The Fellowship of The Suffering

The leaves of the oak trees were just beginning to form, those tightly wrapped buds gently announcing that spring may be on her way. The sun shone a bit too bright as I looked out the upstairs window from my bed, heavy with the weight of mono that had lingered for weeks. Grief over a war on the other side of the world added to the weight. Upon all of that was the heaviest and most terrible weight, that ever familiar fear. Fear of uncertainty, of not knowing what the future holds, of pain.

In the background played the old hymn, “I Surrender All”.

“All to Thee, my blessed Saviour, I surrender all”.

“What does that even mean?”, I asked aloud. I don’t know what that means. It feels like words spoken into the wind, floating over trees and passers-by, never really landing.

I asked again, frustrated, “What does that mean God?!”

A strange image came to mind. I was staggering toward God, carrying a huge box. My arms could only wrap around half of it, and as I walked, the contents began to push through the bottom, their weight too much for the box. I carried box after box after box to God. Anxiety, worry, trauma, sadness, and pain filled each box. Unanswered questions. Hopelessness.

I stood back and surveyed my work, those broken boxes piled high.

“What will you do with them?”, I asked God. “Are they safe with you?”

After a little while, God came and asked me to follow Him. We walked together down a rocky beach, a cold Pacific ocean on our left and towering evergreen trees on our right. We came upon a little stone chapel, tucked back in the woods, sunbeams stretching through the trees to cast a golden light upon it.

We walked up a few steps up to a heavy wooden door, beautifully carved with my name across the center. It was a name only God knew, however, and I couldn’t read it.

God opened the door and we stepped inside. Instantly I knew what He had done with all the boxes. He had used every last scrap of it to create this chapel. Nothing had been wasted. Everywhere I looked, I recognized, almost like de ja vu. The rough stones of all shapes and sizes, the knots in the warm wood floors, the broken glass pieced together into bright stained glass windows high upon the walls.

Along the north and south walls were huge picture windows, flung wide open. The breeze of the Spirit blew through the windows, bringing the briny scent of the ocean and the pungent scent of the woods all around. Where I looked for an altar I found a huge stone fireplace, the Spirit in the fire within. The Spirit in the golden glow of the candles scattered throughout.

There were big, overstuffed ivory couches and there Jesus sat, sporting a mischievous grin and offering a glass of wine. The table was set with bread and wine and unlimited time.

The Father was there too, and He was the music maker. His deep baritone voice sang over all of it. A new song, one of redemption and belonging and love.

Somehow God had made their home there. My suffering was God’s dwelling place. A place we could meet and sit and breathe and love. We could walk and dance and sing. We could cry and yell and be safe.

I was so afraid He would slap positive affirmation stickers on my boxes. I was afraid He would say, “Why didn’t you just trust me? Why didn’t you just have more faith?”. I was afraid He would say, “Why didn’t you come over here to me?”

But He did not. He said, “I am here with you. Always. I am in all of it and I am love.”

As I looked closer, I saw that there were many other stones built into the walls of the chapel. They were the stones of other’s sufferings. The suffering of the whole of humanity was somehow connected to my own and we were all connected to the divine, together in our suffering. And together in Love.