Holding the cup of sorrow & joy

Henri Nouwen has a beautiful little book titled, Can You Drink the Cup? that gets to the core of human experience in a tender and true way.  His driving sentiment, that we all must aspire to hold, lift, and drink the cup of salvation that is our lives, is one that speaks so directly to the individual reader that there is nowhere left to hide upon completing the book.

At no point does he disguise the anguish of the world, and he offers no tools or tricks for working around difficulty. His words hold great promise, though: drink every last drop from your cup, and you will certainly find joy along with your sorrow. When this is done, your cup can be shared with others and can transform relationships and communities.

I have often reflected on how complicated it is to understand sorrow and emptiness at one point and sheer joy and wonder the next. But this is the way of life, and selecting an experience that skims across emotions out of fear or apathy will deprive us of a full life. I’ve had plenty of moments in which I felt sorry for myself (the most useless of emotions); why is my mother so weak? Why has she given up being a mother? How can I carry the pain of my sisters, my friends, and why do they have to bear this type of pain?  But if my cup of sorrow is, in part, to hold fragments of a family rather than a whole piece, then that is my cup. What are the joys that this cup of sorrow will bring? There are many, and more to come.

A few months ago, I visited the parents of a dear friend. We enjoyed an afternoon and evening together at their home, where they’ve raised 7 wonderful children. We shared great conversation, a delicious meal, and they generously let me stay the night. The following morning, after breakfast, the three of us walked outside to our respective cars to start the day. I was nearly to my car when I turned around to see my friend’s mom running through knee-deep snow towards me. She wanted to make sure to give me a hug before I left. I recall the image of her making her way towards me through the snow, one sleeve of her jacket not quite all the way on, kindness overflowing from her being. Somehow, in that image of her wading through snow towards me, all of her goodness is captured — her unmistakable maternal love, her strong faith, her care for others… and I continue to pull this small memory out of its box again and again.

This, to me, is part of the joy that accompanies my cup of sorrow: there are serious familial gaps that I would rather not experience, but these gaps have become spaces that have prodded and pushed me to reach my hand out to others in a deeper way. In my wavering and stumbling, God has found me more intimately through the maternal love of others. The reward has been great, and my sorrows are now intrinsically tied to joy forever. This paradox is one that can be extended to others — where I’ve been shown great love from people outside of my family, I now know the value of an outstretched hand — even if it is towards a stranger or acquaintance.