Happiness

I'd been thinking a lot lately about what it really means to be happy. These are the kinds of thoughts you think of course when you're depressed, or lonely, or unsatisfied with life, or all of the above. I was a little (or maybe a lot) of all those things at the time. I was driving to church on a Sunday night. The whole way there I was asking myself why I was even going. I'd abruptly left family dinner without asking to be excused. How terrible right? I'm driving through the tough streets of Overland Park beating myself up:

ME "Why are you even going?"
MYSELF "To see friends, to be with people"
ME "People who barely know you and wouldn't notice if you were there or not?"
MYSELF "It's better than sitting at home by myself"
ME "Shouldn't you be going to relate to Jesus?"
MYSELF "Yeah, because I'm such a great Christian and so in tune with Christ right now"
ME "Yeah, you're a pretty terrible Christian. Why even bother going?"
MYSELF "Yeah, why am I even bothering?"

At this point I'm debating turning the car around and just going home. I think I realize at this point that I'm looking for happiness. I'm going through a rough patch in life when I have to spend a lot of time with myself. I've found that you start to get pretty depressed and lonely when you realize you don't really like yourself that much. Obviously you're, well . . . youself, and you can't really get away from you. The only option left is to deal with yourself or myself. You get the point.

I pull up to the stoplight at 95th and Antioch and sigh to myself. I wonder to myself why I'm not happy. What would it even take to make me happy? The internal debate churns on again:

MYSELF "Would a new group of close friends like my old ones make me happy?"
ME "No. Friends come and go. Plus, think of all the drama friends are. Where are you going to find new friends anyway?"
MYSELF "What about money? Buying stuff makes anybody happy."
ME "You'll feel as empty as your bank account when the shopping is over and that nice new stuff smell has worn off."
MYSELF "Would a boyfriend make me happy? Or a husband? Surely it would, I mean girls my age whine all the time about not having a boyfriend or husband."
ME "Maybe for a while, but putting all your hopes of fulfillment and happiness on your boyfriend or husband is a fruitless, unfair venture. A man can't fill the void in your life."
MYSELF "Oh gee, I bet Christ can fill it. I bet Christ can make me happy. That's the Christian answer right?"
ME "Yeah, I guess. Do you really believe that?"
MYSELF "Sometimes, I'm not sure I do."

It seems like lately there are a lot more questions floating around in my head than answers. I decide I might as well go to church. I'm already on my way. I'm in the mood for cliché, so I decide to look to Christ to fill the "void". Have you ever been in this type of situation and one of your Christian friends says something to you like, "Have you prayed about it?" or "You know it says in 1 Corintians . . ." and you really just want to reach across the table or through the phone and slap the hell out of them? No? Maybe it's just me then.

Anyway, I get to church and worship is just starting. I walk in, drop my stuff on the floor and stand there by myself amongst a bunch of people who are supposed to be my "family" in Christ. It reminds me of a movie quote: "I can be surrounded by a sea
of people and still feel all alone." I stand there with my head bowed as the worship leader prays. I'm feeling all these feelings and they're all just churning inside me, like the inside of a volcano ready to explode. The leader says, "I don't know where you're at right now in life. Maybe you feel filthy and broken . . . " Bingo. This is when I lose it completely. I'd been trying to hold it all back. I just start crying. I can't fight it and the tears are streaming out and I can't stop it. I try to wipe away the tears with my sleeves but they just keep flowing, faster and more abundant. I feel like an idiot because I'm standing there by myself, weeping at this point into my hands, shoulders shaking, and people are probably looking at me wondering what the hell my deal is or what great sin have I commited that I'm crying so hard. I wasn't even really thinking anything the whole time. I was just crying. I wasn't praying or feeling sorry for myself or asking God to make it all okay, I was just letting it all out. I just stood there in his presence and let it all out. And then it was over. I don't remember any of my thoughts on the ride home.

What does "happy" really mean anyway? I don't think the big picture is really finding "happiness". You can't be happy all the time. Life isn't like that, even for the richest, most popular, and most glamorous. Now that I think more about it, as a linguist, I kind of hate the word "happy". It's an empty undescriptive word like, "good" or "nice".

I want to live a life of love. I want to love and be loved. In the Greek language there are three words for love: philia, eros, and agape. Philia is a kind of brotherly love, eros is a more romantic, erotic love, and agape is the kind of love that Christ had for the church, a completely self-sacrificing love. Christ dying on the cross, that's agape. I don't want to be happy, I want to love and be loved. Isn't that all God ever wanted? To be loved and cherished by his creation as he loves and cherishes it? That's what soothed me that night. The love of Christ. I was standing in his love. He let his love wash over me. That's why I didn't have to say anything, because love needs no explanations. When something terrible happens in life, what is it that makes the situation bearable? Someone trying to cheer you up and make you "happy", or someone who is simply there to love you and be with you. Love. The "happiest" people I know also happen to be the most loving. Go figure. You don't have to be a Christian to know that "love is all you need".

