Do you ever feel as if when the Bible says “He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh; the Lord shall have them in derision” that it’s talking about you? And not as the one sitting in the heavens either.
Sometimes it seems as if we’re missing the joke; I thought about this as I dragged myself home from work. “Home” being a relative term here, intended to signify the dwelling in which I live- otherwise known as my in-laws’ home. Located on the other side of the tracks, over a bridge of 67 steps- one way. I was dragging because I had spent Sunday mousily playing while my mother-in-law took her feline tendencies elsewhere- and playing in this instance means cleaning the house, getting rid of clutter and using the kitchen, so that I have spent the last two days recovering.
Which is ridiculous. When you cannot even clean your house without having to recuperate, and you are only 32, something is rotten, and it’s not in Denmark. And when this infirmity is joined by joint and muscle pain, hormonal imbalances, thyroid wierdness and insulin resistance- you haven’t got a thorn in the flesh, you’ve jumped into the briar patch. And the really pitiful thing is that minor chronic illnesses don’t even have the dignity to be respected, so in addition to being a mild basketcase, you appear to be a sluggard.
And they keep multiplying… and you wonder who’s getting a belly laugh out of this, and what’s so funny? And are the details of living with your in-laws, in a half-convenienced house, on the other side of the tracks, on a rapidly shrinking paycheck really necessary to the punchline?
Misery loves company. And I am not miserable, because I am not dying of cancer and leaving 5 children behind; I am not sitting in an Islamic prison for touching the Koran with unwashed hands, while my children fend for themselves outside; I do not live in a famine zone, watching my children die one after another; I am not awaiting the next bomb on the East Bank; I am not waiting for someone to pull my husband’s body from a collapsed mine shaft. And forgive me, but I do not want to be a part of that company; oh, I’m sure it’s commendable, and character-building, and ultimately rewarding to eke out your pain-wracked days in a prison cell, but- in that lovely Southern phrase, I have enough to say grace over.
Not that I’m saying it. I’m sitting hunched over, kicking at the pricks, and wondering how I got here and how to get out. But was it really ol’ Brer Fox who threw me in here? Yes, I’ve gotten my hands tarred often enough in this life; but was I tossed into the briar patch, or was this where I was born?
Why do I keep thinking that I’m supposed to have a happy (read “easy”) life? What makes me any different than any other rabbit? Why should my corner of the briar patch be the hybrid, thornless corner? And why was Brer Rabbit so happy to come back to this vale of sorrows?
We could hope that Brer Rabbit was glad to escape the tar baby and sin and temptation, but I suspect it was more likely the safety in the thorns- because when the thorns are so thick, the enemy can’t reach you- unless you take off running into his claws. And the size of the thorn- prison, leprosy or aches and pains- makes the difference in how well one is protected. You’ll excuse me if I’m not so eager for protection as to claim longest, sharpest thorns… but if hiding within the thorns is what keeps me near to our thorn-crowned King, maybe I need to see things a little differently. And maybe I need to be saying grace a little more fervently…