When the music gets you

Poetry has been a bit thin on the ground for me lately. Which is weird, because after high school, before I graduated from college, it used to be all the writing that I was most proud of in my life.

And before that I was afraid to write anything–mainly because I didn’t want people reading it. I’m too much of a perfectionist. I didn’t like to think of people judging my heart like that. I didn’t like to think of trying to write something just so that people would applaud me.

Learning to write poetry changed my perspective on a lot of that. I found a lot of freedom in it, in the loose chain-linking of words. My favorite poems I ever wrote–or read–came from nowhere and ended up somewhere else entirely. I couldn’t look too hard at them, lest they disappear.

Poetry is a way of thinking around oneself–that’s why I think everyone should write it.

At the time I wrote this poem (around the end of my first year of college) I was stuck in a bit of melancholy. Writing it felt like a tiny rebellion.

Yellow Coat

The music is a story

to her.

Its bright, deliberate vibrations bounce

off her yellow coat,

singing of the sunset she wears.

Buckled black shoes,

step lightly, circling puddles

and leaves that lie downtrodden,

pressed into pavement

by the weight of persistent raindrops.

Happy endings win

 I’ve never liked stories with sad endings.

When I was little, that used to mean any story that made me feel sad at all. Especially a story where anyone died. I remember having many conversations with my mom as I was growing up, in which I would be ranting about how some movie or book was terrible, and she’d be playing the devil’s advocate, like the grandpa character in The Princess Bride, encouraging me to look for the meaning in it, or at least be rational and recognize that Life Isn’t Always Fair.But I didn’t want to be rational. I just wanted happy endings.

Now that I’m old and ponderous, and have a more eternity-oriented perspective, my definitions have changed a bit. A sad story isn’t a story in which people die–in fact, those are some of my favorite stories now (to name a few: Harry Potter, Van Helsing, Little Women). I’ve accepted by now that death is a part of everyone’s story–a part of life–and death can give a certain level of meaning to things.

No, a really sad ending, to me, is one where sadness is its own meaning. Where pain is romanticized, and death is the end of the end, and serves no redemptive purpose. Where the bad guy gets away–or worse, the hero is consumed by anger and takes ruthless vengeance on him. Like Bridge to Tarabithia or The Call (which if you haven’t seen–don’t bother).

I think people like to watch movies and read books like that because it’s nice, sometimes, to feel things, and have those feelings reflected in them–even if what you feel is unpleasant. We like to be surprised, too, by endings that aren’t predictably convenient or feel-goody. And something in us is intrigued by darkness.

But honestly, what do stories like that really do for us? All they do is make us bitter, cynical, scared, wondering what we missed. They don’t elevate us, like good art should. Good stories need happy endings.

But–I can hear you saying it–sometimes life is just sad, isn’t it? Sometimes we feel hopeless, or angry, or let down and bitter. Stories that amplify those things can fit our perception of life, because they are a very real part of being human. So how can I justify my argument? Because pain may be a part of life, but stories that glorify pain and leave us sitting in it are pointless, hollow.

As my definition of a sad ending has changed, so has my definition of a happy one. And although my reasons have changed, I find that I still firmly believe that happy endings are superior to sad ones.

Because what do good stories–happy endings–do? They take us somewhere, teach us something. They connect us to other people. They give us something to hold on to, something to believe in that goes beyond even death and loss.

In story, pain for pain’s sake says, “This is all there is, and it’s easier not to try to see past it.” And sometimes it feels that way, doesn’t it? People say love is pain, beauty is pain, pain makes us human–and sometimes it’s delicious in a kind of sick way, to cocoon ourselves in pain and let it be the center of our universe.

It’s satisfying to see the bad guy get “what’s coming to him,” because it gives us closure. It’s darkly thrilling to see the serial killer escape the police. It can be almost comforting to see the starring couple cheat on each other or get divorced, because judging their failure puts us on guard against unrealistic expectations for our own relationships. But all of that is just so shallow, and ultimately purposeless.

