For anyone who isn’t familiar with the Bible, there is a line or two in there somewhere that talks about rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep. Anyone who’s lived a little while tends to know that it seems to happen in that order a lot of the time – you rejoice and it gets cut rather short by weeping/crying/moaning/screaming/etc. Life is ugly – most of us are terrible at drawing liveable and manageable boundaries on our own or even with God’s Hand Over Hand help (just like we’re the autistic kids I work with who can’t color in the lines or write their names – cause we’re that dysfunctional) – as a result we’re often just barely surviving it through or watching other people fall over and scrape their bloody knees over and over again because they’ve hurt themselves or let other people hurt them and we’re doing great to just yell at them to get up and bumble about ourselves.
I know this feeling. I know it well. I have, at many points in my life, lived in a perpetual state of this, or daftly nursed other people along while they were in this state rather than providing any actual help (though God has been kind enough to use a sledgehammer on my reasoning and in my life to turn the wreckage of those time into good building bricks).
Despite the ugliness, the weeping, the anxiety that follows us like a second shadow full of sharp pokey pains and extra troubles, there is so much beauty in this craziness. I hope that when you fall in the mud and you’re looking through sweat and tears you see where the hard work has really gotten you, and not all the blood and wreckage. I find myself going back to the same moment that spanned about 6 months for me when I think about hard happenings and long hard cries over terrible, but beautiful things. My wendy darling days and lost boys. The things I hope for is that everyone finds the circle of souls that needs exactly what they have so that they can pour themselves out until they are empty.
lost boys less lost than they realize
stealing hearts long before getting caught
etching in crayon and sketchbook smudges
fragile teenage angst-drenched thought
baring so little lest someone see
the baby-faced boy shining through
who struggles to hold onto God’s wings
that continued to fade as he grew
they tattered as broken promises clipped them
and people forever walked away
peter pan keeps pretending to fly
while wishing they’d beg him to stay
and grow up now just like they did
missing maturity by miles for years
with no ticking clocks or pixie dust
tingling away in their ears
rather – pushed off the ledge by firm hands
that coddle the line between hard growing and love
Wendy Darling lets her lost boys go home
with heart to know when enough is enough