Dear Rose Park,
Last Thursday, Sam and I brought our two kids to meet my mom downtown for the street performers. We met in front of Kilwins and then began walking down 8th street enjoying all the sights and sounds. We stopped to see some of the breakdancers, listen to one of our neighbors play guitar in a local band, and even grab a couple goodie bags from a Gentex sponsored event. At the very end though was the culmination of our fun because Simon and Winnie convinced us to wait in line for the balloon artist.
I’ve never seen Simon or Winnie be so patient before. They calmly waited in line with great anticipation for the artist to form, bend, and shape a balloon into something magical. Simon and Winnie both, without hesitation, asked the artist to make them each a sword. He kindly obliged and when he was done, the two of them spent the next few minutes dueling on the corner of 8th St. and College Ave. Finally, we walked back to our car, threw the balloons in the back, stopped for ice cream at McDonalds, and made our way home.
But to our great surprise, when we parked the car in the driveway, Winnie’s balloon was nowhere to be found. Apparently, when I rolled down the windows for everyone to enjoy the beautiful sunshine and breeze, Winnie’s balloon sword flew out while no one was looking. Winnie, as you might imagine, was devastated. Her ice cream-stained smile quickly turned into a frown and the tears quickly fell. The very thing she waited for with such patience and expectation and then enjoyed with such pleasure was unexpectedly taken away from her with great pain.
I imagine all of us have felt a great pain like this before. For Winnie, it was a relatively new experience. I knew in that moment it wouldn’t be helpful to say, “don’t worry Winnie, we’ll get you another one” or “it’s no big deal, Winnie, it’s just a balloon” because for Winnie she didn’t want another balloon. She wanted her balloon. Even though my comments and encouragements would have been well intended, what they really would have communicated was an attempt to fix her problem or worse yet, convince her it wasn’t a problem at all. So, instead I gave her a hug, held her close, and let her cry. I told her I was sorry for opening the windows, but other than I didn’t say a thing.
I worry that too often we try to fill the void of pain with words. We try to offer an explanation or a solution, but the truth is that there isn’t an explanation or an immediate solution when pain settles in our lives. There aren’t a whole lot of words that can comfort a grieving mother, a mourning spouse, or a hurting child. In those moments, perhaps our presence is more than enough. Perhaps our collective recognition that God is among us in the pain is enough. Sometimes we don’t need to say anything. Sometimes a hand on a shoulder, the embrace of a hug, or even the nearness of a friend can convey and reassure us of the loving presence of God.
The Apostle Paul reminds us to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep. If you are with those who are weeping today, might you trust more in your presence than your words to communicate the love of Christ.
Grace & Peace,
Pastor Mark
Photo by Avinash Kumar on Unsplash