Knowing Trouble

Lately,

I have been remembering a time of learning,

in a desk

in a classroom

in a college.

It was a favorite professor that day

who looked at his young students

to say,

Trouble will come to you. I promise.

In your lifetime you will see it.

You will not finish life without it.

I thought and thought

two different thoughts.

One of starry-eyed disbelief:

My life is calm and steady.

I'm sure I will live out my days

in no big ups or downs

and be happy forever and always.

And another of hopeless horror:
What terrible thing will happen to me?

When? Will the pain be forever?

How terrible will it be?

And in my mind now I see that student

who both doubted and feared

the pains of living

and could only carry on in

a known temporary happiness

And all the while

secretly bracing for impact.

And now years later,
I find in myself

a different kind of a learning.

Not of

desks or

classrooms or

colleges.

But as one tiny student

whose eyes have gained just a little

of this unwanted wisdom.

Trouble comes and

people want to say,

"Poor him," or

"Poor you,"

but right or wrong

I can't help but think:

You are not immune to this sort of thing.

Trouble comes.

It just does.

And it feels like fire in your skin

and it won't let you sleep

or eat

or breathe

And your body shakes at night

and you lose all of your words

and thoughts

and the ability to walk about in the world.

But I must say,

there is something about fire.

Something about the heat,

the intensity,

the relentlessness of it

that feels very, very necessary.

I'm reminded of how

babies are birthed,

and how pearls come to exist,

each in distress,

but all the while being navigated

by the complete naturalness of it all.

He knows.

He knows.

He knows it all very, very well.

And once the fire has given its all ,

and something physical

has been changed or destroyed,

then we come out to view the ashes.

We come out of hiding,

Shedding those rigid layers we

had believed we needed to endure.

And we see, yes there were things here before

that are not here now.

Yes, something very terrible has happened.

But, here I stand.

Here I stand.

I did not die from the pain.

And what did die away has been taken care of

by one strong and gentle Savior

who covered the work of even the worst of fires

on a cross

on a hill

so that our unconquerable parts

might know peace forever and ever

and ever.