Archive | hardship

Roast Beef with a side of Dispair

Never wear masks-not sad ones nor happy ones.

Today I was inspired to write about The Roast Beef aspect of sorrow, lament and despair.
I have said before:

“I knew that living real meant real pain when I chose this life (The Roast Beef Life).”
(See The Storm and mostly after it a post from October 14th)

The Roast Beef Life (see my post The Roast Beef Life) is based on passion. I am more proud of my enemies who fight for what is wrong then my allies who don’t fight for what is right. The Roast Beef Life means exuberant jubilee and rejoicing when blessings fall from Heaven and painful sorrow and despair, sincere lament and honest heart ache when we lose, when we can see Satan’s orders carried out on this planet. I hate confusion, uncertainty, indecisiveness. Be truly happy or truly sad, truly good or truly bad.

2 Samuel 1:17
David took up this lament concerning Saul and his son Jonathan, 18 and ordered that the men of Judah be taught this lament of the bow (it is written in the Book of Jashar):

The bible actually says to “be taught this lament.” What has just happened is that David has been met with someone “with his clothes torn and dust on his head.” He is mourning and bringing grim news. He says that there was a battle and that Saul and Jonathan have both perished. If you ever want to read a story of friendship, read that of Jonathan and David. They were like brothers and so David is very much grieved. He and his men tear their clothes and fast and then David commands that a lament be taught-a sort of poem or song of sorrow in honor of the fallen men. David does not change the subject, watch a dumb movie and “get over it.” Sorrow is something to be accepted. It has its place, its time. It also ends. Let it run its course and then pass.

“You cannot prevent the birds of sadness from passing over your head, but you can prevent their making a nest in your hair.”
A Chinese Proverb

The definition of lament:

la·ment
1.
to feel or express sorrow or regret for: to lament his absence.
2.
to mourn for or over. –verb (used without object)
3.
to feel, show, or express grief, sorrow, or regret.
4.
to mourn deeply. –noun
5.
an expression of grief or sorrow.
6.
a formal expression of sorrow or mourning, esp. in verse or song; an elegy or dirge.
[Origin: 1520–30; (n.) <>

And some quotes by people I’ve never heard of and comments by me:

“The walls we build around us to keep sadness out also keeps out the joy.”
Jim Rohn

It is important not to block all emotion. With one leaves the other. Accept both sorrow and joy. They go hand-in-hand.

“The word ‘happiness’ would lose is meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.”
Carl Gustav Jung

To remove a word you remove it’s meaning. If you lose happiness you lose also sadness, with bad also goes good.

“Oh the gladness of their gladness when they’re glad, And the sadness of their sadness when they’re sad; But the gladness of their gladness, and the sadness of their sadness, Are as nothing to their badness when they’re bad.”

This is a quote by J. M. Barrie. I believe it is about fairies. This is part of the reason I like fairies-they’re very roast beefy. Really sad when they’re sad, really happy when they’re happy. I don’t think that you should be really bad. That simply wouldn’t be good.

Everly Pleasant

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The Storm (and mostly after it)

It is a difficult thing for me to blog about this, but I have decided to do it anyway.

Yesterday, as I told you, was Monday…Cleaning Day.

My father and eldest brother were sleeping (they had both been at work all night) and my mother and Sabrina went to the grocery store. While I was in charge, things went badly.

It was an argument with deep roots which looked like a tiny sprout from the surface. It looked like a tiff over house work when really it was a painful battle between two different souls-of two different countries. Two different people and the very blood which runs through their veins. Two people whose hearts sometimes forget that they are kindred.

She didn’t want to vacuum and she didn’t want to dust…I confronted her. She had to work. She had to help…Mommy had said so. Then I just burst. I’ll admit that I screamed.
The two of us stood in the laundry room screaming. I asked her why I tried to make her happy when I was never successful. Why? Why? Why?

She said that she tried. How?

She tried not to be angry when I was never happy with her work.

You don’t try to do well I replied.

And, as many arguments do, it boiled down to something. We dug up the roots and the tiny sprout was revealed to be something much older.

She hid her face in a rag a sobbed. I caught my breath.

The little kids, who had been cleaning up outside came in the den door. I had my back to the den. I didn’t want to turn around and offer a tear stained face.

“It’s raining.” They said. Of course it is. I thought. I began this storm.

The weather was perfectly appropriate. The dark clouds blocked out the sun just as our dark words were blocking out anything good. “Stay on the deck a while…it’ll pass.” I say. I know that it is calming…coming to an end. They obey, never seeing my face or the huddled figure sliding down on the laundry room floor with her back against the dryer.

Broken and beaten with the sharpest tool-words. She weeps and I weep but not yet together.

