
Ros Boydell, my friend
I wonder, might February feel like this to you? I so appreciate Ros’s words. Her very real story might just speak to your soul as well.
It is dark outside as I write, February a hard month for the soul. Why are you downcast, O my soul?
The ceiling lights are on in this loft room, not the lamps.
Why are you downcast?
I am downcast. I am trapped, in a windowless winter.
How long O Lord?
I do not find myself in mental torment, nor in great despair. But lifeless somehow, washed-out.
I have been away for a few days, to a vibrant city full of art and history and beauty. I spent time there with a newly-adult daughter. We laughed. We walked. We ate; we thought of nothing but joy.
The return home has been stark. Perhaps to be expected after an enlivening trip, but it cuts deep. I liked myself in a city full of vitality. I enjoyed the liveliness I saw. I didn’t need to generate or contrive anything just respond, effortlessly, to all the vivacity.
Here, in this house, with the circumstances we find ourselves in, I feel the burden of being a life-bringer. Someone who brings animation. Hope. Fun.
I see the little one, so limited, so small. Do I fear for what her life will become? I fear for what her life will become. I fear that she will never be well. That her life, and mine, will remain small, controlled, deliberate. Not wild, free and alive.
As I sit with these thoughts on this windowless night, I wonder where the chink of light will come in. What consolation will I find in a landscape that seems so desolate? I don’t want to have to squint for glitter. I don’t want to have to purse my eyes and scan the horizon for a dot of hope to cling to. I want this windowless winter to be over, for spring to come, new life..
The Psalmist, finding himself similarly in distress, asks his own soul a question Why are you downcast?
In doing so, he models to us someone prepared to steward their own soul. Someone, who, in finding themselves in mental turmoil, doesn’t slap on a smile and pretend their sorrow doesn’t exist (suppress), nor give in to the anguish and allow it precedence over everything else (sink). No, what we see the Psalmist doing is stewarding. He doesn’t suppress his emotions, he doesn’t sink into them, he stewards them.
To steward an emotion is to recognise that however big it feels, however overwhelming, there is an edge to it, a perimeter. And beyond that perimeter is something far greater. And that thing that is far greater is something of God. It is love, it is hope, it is constellations and wisdom unending. God is, and always will be, bigger than the very depths of our sorrow and despair.
The Psalmist, in questioning his own soul, wasn’t saying Wind your neck in, stop being ridiculous. He wasn’t saying Your pain is insignificant. He was saying However terrible you feel, however stuck your life is, however deep the pain, or the fear, or the regret. However ‘big’ whatever it is you’re feeling is……God.
God.
Don’t you remember, O my soul, who God is? .
I wonder to myself why I am struggling to reconcile to the ongoing difficulties and limitations of this season. It’s been two and a half years, it’s no longer a surprise. Why do I sense such a resistance inside? Such frustration, as though my wings are clipped.
It was Pascal who wrote Events are not a structure within which God encloses us.
Yet so often we see the constraints of our circumstances as some kind of prison, trapping us. But God invites to view our limitations differently. He invites us to see our lives entirely differently to what is often our instinct. For in the Kingdom of God, no pain is wasted. No sorrow is meaningless.
The chief aim of man is not to enjoy a life with ease and comfort and success.
No, it is to glorify God and enjoy him forever!
I am telling this to my own soul as I write. I am telling my own soul that God is bigger. That my enjoyment of him is not limited by the difficulties of this season. I am telling myself that it is possible to be wild, free and alive, without ever being able to leave the house..
Even as I write, I am aware of the fragility of my grasp on this hope-filled perspective. I may well be clinging onto this truth now as I write, but I don’t feel at all confident that I can stride into whatever tomorrow will bring with a resolve to look upwards rather than inwards.
And so, in this dark evening moment, I take comfort that the Psalmist does not instruct his soul to have hope in himself, but in God. I’m entirely dependent on God, even for the capacity to steward my own soul.
For the heart of stewarding, first and foremost, is submission. Over and over again we submit ourselves, with all our emotional inelegance, into the arms of the One who knows all things. The One whose chest is big enough for us to beat against. The One who frames our suffering so tenderly with his love. Only when we allow ourselves to release these weights unto him, do we realise that this ‘framing’ is actually an embrace. For underneath are his everlasting arms.
Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Saviour and my God. Psalm 42:5