Letters to Elizabeth

1 January 2019

Dear Elizabeth,

“All this darkness is a small and passing thing”

I pause the track, in the middle of Andrew Peterson’s “Dark before the Dawn”, pick up my pen and start writing. I wasn’t planning on writing a letter today, but this feels important. I’m not sure why.

At the moment, my room is suffused with light, so bright that I’ve had to draw the curtains to stop it hurting my eyes. Yet I am less inclined to think of darkness as a passing thing, even in the brightness of a New Year’s sun. Darkness consists of all those things we’d rather not hear about—the enemies in the Psalms, depression in hearts and minds, a sense of things unjustly wrong.

At the moment, darkness seems to be winning—as the short hours of sun in winter make the light seem “a small and passing thing”. And we are not exempt from darkness ourselves—as I have been reading in Jesus’ words on the Mount, so often our hearts are full of darkness, murder, and adultery. So how can it be small and passing?

One answer that I hear a lot is that when you are experiencing dark times, they will not last. Author John Green says that if there was one phrase he would want tattooed to his eyelids it would be “this too shall pass,” because it is always true, no matter the situation. In his book “Turtles All the Way Down”, a character who struggles with OCD is told “Your now is not your forever.” The pain she was experiencing in the moment will not last; this too shall pass. That phrase allegedly comes from the story of a king, who wished for a ring to make him happy when he was sad. Upon considering this, his sages made him a ring enscribed “This too shall pass”, which did make him happy when he was sad, but also made him sad when happy. After all, saying that the dark will pass also means that the light will too.

The question we ask in the end is: Who wins? The dark or the light? The good guys or the enemies? If there is only darkness, then Ecclesiastes is right, we are no better off than a stillborn child that “comes without meaning, departs in darkness, and in darkness its name is shrouded.” (Ecc. 6:4) Yet, if light wins, then Andrew Peterson is right. All the darkness in this world is “a small and passing thing”, compared to the eternity of light that awaits us.

Is it a coincidence that all our favourite stories end with light winning? I’m remembering the end of Harry Potter with its stand-off of light against dark, where love finally triumphs over death—”the last enemy to be destroyed is death.” (1 Cor. 15:26) Or the recent “Crimes of Grindelwald” which ends with a battle between the dragons of Light and Darkness. Or in the words of another Andrew Peterson song, “After the last tear falls, there is love.”

And it is all bought by sacrifice, on the day when the world went dark, when the sun died, and then “came up on the brightest dawn, after the darkest night of all” (Andrew Peterson, again).

For the light to come,

Miriam

Happy New Year!

Dear Elizabeth,

Friday night was an Open Mic Night, run by the CU on the theme of “Light and Darkness”. I tell you this partly because it was the sort of thing you would have loved. The room was dimly lit, by candles and orange bulbs, and people stood up in turn and performed and shared — a poem, or a song they had written, a story. I read one of my poems, “First Light”, and a letter on God’s word as light — performed for you.

It was a comforting place — people shared traumas and trials — all speaking of how God brought light into their darkness — whether in song or story. Toward the end, a lad stood up. He spoke of waiting on the Lord each year before term started. He said that the word that had guided him through the last year was “Sustain.” The word for this year was “Light.” He was relieved because sustain was a hard word. It involved waiting, like waiting in a dark hallway for a door to be opened. Light was much more hopeful.

Today has been a hard day, and I wonder if I need those words too. Last night was one of the worst migraines of my life and, even today, the pain still lingers at the back of my head and in my joints, like a memory. Today I prayed, “Lord, sustain me.”

I’ve been thinking about what the bible says about waiting, about sustaining. One of my favourite verses goes: 

“Even youths grow tired and weary,
    and young men stumble and fall;
but those who wait on the Lord
    will renew their strength.
    they will run and not grow weary,
    they will walk and not be faint.” (Isaiah 40:30-31)

All of those feel like great encouragements, especially when we are weary and faint. And yet there is a part of the verse I have missed out: “they will soar on wings like eagles.” This is surprising — I don’t know about you, but I’ve never sprouted wings and started soaring as a result of waiting on God. Yet, this points to something — this is not a natural strength, that allows us to do natural things, like running. This is a supernatural strength, beyond anything we could imagine. A strength for today and a strength which points us heavenward.

How do we wait for the Lord? Well, for me, it is a patient, expectant hope, knowing that God will fulfill his good promises, even if I don’t quite see it yet. Last night, Naomi encouraged me over the phone, “It is bad now, but the pain will peak and then drop. Just wait. It will get better.”

I’m aware that you need that sustaining hope in your situation, patiently waiting on God, drawing strength from him. Through this, we learn to persevere, to wait for that final day when we will rise up on eagles’ wings, when there will be no more weakness or weariness, when we will run forever with the Lord.

