sorrow | All is Well

Come, Ye Disconsolate

May 9, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

It’s Mother’s Day.

And here in our little home on Wornom drive, its been a beautiful day. I had three of my four kids join me at my church, for worship service. During the service, my youngest girl and I had the honor of singing one of my mom’s favorite hymns as a duet in worship. My Navy boy was able to briefly call me and wish me a Happy Mother’s Day, and tell me he’d be home for a short visit next weekend. And after church, my crew took me to lunch, where we laughed a whole bunch, and they gave me handmade gifts that I’ll treasure for always.

It really was a very good day.

During the course of the morning, though–during Worship Team practice, during Sunday School, before and even after worship, I had a few people tell me the ache of their souls–how much they miss their mother’s on Mother’s Day, and one who told me how much she aches to have a child, and how she wonders if she will ever become a mom.

And each of these conversations wrecked me just a bit. I hurt for these dear people, who find this day painful. It’s hard to hear the Mother’s Day or Father’s Day sermons, when you so desperately miss your mom, or dad—or when the situation with your mom or dad is not a healthy or supportive situation. When your mom or dad is in prison. When the relationship is a painful one. It’s hard to see the Happy Mother’s Day posts on social media.

It creates an ache that gnaws at the soul.

Or, the longing for a child, when getting pregnant is difficult, or when a child has been lost, or when a family is waiting to hear that their adoption has been approved—it tears at the mind and heart to watch the baby dedications at church. Or to see the pregnancy announcements on Facebook.

Or the orphan, who has no mom or dad to call their own; who desperately longs for a forever family.

All of these things are very real sorrows. They hurt. They cause us to grieve, deeply–and the joy that is seen in other’s lives hurts like salt in wounds.

I know just a small bit of this–I miss my mom. It has been many years since she died–very young. And time has dulled that ache. Or, maybe time has changed it. Or, maybe my understanding of God has always changed the grief somehow. I don’t know. It is not nearly as acute as in those early years. Still yet, I miss her. I wish she were here.

I wish I knew if she were proud of me.

We sang a song this morning, in worship, titled “Come as You Are”. And as the ache that several dear friends shared with me weighed on my mind, I was struck by some of the words in this David Crowder song:

Earth has no sorrow
That heaven can’t cure.

Yes.

Oh my soul, there is great hope in those words.

Even the very hardest things. Even the Job-like things. Even the deepest losses. The deepest cuts. The deepest abuses. The deepest griefs.

This is hope that we must cling to.

The lines from Crowder’s lyrics actually date back to a song published by Thomas Moore in 1816. I love his words here:

Come, ye disconsolate, where’er ye languish,
Come to the mercy seat, fervently kneel.
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish;
Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, light of the straying,
Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure!
Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
“Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot cure.”

When we experience the deep losses of life–death of a mom or dad, loss of a child, the pain of a broken friendship, the fear that comes with the loss of a job, and so, so many other examples–our only hope lies in the taking of those griefs to the mercy seat. God beckons us to bring Him our wounded hearts. There is no other source of comfort or hope that can offer what He alone can offer, and that’s this: the healing of such pain is the work of God, our comforter.

He is the joy of the desolate.

And then He calls us to extend that comfort which He has given us, to others who are in pain:

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, ⁴who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Earth has no sorrow, that heaven can’t heal.

Oh, but sometimes, here on earth, it hurts so deeply, and it is hard to see hope. I know this full well. But it is there, because scripture is truth, and God is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He will not forsake us.

And when Mother’s Day hurts, or Father’s Day is painful—when we ache for broken friendships or we are haunted by hard, hard things–it is to Him that we should run, with full abandon, to sense Him saying “My child, no sorrow you know is beyond my love and comfort and ability to heal in your mind and soul.”

Rend Your Hearts, Not Your Clothing

February 16, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

“Yet even now…”

Those are the words that God declares, in Joel, as He calls His people to repentance.

In the verses before this pleading of the Father, we are reminded that our God is a God who cannot tolerate sin. His very holiness does not allow it. His righteousness cannot abide it. And, His justice is swift and sure. The day of the Lord–of His judgement, is something to fear:

“For the day of the LORD is great and very awesome;
who can endure it?”

Who can endure it, indeed?

And yet, our God is not a God of hopelessness. Because, after 11 verses describing the judgement that is to come, we see these words: “Yet even now…

….return to me with all your heart…

with fasting…..

with weeping….

with morning…

and rend your hearts and not your garments.”

God was calling the people of Judah to repentance, and He calls us to the same. But what does that look like?

Sure, we all know how to be “sorry” when we have done something wrong. But so often we default to the position of the child who, when caught making fun of the youngest sibling, or whose transgressions are discovered when the empty candy wrappers are found under the bed, grudgingly replies, “Sorry!” Saying “I’m sorry” is relatively easy, actually.

And so it is, sometimes, when we are aware that we have sinned against God and against others. We cross our arms and grudgingly tell God, “I’m sorry”, and mark it down in our column of confession and repentance.

Or, at least, I am certainly guilty of doing so.

But what does God mean here, when he says “Rend your hearts and not your clothing?”

I think it is may be clearer than we would like to admit.

The practice of rending clothing was a powerful outward expression of grief and mourning. When someone tore their clothes in the act of confession or repentance, it was an expression of deep sorrow over their sin and a plea for God to see and forgive.

