled in a heap and burned, a fire that will burn for days! For a child has been born—for us! the gift of a son—for us! He’ll take over the running of the world. His names will be: Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness. His ruling authority will grow, and there’ll be no limits to the wholeness he brings. He’ll rule from the historic David throne over that promised kingdom.  – from Isaiah 9 (MSG)