Love isn’t pain–love is giving your heart despite the risk of pain. Beauty isn’t pain–beauty is strength that endures through pain. Pain doesn’t make us human–our ability to rise above it does. Sadness isn’t beautiful if it doesn’t give way to hope.

What pain and sadness are meant to do is point us toward the things that are truly good. Good stories should do just that.

It’s like Sam Gamgee says to Frodo at the end of the Two Towers:

“It’s like in the old stories, Mr Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass–and when the sun shines it’ll shine out the clearer.

Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going, because they were holding on to something… That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.”

This is one of the greatest moments in literary and film history–this moment where Sam declares his hope against the chaos around him, and you know, somehow, that everything is going to be okay. Even darkness must pass.

And if you know the Lord of the Rings, you know that this moment is followed by still more turmoil, as the kingdoms of Middle Earth prepare for all-out war. Heroes fall in battle and sustain life-altering wounds, friends turn against friends and fathers against sons. The world is almost overcome by shadow– but in the end, light and life win, like they always do.

The victory comes at the cost of painful remembrance, lost innocence. For many, it’s stained with loss and brokenness, and the in-between, messy parts that we don’t see, are spent trying to cope with that sadness. At the end of the Return of the King, Frodo reflects: “There are some things time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep…”

How true that in this life, we will never fully escape pain. But victory is sweeter when we know what it cost, and let the pain of it move us forward–into the hope of a future where pain is a memory, and nothing more.

A happy ending isn’t an ending that isn’t sad at all. It’s an ending that doesn’t let sadness have the last laugh.

About my love

My husband and I probably weren’t supposed to be together.

When we met during my first year of college, I was generally stable and self-possessed, and a little sad. Zac was charismatic and surprising, and definitely not a Christian. He seemed like a bad boy type to me, which I found intriguing–despite his haircut, which at the time was… not good–and which made me keep my distance for two years, since I have a history of getting attached to the wrong people. But my caution didn’t stop me from looking at him from across our music theory classroom most days, laughing at his jokes and admiring his expressive eyebrows and guitar-strumming hands, and wondering what it would be like to be Zac’s friend.

A lot happened in those two years. I changed my major, experienced two (unsurprisingly) anticlimactic romantic disappointments, and faced a faith crisis that had been building since my senior year of high school. Faithful as ever, God brought me out of my dark place, into a realm of peace and mental/physical health that I’d never encountered before.

I should’ve known then that I was being equipped for a big change, because that’s just how God do.

The summer before my junior year, I read C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity, and it supercharged me. I spent a lot of time praying for the opportunity to see someone find Christ, to be able to witness to a lost soul. I prayed, too, for a friend I could trust when I was at school, which had become a lonely and sometimes spiritually desolate place after my sister graduated.

I never expected to find both of those prayers answered in the same person (and this is the part where God chuckles, because he loves tricking people into finding exactly what they need).

But there Zac was, sitting alone in the recital hall on our first day of recitals class, and I sat down next to him on a whim, and from that day onward he was the only person in the music department I was interested in talking to.

It wasn’t really supposed to happen. For much of the first few months of our friendship, I felt like Roxanne Ritchie in that scene from Megamind, where she dumps him in the rain: “You actually got me to care about you!?” I remember coming home for a couple of days over fall break, being completely out of it, and my sister asking me, straight up, “Are you in love with Zac?”

I totally was–not that I would admit that to myself at that point. Things were sticky and complicated then–I couldn’t be in love with Zac, it would just hurt too much.

That’s what I knew, in my brain. But I couldn’t help seeking him out in all of our shared classes, nearly crying with disappointment whenever he wasn’t there, inviting him to come eat with me in the dining hall, praying for him every night as I went to sleep.

And he couldn’t help stopping to talk with me when we should have been going our separate ways in the music building, sending me wholesome memes he thought I’d like, asking me questions about my faith, until he finally found his. Until the light found his eyes again.

