You might know these words refer to Mary Magdalene and “the other Mary's” emotions after encountering the empty tomb. I imagine others might favor these words, too, seeing as they give comfort to the oft-occurring intermingling of fear and joy in our lives. These words remind me that it is normal to experience fear and joy simultaneously. While it might feel a bit weird inside, I am not the only one. (The point being driven home especially well in Disney/Pixar’s wonderful film, Inside Out, by the way.)
While it’s easy and obvious to point out this deeply human experience, I discovered a real-life example this week as we continue to wait for that moment when it finally feels like spring.
How did we get more snow? I don’t know. But we did. For a few days this past week, there appeared yet more white stuff on the ground. The daffodils and croci are still trying to break through, though. They must truly understand the intermingling of fear and joy—having burst through the ground to new life—all the while still braving the harsh elements of cold and wind: fear and joy.
As I begin sharing time with a new group of kiddos at daycare, I imagine the same must be true at all times for parents—this simultaneous fear and joy—watching the life you have created and worrying so desperately about (and for) it, too.
As for me, I experience it when I think about how joyful my community makes me, but fear what happens when they aren’t here directly sharing their wisdom and love with me anymore.
April brings with it the grace of being National Poetry Month, so I will be sure to include poetry with each entry this month. Today, for lack of searching for something else, I will include the fitting Mary Oliver poem I posted a few weeks back.
We shake with joy, we shake with grief.
What a time they have, these two
house as they are in the same body.
I don’t doubt that Mary Oliver could have just as easily substituted the word fear where we read grief.
So, what do we do with all this? Last night I was reminded when we chanted Psalm 66 at Evening Praise. As a novice, one thing I had to do was memorize a few verses of a psalm each week to use a prayer. Last night I realized yet again why I had to do that as I came upon this line:
Constant love is the eternal promise.
As I begin sharing time with a new group of kiddos at daycare, I imagine the same must be true at all times for parents—this simultaneous fear and joy—watching the life you have created and worrying so desperately about (and for) it, too.
As for me, I experience it when I think about how joyful my community makes me, but fear what happens when they aren’t here directly sharing their wisdom and love with me anymore.
April brings with it the grace of being National Poetry Month, so I will be sure to include poetry with each entry this month. Today, for lack of searching for something else, I will include the fitting Mary Oliver poem I posted a few weeks back.
We shake with joy, we shake with grief.
What a time they have, these two
house as they are in the same body.
I don’t doubt that Mary Oliver could have just as easily substituted the word fear where we read grief.
So, what do we do with all this? Last night I was reminded when we chanted Psalm 66 at Evening Praise. As a novice, one thing I had to do was memorize a few verses of a psalm each week to use a prayer. Last night I realized yet again why I had to do that as I came upon this line:
Constant love is the eternal promise.
I remembered choosing that line to memorize last year, for good reason it seems. Fear and joy sometimes have a home inside me at the same time, but in all those moments, so, too, does God’s love. May we commit that truth to memory.
All is well.
Let us walk in the holy presence.
Hang in there, little buds. Your time is coming!