“Cast your cares on the Lord
    and he will sustain you;
he will never let
    the righteous be shaken.”
Psalm 55:22

In his strength,

Miriam

December 14, 2018

Dear Elizabeth,

We are hardwired for stories. I was watching a discussion between a panel of psychologists about using Dungeons and Dragons and other role-playing games as therapy, and that’s what they said. “We remember the stories we created together because we are hardwired for stories.”

They explained it from a purely evolutionary standpoint – before there was literacy, before the printing press, before paper, there were stories. Stories were our way of understanding our world, of learning skills to survive, of building community. And they still have that function today.

I’m wondering if there’s another perspective though – one that says we were hardwired for stories because that’s how we were made, how we were created. That we were made in the image of a story-loving God, and that we can’t help but tell stories.

Where do I get that idea from? Well, first of all, from the Bible. God’s word to us isn’t merely a list of facts or rules – it’s a series of stories forming one big story – between God and his people – a true Shakespearean Comedy, one that begins with a relationship that suffers problems along the way but ends in marriage and a glorious wedding. God is the faithful husband, seeking his adulterous wife (see Ezekiel 16 & Hosea), and we see Christ as bridegroom “who loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy.” (Eph 5:25)

The other place I see our desire for storytelling is in the parables of Jesus. After all, who can forget the homecoming story of the prodigal son? Here, the younger son runs away from home, wastes his dad’s money and falls into poverty, but yet is welcomed back with love into his dad’s arms; while the older brother stays home as a good son, but draws away from his dad and scorns his younger brother’s welcome. Or remember the tale of the hardworking woman, searching high and low for a misplaced wedding gift, a coin of little monetary worth, but great emotional value? Or how about the story of the wandering sheep, who gets lost on the mountainside, but is found and rescued by a persistent shepherd?

Glynn Harrison, author of “A Better Story”, says that “You can’t respond to a great story with a list of facts” and it’s true. We respond to these stories emotionally. I have a non-Christian friend at our international cafes, who responds in anger to the story of the prodigal son. He identifies himself with the older brother and can’t stand the grace offered to the young prodigal. In his family, he is the good son, working hard for a PhD; his sister is the prodigal, squandering her parents’ money. I think that is the response Jesus expected from the Pharisees, the religious leaders of the day. They were the good sons, who couldn’t see why “this man welcomes sinners, and eats with them.” (Luke 15:1) Jesus’ response to that is not a good telling-off, but three stories – the lost sheep, the lost coin, the lost son. His question to them: Are not the lost worth searching for? No wonder they crucified him.

Glynn Harrison suggests that “If you want to win hearts as well as minds, you need to tell a better story.”

That’s why I chose to do a retelling of Jesus’ death, instead of a talk, at my Relay interview. That’s why I’m working on the next scene of your story. And as people come to visit you now, and as you speak to people in the years to come, what story will you be telling? Will it be part of the greater story, of God’s love for his lost and wayward people? Will it resonate with people’s emotions and hearts? In short, how do we tell our stories as better stories, in this world that is hardwired for story?

For the stories to come,

Miriam

Friday, December 21, 2018

Dear Elizabeth,

It’s officially the shortest day of the year – which is to say, it is the darkest. It feels like it as well. We’ve had steady drenching rain all morning; the sky is overcast; we huddle indoors for warmth. It is, as my mum put it, “dark and dismal”. We both wondered where the cats had gone. They hate the rain.

Felix arrived just as the rain stopped, his fur sticking up in wet points. He is now on my bed, trying to lick himself dry. The rain is gone; the dark clouds are being blown across the sky; and slices of blue can be seen in the distance. In the darkness, the promise of light.

Of course, that’s the message of Christmas, isn’t it? Glen Scrivener spoke at our carol concert about the difference between Christmas in Australian sunshine while growing up, and Christmas here, in the dark. He concluded that “Christmas happens with people huddling together in the gloom. It’s not about reflecting the brightness of our sunny circumstances. Christmas, according to the Bible, belongs in a land of deep shadow.” Christmas is about the God who steps into our darkness, into our shadow, and bears it on himself. As the song goes “Light of the world, you stepped down into darkness.” I began my own Christmas talk with this: “In the beginning, darkness. The world is waiting in deep darkness. Suddenly – as if a switch has been turned on the universe – Light.”

As we huddle together, in the cold and the dark, we are waiting for slices of light. It’s there in our decorations – in our house, once we have decorated the tree, we turn out the lights, huddle together on the sofa, and watch the fairy lights spark on-and-off in time to the Christmas music. In the “Nine Lessons and Carols” service at the nearby Anglican church, the building will be lit up by candles on high poles, flickering into the darkness. One of my favourite carols starts “Like a candle flame/ Flickering small / In our darkness” and asks “Can this tiny spark/ set a world on fire?”