1 Corinthians 13:1-8

1 If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.
2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.
3 If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.
4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
5 It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
8 Love never fails.

Here I sit . . .

So here I sit in Grandma’s hospital room, occasionally glancing up at the monitor above her bed to check her vital signs. I’ve been here for a few hours, many minutes of which I have spent staring off into space and thinking about my life. Don’t think me selfish by thinking about myself. I’ve spent many other hours this last week thinking about Grandma’s life and our lives together. Death often makes you reflect on life. At least until the pain of death wears off and we forget all those things we thought about and reflected on when death was so near to us.

It strikes me as odd how much closer we draw to God in times of crisis, heartbreak, sadness, disappointment, etc. There’s a verse, Psalm 34:18, that says “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit”. I’ve prayed a lot this week. I’ve shaken my fist at the sky and asked, “Why?!” Haven’t we all? In the end I figure God knows what He’s doing and I don’t, and that He is much wiser than me. So I repent of my fist-shaking and just trust Him.

I don’t really know what to write next. I have all these thoughts in my head but I don’t know how to arrange them. Since I’m bearing my soul I might as well spit it all out. I met a very charming French man last week. His name is Marc. He’s not a Christian. I go to church with his brother, Chris. He’d been in town to visit Chris and see Chris and his wife Abigail’s new baby. Did I mention he’s French? He also doesn’t speak English that well. We met at my friend Holly’s party the week before last. I had dinner at Chris and Abigail’s house on Sunday. It was very nice and I got to see Marc again. Marc and I went to dinner on Wednesday and had a wonderful time. We only had to use the dictionary a few times. Mind you this is my first real date in several years, and it was absolutely wonderful and fantastic. What was I doing? Why did I even bother with this French, Non-Christian, leaving in 3 weeks guy? I don’t know. It was one of those times you say to yourself, “What the hell.” I was being selfish, and stupid.

So Grandma should have passed away last Thursday, but she didn’t. She kept holding on. She was worse Friday. On Saturday, Abigail calls me and tells me that the airlines won’t let Marc change the departure date on his ticket like they had told them he could, so now instead of staying a whole month he has to leave on Tuesday and go back to France. Great. Stupid me. Then mom calls, Grandma is doing better. Great, she’s better, she’s worse, she’s better. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster. Mom reminds me that this is what we had to go through with Grandpa. Thanks Mom, I really want to remember all that too. I don’t have the energy, resilience, stamina, to go through this again. I shamefully wish to myself that Jesus would just take Grandma home. She’s 88, she looks terrible, she’s unconscious, she has cancer. What does she have left but a broken, aging body and the rest of her days in a nursing home with no dignity and no quality of life.

Sunday after church Marc, Chris, Abigail and I go to the Chiefs game. Afterwards we go to a really bad 3-D dinosaur movie and have dinner at a Japanese restaurant at Crown Center. I feel guilty at certain points throughout the day that I’m not at my dad and step-mom’s house in Lenexa, celebrating Grandpa Art’s birthday with the rest of the family. I was being selfish, doing what I wanted to do. After all, Marc was going back to France on Tuesday. During dinner I look at Marc and suddenly feel really depressed. I send Holly a text that says, “I have decided that the French are too stuck up and full of themselves.” But really I’m just mad at myself that I let myself get into this situation in the first place. I almost send Holly a text that says, “Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you tell me what an idiot I was being”, but I don’t send it. On the drive home to Lawrence Marc pops in a CD that Abigail made, and in one of the songs she sings, “put your life, into My hands” or something like that. It’s a Christian song, so obviously the “My” is God speaking. I think, “Yes, Lord. I need to put my life in your hands. I need to surrender.” Man, how many times have I prayed that prayer? Back in Lawrence we all get coffee. After that they drop me off at my car in the church parking lot. I give Mark a hug goodbye and wish him luck. I tell him to stay out of trouble, even though I know he probably won’t. I get home and go right to bed. As I lay there, I’m too tired to cry. But not tired in a physical sense.

Now it’s Monday, and here I sit in the hospital room. I left work early because Mom called and told me that Grandma will probably make it only a few more hours. It’s now been six hours. I’ve held her hands, stroked her forehead, prayed, read psalms, even sung worship songs (hoping no one outside is listening). I’ve eaten a stale hamburger from the cafeteria. Gross. So here I sit. Contemplating life. And death. Frustrated that Marc is going back to France, that Grandma is still in the hospital, and that I can’t make sense of any of it.