I’m sitting on my sofa, eating Ben & Jerry’s even though I have been (mostly) vegan for six months, and you know what, I can’t bring myself to care. I have nothing left. A world divided over a killed gorilla, rounding on the mother & child; attacks all around the world; wars all around the world; governments who lie; governments who seek oil and power instead of our future – instead of my children’s lives. A world in which we still have so much and yet cannot see it; and at the same time those who are by an accident of birth are elsewhere cannot eat, or lose their children on crosses. A world in which we despair and commit suicide, despite having so much. And I have nothing, nothing left to give. Nothing left in the face of such pain.
People campaigning against Brexit; people campaigning for political parties; people arguing for political leaders. People fighting against war; against nuclear weapons; against greed and climate change. People fighting for asylum seekers; people going out on the streets every day and loving; people loving the poor and the needy and the vulnerable.
And me, I got nothing.
And it’s OK.
It’s OK to sit in the dark and wait for Love to come.
And I sit and I wait. And I know. Every time I have been here before, He has shown up. Every time, He has shown me a way through.
Sometimes life hurts.
And it’s not OK. It’s not OK that the world is like this. It’s OK to feel that is not OK. Nothing is wrong in feeling like everything is wrong. Everything IS wrong.
We just have to wait. For the Love and the passion and the Power and the drive to show up again. To stir in our hearts. So we can Be The Change, Be The Change once again.
It can’t be rushed. The pain, feeling the sorrow, it can’t be rushed. True hope cannot be found in a glass of half-drunk despair.
And one thing I know. I look back over my life, at all the times I’ve been here, and I know. It always showed up before.
It’s going to show up this time.
Because there’s this time.
There’s the moment after Jesus died on the cross, before he came back to life. And everything seemed lost.
There’s the time in Gethsemane, when he wondered, can you ask this of me?
There’s the time when a woman labours and thinks she can give no more. The time we call Transition.
The time before the rebirth and the resurrection.
The time for sorrowing.
The time the Earth waits. And the darkness seems too much. But we wait anyway.
The times before It happens.
We wait for the improbable and the wonderful.
And maybe we can sense that coming. And maybe we can’t. It doesn’t matter. Just hold on.
“The darkest hour is just before dawn” – Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Wait for the dawn.