What does that mean for us? This morning, I picked up my bible to read, “You are the light of the world… Let your light shine before men, that they might see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matt 5:14, 16)  We are so used to praising Jesus as the Light of the World, that we forget that we are commanded to be lights to the world. We are not only to receive Jesus as light, but to give out that light in a dark world. If the hospital staff and patients see anything different about you and your family, may it be that you have said “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.” And this is not for ourselves, but for the Father, as Spurgeon eloquently puts it: “The object of our shining is not that men might see how good we are, nor even see us at all, but that they might see grace in us and God in us and cry, ‘What a Father these people must have.’” Let this be our contribution to the darkness in this land, to point to the One who is light.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in deep darkness, a light has dawned. Isaiah 9:2

For Christmas light,

Miriam

Dear Elizabeth,

Mornings are strange. Each morning brings the promise of a new day, but we don’t know what the day will bring. When we were in school, the promise was of a routine: we wake up, get into school for nine o’clock, sit in class, proceed according to timetable. There were variations, but we knew what we are getting ourselves in for. The mornings were predictable, indicative of the day.

Maybe that happens less as we get older. Uni days are less predictable, and the promise of the morning always clouds uncertainty. I’m not sure what hospital mornings look like. I’d imagine there’s a changeover of staff – a shift as the day routine kicks in. It still doesn’t tell us what the day looks like.
I’d like to think my morning routine is established. I get up, half-eight, have breakfast, sit in the conservatory reading and opening the bible and praying. Outside, I can see the sunrise. Yesterday, it was misty, lit up by a golden haze, a pigeon perching on the willow in the neighbour’s garden. Beautiful. Then, I cycle in, to my usual spot in the Learning Grid, sit down and write, maybe a letter, maybe a story. Today was different; I had planned to go to Morning Prayer Meeting, woken an hour earlier, only to find it had been cancelled. I tried to slot into my morning routine, but it was disrupted. I was uneasy. Mornings don’t always go to plan.

One of my favourite verses is this: “In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord establishes his steps.” (Prov. 16:9)

It’s a reminder that no matter how carefully we plan, it is God who determines where we go. I’d imagine you had different plans for the day of your collapse. I am not sure your plans included hospital. And each morning, as you wake up, there are more plans, made for you, or by you. Only God knows where they will go.

I the middle of Lamentations, there’s a familiar verse, “Because of God’s great love, we are not consumed, for his mercies never fail. They are new every morning, great is your faithfulness.” (3:22-23)

It’s from there we get the wonderful hymn – “Great is thy Faithfulness”. I have been wondering though, what does it mean that God’s mercies are new every morning?

I’m not sure I have the answer, but God knows I need new mercies every morning, enough mercy to let go of the past day’s struggles, enough mercy to carry me through today. Or as the hymn puts it “Strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow.” May God grant you his new mercies today.

Every blessing,

Miriam

Monday, Oct 8

Dear Elizabeth,

“We sing because we’ve come home.” That’s what the speaker said this Sunday. It sent my mind off in two directions.

First it reminded me of a poem by Osip Mandelstam that I translated:

“There will come a time when we cannot sing
As every day expends life’s breath
As silence fills our mouths with tin
Until Earth’s cries are all that’s left”

It’s not a particularly cheering picture – he’s talking about the silence that came after the Russian oppression, where it was dangerous to speak up – but it left me thinking, what about the times when we cannot sing? You must understand this feeling yourself. Whether through oppression, opposition, silence, or tears, or illness – there are times when we cannot sing.

I saw this myself when I bought a friend who’d gone through a crisis to my church with me. Usually he stands and sings with great gusto; that day he was sitting, silent, tears running down his face. My church is small, but we sing with force, and that day, I was conscious that we were singing for him, singing because he couldn’t sing. Afterwards, a woman came over on crutches, laid a hand on his shoulder and said “God loves you. I saw you sitting there, and I am praying for you.”

I was reminded of that verse in Ephesians that commands us to “speak to each other with Psalms, hymns, and songs of the spirit. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord.” We often forget the “to each other” part, that when we sing, we are singing to each other, as well as to Lord. I was encouraged to hear of the Mizo choir singing to you. There are times that we cannot sing, but we can sing to each other, and we can sing in our hearts. Know that, while you cannot sing, we are singing to you, and you can sing with us in your heart.

Second, my mind caught on the phrase “we’ve come home.” I’ve always imagined it to be in the future tense, “we will come home,” or like the excellent song by Skylar Grey, Coming Home Part II, “we’re coming home, we’re coming home.” I’ve always been taught that the reason I don’t feel at home here is because “Earth is not our home.” For me, stories have always been a way to deal with that homesickness, either reading them or writing them, a way to find the home that I wish I had. Though, at the end of all my searching, I wrote “Maybe home is not a place you find. Maybe home is a place that finds you, when you least expect it.”

