Pro 14:13 Even in laughter the heart may ache, and the end of joy may be grief.
Matthew Henry interprets this quote as "the vanity of carnal mirth"--that a person may laugh in his sin, but the end of his actions will bring grief. My understanding of this proverb is more fluid--I think the proverb in the sense that life encompasses a spectrum of emotions, and that the extremes of this spectrum-great joy and great grief--bleed into each other. Heaviness intermingles with joy at times. Joy can be threaded through with heaviness.
One of the saddest moments of my life was a 50th birthday party for my brother-in-law who was terminally ill with kidney cancer. Yes, it was a celebration of Mark's life, a happy birthday, a reunion of many friends and relatives from various places and various years. In fact, if he were not sick, it might have been the happiest of parties: we were all authentically happy to be there, ready to embrace the evening. And Mark was a man who loved festivity--the best of hosts, affable, an easy-going guy who made you feel easy too. All the right pieces were in place--a great venue, restored old building with character, lots of excellent Buffalo, New York food and drink, friendly people, good times.
Yet, despite all this, the unspeakable heaviness came too. Even the most-lighthearted of parties are funny in that way to begin with---our expectations and anticipation often exceed the reality. It's harder to laugh when we know we should. When we know we are supposed to have a good time, it can be harder to get there. Some of the most joyful moments in my life have thus been unanticipated, accidental, like a rainbow suddenly appearing on the horizon--look, there it is...isn't it unexpectedly beautiful?
As the evening waned and people trickled away to their homes and regular lives, I felt the irony of the setting more and more. Mark was trying hard to savor the moments and be a good sport. But he was walking with a cane. In the back of my mind, I was wondering if he was tired--wasn't this late for him? Yet what did he have to lose? What did he have when he went home and all was over?
Does everyone feel this heaviness? Some more than others?
I remember the crowd thinning and my husband sitting on a bar stool talking with Mark--love that about Briggs--he's a great listener, loyal companion, in for the whole of whatever. He's present. If I could have made the evening last--to last into the late evening as it normally would--to have that same sense of ease and looseness that the old evenings did. If I could...
I hated that end of that party, as I hate most endings. They force us to draw a line, pack our things away, and turn out the lights...
There is an irreconcilable tension between the beautiful and meaningful things of this life and the pain that comes with the inevitable loss of them, with taking them for granted, with the relentless wear of time across our lives.
We rejoice. We grieve. They are sometimes so close they are one.
Matthew Henry interprets this quote as "the vanity of carnal mirth"--that a person may laugh in his sin, but the end of his actions will bring grief. My understanding of this proverb is more fluid--I think the proverb in the sense that life encompasses a spectrum of emotions, and that the extremes of this spectrum-great joy and great grief--bleed into each other. Heaviness intermingles with joy at times. Joy can be threaded through with heaviness.
One of the saddest moments of my life was a 50th birthday party for my brother-in-law who was terminally ill with kidney cancer. Yes, it was a celebration of Mark's life, a happy birthday, a reunion of many friends and relatives from various places and various years. In fact, if he were not sick, it might have been the happiest of parties: we were all authentically happy to be there, ready to embrace the evening. And Mark was a man who loved festivity--the best of hosts, affable, an easy-going guy who made you feel easy too. All the right pieces were in place--a great venue, restored old building with character, lots of excellent Buffalo, New York food and drink, friendly people, good times.
Yet, despite all this, the unspeakable heaviness came too. Even the most-lighthearted of parties are funny in that way to begin with---our expectations and anticipation often exceed the reality. It's harder to laugh when we know we should. When we know we are supposed to have a good time, it can be harder to get there. Some of the most joyful moments in my life have thus been unanticipated, accidental, like a rainbow suddenly appearing on the horizon--look, there it is...isn't it unexpectedly beautiful?
As the evening waned and people trickled away to their homes and regular lives, I felt the irony of the setting more and more. Mark was trying hard to savor the moments and be a good sport. But he was walking with a cane. In the back of my mind, I was wondering if he was tired--wasn't this late for him? Yet what did he have to lose? What did he have when he went home and all was over?
Does everyone feel this heaviness? Some more than others?
I remember the crowd thinning and my husband sitting on a bar stool talking with Mark--love that about Briggs--he's a great listener, loyal companion, in for the whole of whatever. He's present. If I could have made the evening last--to last into the late evening as it normally would--to have that same sense of ease and looseness that the old evenings did. If I could...
I hated that end of that party, as I hate most endings. They force us to draw a line, pack our things away, and turn out the lights...
There is an irreconcilable tension between the beautiful and meaningful things of this life and the pain that comes with the inevitable loss of them, with taking them for granted, with the relentless wear of time across our lives.
We rejoice. We grieve. They are sometimes so close they are one.
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