Her face is still hidden in that white rag. Her weeping sounds like a combination of a cranky baby, a hurt puppy but somehow like a widow. It was mourning. It was mourning.

For her country? Her language so long ago forgotten? Her mother? Her childhood?

That is an eternal mystery for me, but my little sister was sitting on the laundry room floor mourning.

We are like two pieces of metal…shaped differently that do not fit together.

When put together our jagged edges tear away at one another until finally, someday we’ll fit together. God will shave away at us, painfully, slowly, until we are smooth.

Our other sister, only twelve, walked in to witness the happenings. Standing there watching as if she had seen this many times before. Sadly, this wasn’t the first argument betwixt us.

But this part, what happened next is what I hope she’ll always remember.

Forgiveness.

I forgave her. Would she forgive me? How do I ask? In many ways, we still do not speak the same language. I had to show her…act it out.

I too slid down against the dryer. Her breaths were caught…snagging on overwhelmed emotion.

I put my arm around her and begged her to breath. Her face was still in her rag against her knees.

So much like a baby. And how do you comfort a baby? I knew the answer.

I decided to sing to her. What song is most comforting to a mourning child?

A song about Christ’s love. Jesus loves the little children.

And what else? What could make her feel at home? Jezi renmen tout ti moun yo-to sing it in her own language even if she did forget most of it long ago.

So I sang it, quietly. My voice cracking and flickering through my pain and sorrow.

I stumbled over a few of the words but I knew that they were there in her mind.

We rocked side to side, gently. Her sobs would die down and then, like wind, pick up again. Finally, aware that much time had passed and our littler sister had vanished (the hum of the vacuum could be heard from the living room) I got up to finish my work. I suggested she went outside for a while so that the little kids who were getting drinks in the kitchen wouldn’t hear her cry but she muttered something about not wanting to. So I left her.

I went into the bathroom and washed my hands. I washed my hands of it all.

I washed my face…a baptism…a re-dedication to what I was trying to live by.

Then I went and found a dusting rag and began to dust. The children were scurrying about the deck. The sun. It had come back. The son had not forsaken us. The clouds had cleared.
Fickle weather.

As I dusted I thought. This is The Life (The Roast Beef Life.) Truth and reality. Pure grief to wash away the deceitful intentions. Honest arguing. It was painful but it broke us down to size and made us fit a little better…side by side. We finished it together in the end. Nothing hidden…no drama. I knew that living “real” included true pain when I chose this life.

She reappears and asks if she can call Mommy. Respect for my authority…asking first.

I too respect my authority saying yes and then again by giving her a job I know she can accomplish-dishes. The kitchen sparkles and we both clean silently for the rest of the day.

Speaking few words but exchanging much communication.

We will heal and it’ll get better by and by.

Everly Pleasant

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Heroes

You know,
I am sure a lot of kids, when asked who their hero was would say “My dad.” But I am proud to say that many other people would say that my dad is their hero too. He is an E.R. doctor. People sometimes ask me what my dad “actually does.” They assume I am going to say computer work or business for the company but no, he does the real deal. Emergency Room…you know, like the show E.R. except less drama and more trauma. He sews people up, restarts hearts, sets joints, prescribes medications and basically puts guts back in and puts peopele back together. As you can imagine, our dinner table talk can sometimes cause a loss of appetite.
Yesterday, on our way home from my cousin’s bridal shower, we stopped at the hospital to say hello to my dad. He ran out through the wind of a helicopter that we just had the pleasure of watching land. He was in his scrubs, leaves blowing all around him just like the opening scene from M*A*S*H. He then gave us a very brief review of his day:
He had just set this guy’s (something-I don’t remember what body part) and taken care of a wreck and now they had two helicopters coming with patients from a roll-over in Houston.
He kissed my mom and ran to the helicopter. A small woman with a helmet and goggles and a full navy blue suit hopped out. She was then accompanied by another umpa lumpa but the pilot remained in his seat. They opened up this hatch and pulled a stretcher out of the seemingly small space. My dad helped them roll the person into the ambulance entrance, a straight body on the thin bed, covered in a papery sheet with blood splattered on the chest. With no way of telling if the person who was a few yards away from our vehicle was dead or alive, we watched and silently prayed for her. Then, the next helicopter came. My dad didn’t come out this time, he was already caring for the first patient. The two people in navy popped out and rolled the second patient up through the automatic doors. This one had less blood but more tubes. Bunny (13) said her hands smelled like a hospital. Jubilee (4) said that she didn’t know people got hurt. Mommy said that some people do and we have to remember to pray for those people. We drove home discussing how cool helicopters are and what insects they reminded us of but all thinking of those people…and my dad; the hero.
:) E. P.

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