As Christians, we are like the lost sheep, searching all over the moorlands for our way back to the flock, only to find ourselves picked up and carried home. We know God has lifted us up and seated us with him in the heavenly the realms in Christ Jesus. In other words, we’re already home.

It doesn’t stop us longing for our final home though. I’ve never longed for heaven as much as this week. I’m encouraged that I’m not alone in this though, as Paul says in 2 Corinthians 5: “For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed instead with our heavenly dwelling…”

In song,

Miriam

Fri, October 5

Dear Elizabeth,

I’ve been thinking a lot about stories. This makes sense. I am a writer and stories are what I do. Yet one thing that fascinates me is how stories work in real life. You see when we’re living in a story, we don’t know that we’re in it. We don’t see the trajectory, the plot. All we see is the page in front of us. This next word, this next second. It’s not a sentence, it doesn’t make sense, not yet. You see stories only make sense looking back on them. Only then can we see where the author was going with them.

I’ve been reading the updates your family have been posting* and it strikes me that we don’t know where this is going. You don’t know the trajectory your story is going to take and we don’t either. We are living in it, second by second, day by day. Only years, months, weeks later will we know what the Author is doing, what He had planned all along. The moment we just have to trust that our Author has a plan. We don’t know the end from the beginning.

Except of course, that we do. There is a quote, from a song, I believe: “I’ve read the back of the book and we win.” The back of our Book contains spoilers for the end of the story. We know how it will end, and it is glorious. It doesn’t mean that we know the plot of course, but knowing the ending means that we know that it will all turn out in the end. My favourite quote from TS Eliot goes like this:

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring 
Will be to arrive where we started 
And know the place for the first time.”

 At the end of all things, we will understand the beginning, and in the words of TS Eliot (again) “all shall be well and/ all manner of thing shall be well.”

At the moment though, we are living the story, and it’s hard. We want to know what happens next; we want to turn the page to the next chapter, or skip ahead to make sure everything is okay. We feel like everything should be resolved straightaway. I don’t know about you, but that’s not why I read. I read for the story, trusting that the Author knows what’s next, trusting that He knows what He’s doing. Reading means living with the tension and excitement of the story.

Who knows, maybe I’ll start writing you a story. And it’ll have to be episodic, and sometimes you’ll be left not knowing what goes next. We’ll have to see.

For now, “let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.” (Hebrews 12:2)

(Not) the end,

Miriam

* For those interested in the old updates, they can be found here: https://teamelizabethstarr.blogspot.com/?m=1

And the rest of Elizabeth’s story is here: https://howtowalkbyelizabethstarr.blogspot.com/?m=1

Thurs, October 4

Dear Elizabeth,

It is amazing that after all these years, there are still parts of you in my life. I opened my bag to find a pen and found instead the pencil case you brought back from Mizoram, in green and mustard diamonds. It currently functions as my sunglasses case and has been to Canada and back with me. We went to Canada for my cousin’s wedding, which was sadly called off by the groom. We went anyway, because family is for sad times, as well as good ones. I think the same could be said of the church. We rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep. Both are good responses to this world. As Paul writes, sharing in suffering also means sharing in comfort. Those aren’t abstract things – they are real, very real, like the clench of a strong hug, an embrace.

 I’ve spent the past year writing about the impossibility of the task – of fully sharing in sufferings. Because I am not experiencing what you are experiencing, I can’t fully understand how you feel. Marion Coutts tries to explain this to her terminally ill husband – “I am not you, but another person, that’s the problem.” And yet we do share, we do feel for you, we are praying for you. These letters, I suppose, are a way of sharing.

It makes me wonder again what it means to share with Christ in his suffering, in his death. It cannot mean that we literally hang on a cross, nor can it mean that we take sin’s punishment, that hs already been taken. The song Knowing You expresses it well, “to become like you in your death my Lord, so with you to live, and never die.” To an outsider, it sounds like a contradiction – how can we become like someone enough to face death, and still live to never face death again? And yet, that is the truth of Resurrection. As Aslan puts it, it means that “Death itself would start working backwards.” Or Samwise Gamgee: “I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue?”

I look forward to the day when everything sad comes untrue. I’ve been reading Revelation and the joy is unmistakeable. There’s a beautiful hymn in anticipation of it all, and the chorus goes like this:

God shall wipe away all tears
There’s no death, no pain, nor fears
And they count not time by years
For there is no night there.”

I sometimes wonder what it must be like to have no night, no fears or tears, all surrounded by the light of God, praising him. To me, that seems the ultimate end of sharing in suffering and joy – the day when the suffering falls away, and there is only the joy, when we rejoice with those rejoicing, singing “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honour and glory and praise.” Rev 5:12

In joy,

Miriam