I had the past month pretty much planned out: Launch the German translation of my first novel, host visitors from the US, get back in shape (yeah, that would take over a month), and finish the first round of edits for my second novel.
As usual, I tried to pack two months’ worth of stuff into one. Instead of all that, my husband had a terrible accident. Consequentially, my last month was filled with travelling to the US to help take care of him, flying back to Switzerland with him (that part was almost fun for me since we got to fly business in order to accommodate his badly injured leg), changing bandages and tending to scary wounds, visiting doctors’ offices and finally getting him re-admitted to the hospital. Since then I’ve been trying to juggle family life, hospital visits, and staying sane.
But that’s just the surface. Underneath it is the constant worrying, hoping, praying, and feeling overwhelmed at the amount of pain my husband is experiencing. There have been sleepless nights, tearful days, and a feeling that we’ve been thrust into a whole new life we never signed up for.
Therefore… the book launch was moved to the summer, the guests had to be their own tour guides, my second novel is still on its first edit, and my fitness… but let’s move on.
A big part of this past month was the support and prayers of our family and friends—some of whom I communicated with every day. Often, I could sense a very familiar insecurity through texts and emails I got. “I don’t really know what to say,” or, “I don’t want to bother them with platitudes,” were sentiments seeping through their words—just what goes through my head when I hear of someone else’s tragedy.
Some other friends expressed their conviction that “Something good will come out of this.” It’s a brave statement to make in front of a person currently going through hardship. And for some, it might have been little more than a well-meant phrase.
But others made this statement with a boldness that leapt from the screen or their mouths at me. Theirs weren’t nice phrases. I found out that some people have actually experienced this truth, and they’re sharing from a deep treasure they’ve been given. And while knowing that no two experiences are the same, they deeply believe that Good is a realistic potential outcome for every tragedy we find ourselves in.
As with many things we face in real life, theology has some surprisingly accurate (if complicated) big word to pinpoint our experiences. Apokatastasis is the one we’re looking at (It’s not supposed to be impressive, just Greek)—The restoration of all things. It’s used for concepts about salvation, but also more generally for the idea that everything in this world will be restored and that God does not waste anything – neither pain, nor tears, nor loss. The medieval mystic Julian of Norwich—familiar with more suffering than most of us—expressed this with her famous words: “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”
I’ve walked with these words for some years now. My heart longs for this to be true—for there to be a meaningful, loving finale to this world at some point, a finale in which nothing will have been wasted. Not a flat Hollywood happy end. More like a skillful, merciful tying together of all the loose ends of this broken planet, a turning around of a messy and knotty backside to reveal the beautiful pattern of a carpet we had no idea was being woven in our lives.
But I’m also living in a world whose brokenness screams at me every day, not only now where pain and suffering and upended reality has hit home. It screams at me through wars and injustice and cruelty and wastefulness and greed. So it is unwise for me to rush to conclusions my heart cannot contain. To proclaim a happy end where, honestly, I have no idea what will come of it and how long we will have to endure it.
Instead, I believe the Apokatastasis of our own lives needs to be approached much like Nobel Prize winning novelist John Steinbeck described his writing:
“When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will onto a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book – to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves.”
I’m not trying to find reason or meaning for David’s accident. I’m not talking about the Good that will surely come of it. To do so would be to break the delicate creature that is called “The Hope of Restoration of All Things” in my life. Instead, I will hold out the blade of my pain and frustration and fear over our current situation and let Apokatastasis crawl gently onto it.
And, in time, I might be among those who will tell of the Good that came out of our suffering. And with it I might encourage another suffering soul to hold out their blade and let hope crawl on in its own time.
Excerpt from John Steinbeck, Cannery Row
Beautifully written. You have a God given gift with words. Inspiring! Thank you.
Thank you, Linda!♥️
Liebe Judith
Herzlichen Dank für diese wunderbar balancierten Worte! Das Bewegen zwischen Anerkennen und Benennen von sinnlos Schlimmem und gleichzeitig hoffen, darin trotzdem einen Sinn (oder gar etwas Gutes zu entdecken), erlebe ich als grosse Herausforderung. Die Hoffnung auf Apokatastasis ist ebenfalls ganz tief in meinem Herzen drin. Ich wüsste nicht, wie ich ohne sie leben könnte in dieser schmerzvollen und so oft ungerechten Welt. Danke für das Bild vom umgekehrten Teppich. Das kannte ich noch nicht und spricht mich sehr an!
