Thoughts on an Old ID Picture

Last night, propelled by some odd sense of urgency and an unusual spurt of energy, I began to rummage through old boxes, cleaning out things I don't need, use, or want anymore. Of course, there were some old papers I'd written for classes, student evaluations, and half-used notebooks. I also found a cache of souvenirs--postcards, pictures, small remembrances of trips taken not so long ago.

I also found an old driver license. In it, I'm wearing a plum-colored turtleneck sweater; my hair is styled not unlike it is today; and I have on a pretty shade of lipstick. It's a nice picture. A pretty picture. I remember thinking just that when I had to get that license renewed, and I remember being glad that I'd taken a nice picture because usually those pictures turn out looking so bad.

But, when I looked at that picture last night, all I noticed was how very sad I looked. It is a pretty picture, but I just look so sad and scared, and all the sadness is right there in my eyes. Even I, opposed to excessive displays of affection as I am, had this urge to climb inside of that picture and hug the girl in it, to let her know that she doesn't deserve the sadness she's dealing with or the hurt she's feeling. I can't remember exactly when the picture was taken, but I know that I was very sad back then, and I know that that girl wouldn't have believed anything I'd tell her.

I'd rather not talk about what brought on the sadness. It's a long story, and it would take an entire book to discuss. Quite frankly, I've thought of writing that book. Don't be surprised if I do someday, though I can't imagine where Barnes and Noble would shelve it. Romance, Horror, Psychology, Fantasy, Self Help? Any of those would work. I sometimes feel like I lived all of those, and maybe that's why those eyes looked so sad.

What is amazing to me is that now, even on my saddest days (of which there aren't too many), there isn't that depth of sadness in my eyes. However, I have been that person. I was that person for quite a long while, and, though I no longer carry that weight of sadness, there is a part of me that still remembers what it is like to feel burdened by sadness, to carry it around for so long that the weight of it begins to feel normal, as if everyone must strugle constantly under the heavy burden of such sadness.

I suppose that I could feel angry about that time in my life. Anger would certainly be justified. And yet, I don't know that it would get me anywhere. I'd be trading the weight of sadness for the weight of anger. And, though my anger would be pointed toward someone else, it would still be my weight to carry, my burden to bear. I would feel no more free, no happier than with a yoke of sadness around my neck.

Could it be possible for me, instead, to find joy in that time of suffering? Not just joy in the fact that it's over, but true joy in the fact that I went through it? Could it, somehow, be possible to find the good in that time of life, to locate some small bit of goodness in all of that suffering?

The other day I was reading a book which I've been really lazy about reading. Lazy as in I hadn't gotten around to it even though I've had it for months. It's called The Case for Faith, and, in it the author, Lee Strobel, has a conversation with a scholar, Peter Kreeft, about faith and suffering and God. Kreeft says,

"Pain and suffering are frequently the the means by which we become motivated to finally surrender to God and to seek the cure of Christ. That's what we need most desperately. That's what will bring us the supreme joy of knowing Jesus."

Kreeft then goes on to have an exchange with Strobel, and in their exchange, Kreeft explains his previous statement more fully. Kreeft says,

"The practical conclusion is that, if we want to be with God, we have to be with suffering, we have to not avoid the cross, either in thought or in fact. We must go where he is and the cross is one of the places he is. And when he sends us sunrises, we thank him for the sunrises; when he sends us sunsets and deaths and sufferings and crosses, we thank him for that...

In heaven, we will do exactly that. We will say to God, 'Thank you so much for this little pain I didn't understand at the time, and that little pain I didn't understand at the time; these I now see were the most precious things in my life.'"

I don't always feel like I can say that just now, that I can always rejoice in those times I suffered, even the sufferings of years ago. And yet, I feel as if I've been able to see the small ways those pains and sufferings have moved me closer to Christ, closer to a faith that longs for the cross, closer to being the person who can, because of my own experiences, understand the pains of others, weep for the suffering of others, pray for the healing of others.

And though the girl in that picture shows such signs of pain and sadness, I know that even she found redemption, even she found the love of Christ and the hope for a new life in Him. And, to be truthful, she even has found some happiness in the least expected places.