Posted by jessica on Oct 5, 2009 with
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I Lift My Eyes Up,
Loved Ones,
Thoughts and Feelings
as
C.S. Lewis,
Edmund,
forgiveness,
God,
kind,
lion the witch and the wardrobe,
love,
love/romance,
philadelphia,
philadelphia airport,
sentimental/inspiration,
something,
the lion the witch and the wardrobe,
time,
white witch,
Witch,
witch and the wardrobe
Lately I’ve had this one phrase running through my mind. And no, it has nothing to do with the recent travesties committed against me at the Philadelphia Airport.
It has a lot to do with love; everything to do with love.
And it’s a question, though not my question.
And just lately I think he’s been dropping this question in my mind, At what point does love run out?
And then actually wanting me to answer. And the thing about God is that he’s really patient; I mean he’s like a billion years old or something and he’s never gonna die, he’s got the time to wait for an answer.
And well, if love doesn’t run out the first time somebody runs you over, leaving you gasping for breath at the pain and limping down a long road you didn’t even know existed, does it run out the second time it happens?
I am going to say no.
And if it doesn’t run out the first time, then it doesn’t run out at all. Or at least it doesn’t have to. The same kind of powerful forgiveness that took away your limp after your first wound is still here. Somehow. It’s just as powerful. Somehow. It’s an ever-present miracle and it’s in high demand because to the same degree that we need it to heal us, we need it to heal those we hurt.
It’s like the deeper magic.
You know, from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis.
Oh, you weren’t raised on this story? Ok, let me explain a little.
There’s this witch. A white witch, which doesn’t make the fact that she is a witch any better. She’s nasty, keeping the fair land of Narnia in winter, but never ever Christmas, which is just plain mean. Anyway, this one kid, Edmund, turns out to be a traitor against her, giving her power over him, according to the law of the land. So the White Witch declares: “That human creature is mine. His life is forfeit to me. His blood is my property.”
But then this big beautiful lion, this perfect creature, Aslan, gives his life in Edmund’s stead. And that act of pure love sparks something in motion that the simple law could never do. It brings life and freedom. It brings springtime to the land. It speaks of something else. Something better than the natural law, and here, after Aslan comes back to life, he explains it:
“…Though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who has committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward.”
I desperately love the idea of death, that natural progression to all things on this earth, working backward.
It’s sounds a lot like forgiveness to me. Like how when we’re hurt, we want to lash back out. It’s natural, it feels right. It’s our right as the injured one.
And love at that moment feels all kinds of wrong and backward.
But maybe, just maybe it’s the deeper magic. Maybe I can look further back than that which is obvious to all of us, to me.
Because I don’t think that love runs out. Ever. At least that is the kind of world I want to live in. The kind of world where the deeper magic is at work and springtime breaks through the seemingly never ending winter.
Yes, there is pain. Yes, we are wronged, unjustly attacked, and must grieve over our losses. And yes, it doesn’t look like that will change any time soon.
But I want to look beyond that and see the deeper magic. I want to discover a love that doesn’t run out. Which is so much easier to write than to live, but here’s to trying.
Here’s to trying.
Posted by jessica on Oct 4, 2009 with
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Funny Stuff,
Thoughts and Feelings
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Exit Row,
God,
green beret,
humor,
lady in blue,
man,
mind,
philadelphia,
philadelphia airport,
plane,
purse,
Saddam Hussein,
sleep deprivation,
small purse,
theater/tour,
tone,
travel days
I know why they won’t let you check in for your flight. You’re late! You. Are. Late…!!!
Said the man standing behind me while waiting at the Northwest counter. I looked into his light blue eyes and couldn’t decide what was more annoying, the shade of his crystalline eyes or the jovial tone he used to inform me that I was late. And that’s why I couldn’t check in. Isn’t that just hilarious?!?!
Bear in mind, I had not slept at all the night before. Not one wink. And sleep deprivation is a form of torture in some countries, you know. If sleep deprivation alone is a form of torture, then imagine what you get when you combine that with the Philadelphia Airport.
Saddam Hussein himself might not have been able to derive something so devilishly awful for his worst offenders.
And I am an artist, not a Green Beret or Navy Seal or whatever it is that you become after lots and lots of training in which the art of learning to survive torture is acquired.
Which is why I looked right into that man’s annoyingly light blue eyes and asked him how exactly he thought that was going to help right now. Seriously, I said, I realize I am late. I KNOW this. How does it help to hear you tell me that? HOW?
He kept smiling and didn’t even seem to blink, which would have been a nice reprieve from those eyes.
And I noticed he didn’t have an answer.
Ma’am, the lady in blue who was mostly talking to another lady in blue stopped to address me. You’re gonna have to put that, and she indicated to my small purse slung over my shoulder, into that, and she indicated to my book bag.
Why? I asked, having never before been told to do this at security. And believe me, I fly a lot. I sort of have my system down.
Because you’re only allowed two carry-ons, she said, pointedly looking at the polka dot roller bag I was holding onto.
I understand that, and I always throw my little purse into my book bag when I board the plane, but it’s where I keep my ID and my money, so I keep it on hand where I can see it until then, I explained.
You’re only allowed two carry-ons, she reiterated.
On the plane. Not in the airport, I thought.
I told her again that I will definitely consolidate before I board, but right now I liked to keep my purse with all my important documents handy.
She wouldn’t back down. So I informed her that I will take my purse back out as soon as I walk past her. This made her angry.
I can’t imagine why.
She then told all of the people in blue what I had said, and kept repeating how she couldn’t believe I had said that to her face.
I made a show of putting the purse in my backpack. I slowly walked past her for about ten paces. And then I took my purse back out and slung it over my shoulder right where it belonged.
Maybe not my finest moment, but remember, I have not been trained in how to withstand the sleep-deprivation crazies.
Which is why I was maybe a little crazy on this particular travel day.
Do you mind? Said the man in a snooty tone who sat next to me. We were both in the Emergency Exit Row. We’d both sworn to opening the door in the unlikely even that something should happen to the plane. We were practically in the foxhole together. But I’m pretty sure the other soldier in the foxhole doesn’t say Do you mind?
Huh? I asked.
Your foot was close to me, he said, the snooty factor of his tone still reading at dangerously high levels.
I made sure my foot was not beyond the small square that I had paid roughly $300 for. But that was it. I didn’t move it any further in beyond those boundaries, because yes, I did mind.
I minded his tone.
It was snooty.
And I minded the fact that I was exhausted and one would think that 300 dollars would be enough to ensure a somewhat comfortable seat on a plane but no, you can find exactly one thousand different positions and fool yourself exactly one thousand different times into thinking that finally, THIS is comfortable, but then the next second you will feel that crick in your neck or your knees will ache or your back will be too bent or not bent enough and in the middle of all that the man next to you will say DO YOU MIND?
And you will wonder if he regularly drives old black fancy cars and asks others Pardon me, but do you have some grey poupon? because really, who even says Do you mind? anymore?
So I sat there with my foot right at that unseen line that starts at the arm rest and asked him if that was okay.
I guess, he said, noncommittally.
And then about an hour into the flight, the man sneezed and presented me with a choice: Do I say God bless you like I would normally? Or do I ask him Do you mind? Okay, not really about saying Do you mind? I wouldn’t really say that. I know how much it hurts.
But to be completely honest, I didn’t want to say God bless you to him. And now you know that a lot of the time, I am not nice. But I just didn’t want to say it. Still, I did. I said it. And he even said thank you. And then I thought that it was maybe our own little version of reconciliation and decided to leave it at that.
But still. Do you mind, indeed.