Danke für deine lieben Worte. Ja, du musst diese Spannung ja fast täglich in irgendeiner Form aushalten in deinem Beruf. Das bewundere ich sehr.
Das mit dem Teppich ist wirklich faszinierend. Die Rückseite sieht, v.a. bei handgewobenen Teppichen, oft wie ein heilloses Chaos aus, aus dem man sich niemals etwas Schönes erhoffen würde… ausser man kennt sich mit Teppichen aus!😉
Liebe Judith, Ganz herzlichen Dank für deine guten Worte. Ich denke immer wieder an euch. Ich hätte gerne ein sorgloses, gutes Leben. Aber das ist nicht möglich. Wir werden durchgeschüttelt und durchgerüttelt. Trotzdem glaube ich fest daran, dass wir in Gott geborgen sind und alles gut kommen wird. Ich glaube einfach daran.
Herzliche Grüsse Ursula
Danke, Ursula. Man spürt diese tiefe Gewissheit in dir.
Judith,
Wow! I am blown away by what happened to David and to your whole family after seeing you both recently so healthy and full of joy. I don’t know the extent of his injuries but as you have shared it sounds very serious. My heart goes out to you both and my prayers are for David’s complete healing and for patience and peace as you guys work your way through this difficult time. Love you both!
It was extensive but thankfully nothing that won’t heal. I didn’t have the energy to share with many people. But he is on the mend and we’re just thankful for all the wonderful people who help him get better. It’s a privilege and I definitely have a new appreciation for people working in the medical field.
What a beautiful way to think about what happened. You don’t have to figure out the “meaning” as you continue on your journey, making your way through what surely looks like a detour off the main path–certainly an unexpected one. You just push forward, taking the next right step, doing what must be done, but trusting all the way in your Father who loves you perfectly.
Sending love and wishing David a good recovery, relief from the unrelenting pain, and a deeper experience of that love.
Thank you Peri – and of course we both know where I first learned about the concept of Apokatastasis; only one of many wonderful things I’ve learned from Brian and you. ♥️
This is really good, Judith. What strikes me most is your refusal to rush to simplistic consolations or facile conclusions. Instead, you grapple with the reality of suffering, acknowledging its depth and complexity. This is not about forcing meaning upon David’s accident but about allowing the possibility of restoration to emerge organically, much like Steinbeck’s delicate handling of marine life. Your analogy of letting hope crawl gently onto the blade of pain is both poignant and powerful.
Thank you, Wade. Yes, that passage from Steinbeck has followed me for many years; I think his metaphor is applicable to so many experiences in life.
Hoi Judith
Gerne lese ich deine Gedanken und ja das Wort ἀποκατάστασις kenne ich. Es gibt solche Momente im Leben, wo man tief einatmen muss um über ein Schicksalm hinwgzukommen und daraus stärker zu werden
Papi
Ich bin nicht erstaunt, dass du – sicher als einer der wenigen Leser – auch die griechische Schreibweise des Wortes kennst!😉 Und dir ist auch die tiefere Bedeutung bekannt aus deinem eigenen Leben ♥️.
Dear Judith:
I can tell from your ‘Theology’ blog that our God is helping you sort through the various reaction options to David’s accident. I believe nothing that happens to or around us is actually accidental. As you said, God wastes nothing. I’ve been reminded recently that those who are “saved” are holy. Because we are those who have been set apart for God’s use. Of course it’s our nature to ask Him why when things like David’s accident occur. But He is the owner of why and our reaction needs to be grounded in faith, the kind of faith that the Apostle Paul invokes in Rom 8:28.
It was indeed a blessing to receive David’s text after he prayed the short prayer I sent to him. What a testimony to the power of prayer.
I am sure that our Father has marvelous plans for you, David and your children as His holy children.
Thank you for your thoughts, Greg. To trust God is definitely a lifelong endeavor, but one worth it at every turn.