I fell in love with Zac in those scarce, in-between moments. I fell in love with him because of his heart for truth, and before that, because of his capacity for grace, and before that, because of his strange and unapologetic sense of humor. And after that, because he listens well, and isn’t afraid to talk about the gritty stuff. Because of his love and care for those who can’t speak for themselves. Because of his strength, his curiosity, his childlike wonder at God’s creation. Because he is the only person I know to cry when he sees a good ol’ mallard just being itself.

Because he loves me, and he isn’t afraid to pursue me, even when I think I need to run away.

The whole story of our relationship is messy. It started with a leap of faith, a step into uncertainty; it grew with pain and soaring heartache and no small amount of stolen fries. And now we’re married, and sometimes I still can’t wrap my mind around how any of it happened. Neither of us are quite the same person that we were when we first started out, and I imagine I’ll have many volumes’ worth of revelations to reflect back on in fifty years.

For now, though, it’s enough to say: I love you, my love. Thank you for being my friend.

Laugh anyway

I’ve been thinking a lot about ribs this week.

(And before you ask, no, not the baby-back kind. Who even eats at Chili’s anymore?)

I’m talking human ribs. The ones that encircle your precious organs and keep your torso from looking like a bag of mush. Those ribs.

The reason my thoughts have been so occupied is because I have been sick.

(And before you ask, no. It’s not coronavirus. Are you a high schooler?)

It’s just an upper respiratory infection, which basically means I’ve been coughing a lot. And you know what happens when you cough with the mighty force of a thousand Viking warriors, like I have been? Apparently, what happens is: you break a rib.

Or, in my case, you strain a rib muscle–or is it sprain? I don’t know the difference. Either way, it feels a bit like getting impaled through the sternum whenever you breathe. Or cough. And since I’m a living person with an upper respiratory infection, I’ve been doing both of those things quite a bit.

Now you’re probably thinking, why should I care? And that’s a fair question. Truthfully, I think you probably don’t care too much about my problems (though you probably would at least pretend to care if I did have coronavirus, since it’s such a big meme and all). But I’m here to talk about me, whether you care or not–and, more importantly, I think the whole thing is pretty funny. Which is ironic, because laughing with a splained (?) rib hurts.

That didn’t stop me from laughing, though. All week I’ve been laughing.

Laughing at how ridiculous it looks when I bend over to cough, like that will somehow contain my organs better. Laughing at the the concern of my excellent office-mate Claire when she sees me stretching out on the floor just to try and get one good breath in.

Laughing at the 17-year-old goons sitting in the back of my ACT class, playing with a piece of a balloon and a stainless steel straw, because somehow even that is more interesting than the ACT.

Laughing with my coworkers over a hasty lunchtime game of pictionelephone. Laughing at my husband when I threw something to him in the middle of Walmart and he didn’t catch it in time.

Laughing when my sister tried to convince me the word “paws” was a palindrome because it spelled “swap” backwards (and when she realized I was right).

Earlier this week, when I first hurt myself, I was thinking it would be hard to have any fun while being in pain–but the interesting thing is, I think the fact that it hurt to laugh made me want to do it more. Not in a weird, I-like-pain way. Just like a, “hey, you don’t get to make my life miserable, so take that, splained ribs!” kind of way. The simple presence of laughter made a kind of shield around me; in the face of laughter, the pain I felt lost its sting. Lost its power.

From a humanistic perspective, there’s something in that, some profound thought about defiance and resilience–but cutting through all the other things I could say, right to the core of why I wrote this, I just think I’m feeling blessed today. Pulled ribs and all.

There’s joy in my life that can’t be shaken by suffering–and that’s the kind of joy God offers to you and me, every day. Surprising, contradictory, all-redeeming joy. Joy that makes you laugh when you shouldn’t, and love life regardless.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” -Romans 15:13