Blessings and Burdens

I have been thinking a lot lately about how blessed I am. It hits me at random moments: after I get done exercising, when I've finished a really good book, during an evening out with friends, while twiddling my thumbs at work, or even when working hard while following a promising line of research. Perhaps the moments it hits me the hardest is when I'm with my boyfriend, one of the few people in the world whom I trust completely, and feeling just a little bit of the love that God must have for me. (This is, I think, what any good relationship will do for a person: to give them a chance to both experience and show God's love--but that's another post entirely.)

The guilt that I sometimes feel as a direct result of these blessings is natural, I think, although the jury is still out on whether it is "good". The guilt will hit me at less random moments, usually when I hear from a friend in her thirties who has stage 2 breast cancer . Or when another friend speaks of the crushing loneliness that can come with being single. Or hearing about the family member who has been turned down for disability benefits and yet cannot work because of his constant pain; he would likely be dead now if it weren't for my mother and her generous spirit. You don't have to look to Africa for the guilt that made you clean your plate as a child; poverty, ill-health, and other soul-crushers are often closer than we'd like to believe.

Perhaps one of the hardest parts about being a Christian can be found in these moments. How do you mourn with those who mourn? And how do you rejoice with those who rejoice? Because the truth is that if you live long enough you will find yourself on both sides of the equation. I know that I have been jobless in the past, have had health problems that have stumped doctors, have struggled with depression and crushing loneliness, have watched friends move away or turn their backs on me. I have needed people who would mourn with me, and they were often in short supply. I have been asked to rejoice for someone else in the midst of my sorrow, and I have done so unwillingly and resentfully, if at all.

How do you do it? How do you reach out to others on the other side of that barrier?

The short answer is that I don't know, although I think that the most important step is to acknowledge that there are two sides to everything. Every burden has a hidden blessing; every blessing a hidden burden. Ask the overwhelmed mother who looks longingly at her childless friend, and the childless friend who pines for children. Or the worker who has been passed over for a promotion, but who can go home to his or her family at the end of the day, and the person who was promoted but who is now working more hours than he or she can handle. Or the single person who longs for love, and their counterpart who thinks longingly of the freedom of being single. There are always two sides to every story.

Having been on both sides, I'm not sure which is harder. In times of plenty, it is terrible to watch friends and family suffer, and to feel that your joy is somehow tarnished by their sorrow. Even if you can escape that very human failing, you risk being pushed aside because they cannot stand to look at your joy. In times of sorrow, it is often asking too much that you rejoice with someone else. How can you be truly happy for another person who has what you want so much?

Perhaps it may help to focus on what James had to say. In one of the best known, and most quoted, passages from the New Testament, he says, "Count it all joy, my brothers and sisters, when you experience trials of all kinds." We have recently been discussing this letter in Sunday school, and our teacher pointed out that as Christians our job is to focus on the end goal. James states that suffering produces perseverance or endurance, and endurance leads to a stronger, more mature faith.

It's easy for me to say that now, of course. I've had moments in my life when my general response to that passage probably shouldn't be repeated. Suffering and joy do not seem to go together. Like Thomas, I cannot believe that any kind of suffering produces growth until at some time down the road I can see at least a glimpse of God's purpose. "Show me the goods," I demand of God. "Tell me why this is good for me. I want an explanation."

Oddly enough, I want an explanation for my blessings now, too. I know that I have done nothing to deserve what I have. So much of it is a product of my birth: who my parents were, genetic luck, and any number of other factors that drive home just how easy it would have been for me to miss out on all of this. I sometimes wonder when the other shoe is going to drop; things are too wonderful, and so I ask God when he's going to drop the bad stuff. When I'm going to face the sort of trials that Job did. And Job never did get a straight answer as to why.

That's part of faith, though. We are assured by God, through his Word, that we will experience trials, and so I know this time of plenty will end. We are also told that both the just and the unjust receive blessings, that all things work together for the good of those who love God, and that God has a plan. Most of the time, we won't know what God's plan is in this life, and trust me, I'll be asking God some very pointed questions in the next. "Why" is a word that will likely feature prominently. But for right now, all I can do is wait, and hope, and believe that in spite of all odds, I have been blessed, that those I love will be made stronger and more like God, that I will have the wisdom and the strength for mourning and for joy. This is a daily struggle; I think it was meant to be.

In truth, we are, in so many ways, like children shouting "Marco!" into the darkness, waiting for God to call back. "Polo!" he calls, waiting patiently for us as we edge a little closer. "Here I am." Our job in the end is to keep calling out, no matter how dark it might get.