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.