But, while visually a very strong reaction and in some cases appropriate, the tearing of clothes may not accurately portray the level of grief one may-or should-have over their sin.

I can tear my garments and display my sorry-ness publicly, and yet never once tear my heart.

That is not what God desires.

No. As opposed to the violent ripping of cloth, he desires the violent tearing of the fabric of our stoic and stubborn and cynical hearts. When are very souls are grieved over our sin, that is when–and only when–He can mend them with the strings of His forgiveness and mercy and grace.

And, in His act of mending our torn souls with His forgiveness, He creates in us a deeper desire for Himself.

I’m not entirely sure what this looks like, to be honest with you. But I do know that the times I have been painfully honest with God, over sin, and have grieved that sin before Him in such a way that my heart was torn deeply as opposed to the shallow papercut that may accompany a grudging, stubborn “I’m sorry (because I’ve been caught)” response–those times have resulted in a mending of my soul and a deep desire to not face that pain again through committing such sins.

But also this–while those moments are excruciatingly painful, I am also fully aware in those moments of what kind of God I serve–He is the God–yes, of judgement and righteousness as seen in the first verses of Joel 2–but also the God of Joel 2:13, who, upon the rending of my soul in anguish over sin, is gracious. And merciful. And slow to anger.

And abounding in steadfast love.

Steadfast love. Love that never wavers, even in the face of my sin and His necessary discipline. His love remains steadfast.

And in that love is where I want to remain, even in those painful moments of grief over sin.

He is not only merciful, He is mercy.

And, when we tear our hearts in the grief of repentance and sorrow over sin, it is He who mends them, with those chords of mercy:

He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds. Psalm 147:3
The Holy Bible: English Standard Version. (2001). (Joe 2:11). Wheaton: Standard Bible Society.

Toska

September 26, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

I came across a word a few nights ago that I believe will find itself into my list of cherished words.

(Yes, I have an actual list.)

It will join the likes of grace, joy, sovereignty, expanse, sehnsucht, perspicuity, forgiveness, still, steadfast, family, advent, imputation, prayer, sola gratia………..shall I go on? My list is long….

Anyway, I stumbled across Toska a few days ago, and I am quite taken with it.

Partly, it strikes me because I am reading a new (to me) book by C.S. Lewis (my adopted uncle, though he does not know that–yet). Titled Studies in Words, it is exactly what it sounds like. Lewis takes 9 words, and thoroughly examines them. Only a true logophile would enjoy it, probably. And, I guess I qualify as a logophile, because I collect words like others collect baseball cards. So, to get to read my favorite author tear apart words and get to their true meaning, with much wit? Yes. Bring it.

So reading that has caused me to be more aware of words, in general, over the past couple of days.

But the other reason Toska has me is also related to my Uncle Lewis, because the definition of “Toska” reminds me so much of his story. And mine.

Toska is a Russian word that, quite simply, does not translate well. Or, does not translate, at all. No one has successfully been able to move it to the English–or any other–language, without losing its true essence.

As a noun, an attempt at a definition is this: “a dull ache of the soul; a spiritual anguish”.

But, it is so, so much more than that.

Vladimir Nabokov had this to say about “Troska”:

“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

It is a word, as Nabokov aptly describes, with many shades to it. It can be deep, with intense aching. It can be a dull yearning. It could even be restlessness, with no real awareness as to why one was restless.

I think my soul–and mind–are familiar with Troska.

But isn’t it interesting that Nabokov, and the formal definition, for that matter, both indicate that–in the case of troska–there is often the absence of awareness of what specifically is causing the ache; of what is causing the soul to miss–something.

And that, too is where my Uncle Lewis can step back into the picture.

Lewis is the one who introduced me to the word “sehnsucht”.

C.S. Lewis spoke often about “longing”–that yearning for something, but not quite being able to capture what that “something” is. We’ve all known that sensation at the very depth of our souls. And minds. For Lewis, sehnsucht embodied “the inconsolable longing in the heart for we know not what.”

He wrote much about this longing in reference to “Home”—our true home, for those of us who are Christ-followers. Home, eternal. Home, where there are no more tears. Home, whatever it may look like, where we will actually, finally, truly feel “at home”.

We ache for this, as humans, because we were created to be with our creator. There will be a day.

Or, as Lewis wrote: “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.”

But Lewis also talked about longing for Joy.

Joy, to Lewis, was something far beyond happiness. It was deeper, longer, wider, more encompassing. And it did–something–to a person. Something far beyond what merely having a good day, or getting good news, or enjoying a nice dinner with friends does.

It points toward something. The object of its source.

Joy always points toward God.

Lewis wrote: “All Joy reminds. It is never a possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still ‘about to be’.”

Joy reminds us–reminds me–of the only source of joy–my Lord and my God.

And, God alone is the only one able to satisfy the troska of our souls. He is the only one who can satisfy the sehnsuct of our souls. And He is the only one who joy points to.

There is none other.

And while we have glimpses, most certainly, of joy here and now, and while troska most certainly is soothed to a degree by our worship, our prayer, our loving others, and our recognition of who God is, it will never be completely eradicated or satisfied until our sehnsucht is also fulfilled. Until we see Him, face to face.

So, yes, here in the last two verses of our canon of scripture, we find this:

²⁰He who testifies to these things says, “Surely I am coming soon.” Amen.Come, Lord Jesus!

²¹The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all. Amen.

Amen, indeed.