I-YOUniverse

Original Date? Unknown 

CS Lewis’ irrepressible marshwiggle Puddleglum is one of my heroes. (You’ll find him in The Silver Chair, one of the Narnia books.)

For depressives like me and Puddleglum, regret’s a cinch, a jaunt in the never never land of if only. You look back over the vast expanse of the past half hour and find all the ways you failed, got a raw deal, suffered. Melancholy is an elegant, Victorian variation on the theme, a frill of lace at your collar and a scrap of sonnet in your pocket. Despair, more muscular, takes some serious workouts at the gym, but it’s a whale of a great ride. (Ask Captain Ahab.)

Face it, Hamlet is the greatest role of all time, dressed all in black, turning on his mother when she urges him, “Cast thy nighted colour off.” We wiggles love to Ham it up.

Daylight lengthens in Lent, but hours of darkness still linger. Many feel SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)-winter’s absence of light has given the blues a stronger grip on folks. It’s a good time to dwell in Ps 42-43,

My soul is cast down within me;
     therefore I remember you…
⁷ Deep calls to deep
     at the thunder of your cataracts;
all your waves and your billows
     have gone over me.
⁸ By day the LORD commands his steadfast love,
     and at night his song is with me,
     a prayer to the God of my life.

¹¹ Why are you cast down, O my soul,
     and why are you disquieted within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
     my help and my God.

Psalms 42:6-8, 11 (NRSV)

I grew up believing a morbid preoccupation with sins and shortcoming (not to be confused with actual  repentance or a fearless moral inventory) indicated holiness. A turning point came when I read Jeremiah 2.25,

You said, “It is hopeless,
     for I have loved strangers,
     and after them I will go.” Jer 2:25 (NRSV)

I realized that all that mucking about traps you in hopelessness. Moral scrupulosity is reverse narcissism; it’s harsh, but still all about me.

Once, authentically struggling, I poured my heart out to God. I kid you not, in my spirit God’s response was laughter.

“What, you’re some sort of sadist? Laughing at my pain?” I asked.

In the serene silent caress that followed, it was as though God said, “No, little one, I am chuckling in delight, like a mother or father who is about to surprise you with your heart’s desire.” I’ve come to call that divine laughter “Isaac laughter” (since as you may know “Isaac” is Hebrew for “he laughs.”)

It’s laughter so close to tears that you can’t always tell them apart. I haven’t heard it in spirit since-but I remember it.

It’s the laughter in Tolkien/Jackson’s The Return of the King, when Frodo awakes the second time to find Gandalf sitting beside him, and both begin to laugh.

Sometimes hope takes the form of enduring. In Tennessee Williams’ Night of the Iguana painter wise woman Hannah tells despairing ex-clergyman Shannon that blue devils respect endurance. Sometimes hope takes the form of song. Sometimes it takes the form of laughter.

It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!