Disaster and Delight

            Perhaps ordering one’s day according to the criterion, “What’s the next disaster I have to prevent?” is not the most constructive approach to life.  It does, however, loom large in my own choice of activity.

            Getting out of bed prevents being fired for not showing up.  One’s morning ablutions prevent being fired (or worse, rejected) for having a disgusting appearance.  Picking up groceries prevents death by starvation, at least for now.  Having a job at all prevents being thrown out onto the street, at least until my credit cards completely max out:  when that happens, who knows?

            Of the myriad of other looming, but less imminent, disasters swirling about, I occasionally grab one and mitigate it while it chews on my soul.  A quick piece of calligraphy here, playing the ‘cello there, writing a document, translating some German—each activity quiets another accusing voice somewhere in the choir, while still letting me know it wasn’t enough, I didn’t finish, the work really wasn’t great, and there’s always more.

            But to leave the description there paints a false picture.  Every day is full of delights straight from God’s hand to my heart. 

            A friend referred on Facebook to an article posted by Fuller Seminary that spoke of Advent as a time of lament and longing for the not-yet second coming of Christ to set all this crooked world straight.  This opened up for me a whole new aspect in which to celebrate Advent, namely, by joining God in lamenting the world’s fallenness, my fallenness, and knowing that I’m not alone in it.  A gift of liverwurst and rye from a friend, and having an abundance of tea to drink with it, bring a foretaste of eternal joy and peace.  Clever jokes on “The Simpsons” make me laugh.

            Pursuing delight in the necessities of life changes them.  They, also, are God’s gifts, after all.  And in his hand is glorious delight forever.