Doorkeeper

I am changing and it’s as unnerving as the multiplying lines around my eyes. During our first year living in the Himalayas, a sour loneliness resided in my stomach at all times and often moved up my neck, into my throat, and burst through my being in the form of hot tears and angry words. For legitimate reasons, I was grieving. Like a child, I screamed, “It’s not fair!” and “It hurts!” over and over, in hopes that my Father would send an emergency jet in to rescue me.  

But my Father seemed far off. He was somewhere else. Likely, killing the fattened calf for my brother and fulfilling the desires of his heart. I stood in the fields with the older brother and called the Lord harsh and a poor gift-giver. Why did he grant some of my Facebook friends Pinterest-tinted lives, while mine reeked like the trash that women burned outside my bedroom window?

Returning to the Himalayas after being away, the smoke still penetrates my bedroom. But I also pick up the scents of ginger, hyacinth, and something akin to “home.” I am starting to see other people and not just the monster of grief. I’m beginning to feel human again. I mourn when a neighbor dies, knowing their family has no answers. I am touched by my friend’s vulnerability as tears stain her cheeks. My response to her pain is simple and broken, yet colored by Hope. Our exchange of meaningful words and prayers gives me a thrill that heals a thousand buried griefs. Language, once strictly a shame-inflicting chore, shocks me when it is a vehicle for intimacy and joy.

This is unnerving. What if this “learned contentment” evaporates one day and the sadness comes back? Is this change for real, or did I just drink a cup of coffee? What if our visa falls through and we have to return to the States, and I must say goodbye forever to all that I now love?

The journey to contentment feels anything but safe. As a child, contentment sounded like a comfortable place I would arrive at in my late twenties. I imagined I would curl up on contentment like a cat on a fluffy pillow. I would sprawl out and tell all the little cats just how I had arrived.

However, contentment is slippery. Or maybe contentment isn’t the problem, but my beast-like heart that automatically doubts, grumbles, and calls God names.

I realized one day when I was at a friend’s house, shoveling in beans and rice with turmeric-stained fingers, cross-legged and belly-laughing, that the Spirit of God was making me content in all things. I felt joy coursing through my veins and bubbling out of my mouth. I wasn’t content because I had worked hard enough or been good enough. But in that small room, Jesus sat next to me.

He is enough. He is what makes here or there anything of value. He’s the beauty in the landscape and the aroma in my nostrils. My favorite Psalm has always been Psalm 84. It says that I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than live in the tents of the wicked.

Today, I’m content to be the doorkeeper. It’s not the position I would choose, but it’s the company that counts. I want Jesus, no matter what language He’s speaking.