The play that SPU just put on was one of the most extraordinary and beautiful plays I have ever seen. It was the account of the Pan Am flight that crashed in Lockerbie, Scotland and a story of grieving. The mother of a boy who had died in the crash has been grieving for seven years when her husband takes her back to the site of the crash. Rather than searching for peace, she searches for vengeance and that search is what made way to an interesting point. The women living in Lockerbie say this: If it were always night, you would not see the beauty of a sunrise. If it were always light, you would not see the beauty of the stars. If you could not hate, you would not know how it would feel to love.
Without pain, you would not see healing. Without sorrow, you would not see joy. Without a winter that makes your soul ache, you would not see the beauty of a spring that brings redemption.
I have been in the middle of all of this. Between my roommate, my neighbors, my band, and my classmates, I've heard a lot of stories of hurt and questions of why. I am not complaining about being in the middle, I'm grateful that my class load isn't too hard and that I am happy right now. If I weren't, who would they talk to? There aren't many of us around who are doing just fine right now and those who are hurting don't want to burden another already in pain. So when someone needs to talk or to be held, I invite them over, make them some tea and sit.
I was frustrated the other night when there were six people in my room and I had to keep leaving the room to fill up our tiny hot pot. Our tiny hot pot that we bought in October (we each paid five whole dollars) and has since been used many a time. I've forgotten about it a dozen times and my roommate has to remind me that there is boiling water about to burn our room down. It's dangerous. Not only dangerous, but also disgusting and turning a color that isn't white. It's more like orange and it looks like the inside of our hot pot has been rusting and we've slowly been drinking rusty tea. I cleaned it out, filled it up, boiled it and repeated three times. I told the people sitting in the coziness of room 465 that I just need to cough up thirty bucks and buy myself a nice, not rusty, not hazardous, hot pot.
Yesterday, I worked all day and came home rather exhausted. It was my dear friend Becky Jo's birthday, so I brought some cake home with me to give to her, but she wasn't there yet. I was sitting in my room with the door wide open and then Becky Jo's roommate shuts my door for no good reason. I knock on her door and ask if I can come in, they scream "Go away!" and I have no idea what's going on. All I want to do is give her some cake and tell her that I love her. About two minutes later, Becky Jo runs into my room with a giant gift in her hand and says, "This is for you!" I am puzzled now because Becky Jo is giving me a gift on her birthday. But, heck, I love to get a present, so I rip off the paper and what is inside? A brand new, shiny red hot pot.
"Now you don't have to leave all the time when you want to drink tea with people," she tells me. I was exhilarated and, to me, it was so much more than a hot pot. It was a "thank you" for listening and hugging and holding and praying. It was encouragement that, even though I am busy and tired, I can always make time for my loved ones who need it. It is things like this that help us get through each day. Yes, we're still hanging on for dear life, but at least we can know what we're hanging onto. We're hanging onto hope. Through slices of cake, tears on your shoulder and shining red hotpots, we will be able to survive to the possibility of the brightness that tomorrow might hold. If not tomorrow, then the next day. And if not the next day, then the day after that. The point is this: hope doesn't disappear forever. So sit down, take a break from whatever is holding you back, boil some water and sit down with a friend. They need it. And so do you.
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