Incomprehensible Flair

We are in the minivan (why is flair always happening in my minivan?) and my daughters are laughing hysterically about babies and their first words.  My youngest said "dog" first, and my oldest said "duck," so they are trying to psychoanalyze what this must mean about them.  I tell them my friend's first word was "daffodil" and that's why she's a writer.

Then the oldest asks:  "What's a really long word that would be so weird to have as a first word?"

Out of the blue, I blurt out "incomprehensible."

They are stunned by this 6 syllable word.  My daughter says, "I do not understand that word."

"That's what it means!" I say.  "It means it's something not understood."

They are shocked.  The feel that sublime moment where their experience of a word is what the word means. 

My children are fascinated with how people come into language.  They want to know more.  I'm thinking of Helen Keller's encounter with the water and her ability to grasp "wet" by having water poured over her hands.

I talk more about what "incomprehensible" means.  I say stuff like:

"It's like when you talk so fast and I can't understand you.  It's incomprehensible."

"Not to me," she says.

"Or when someone is speaking Chinese.  It's incomprehensible."

"Not to them."   

I think about this.  Incomprehensible isn't really a great word after all.  Just because I don't understand it, doesn't mean it's not understandable to somebody else somewhere.   I suppose living with flair means I don't settle for saying something is incomprehensible.  If I get another perspective, I just might find the meaning. 

"Yeah, Mom.  You have to be careful when you explain words to us."

I really do. 

The Beauty in Sorrow

To know sorrow is to know loss.  Sorrow represents one of the most complex human emotions because it's a sadness tinged with beauty and joy.  We are sorrowful because we miss what was once, or could have been wonderful.  We remember the joy but are simultaneously aware of its absence. 

I think of Eve, leaving the Garden, unable to ever return.

I'm driving in my car, remembering lost things, people, lost experiences, places.  I'm trying desperately to get out of the sorrow.  Maybe I could exercise or distract myself somehow.  Besides, the day was nearly over, and I hadn't had one moment of flair. 

This sorrow was overtaking any chance of flair. 

And then I wondered:  What if the sorrow is the flair? 

Just because it's a negative emotion doesn't mean it's not extraordinary and full of the presence of God.  There's a theology behind sorrow that tells me something about myself.  I inherit sorrow as part of the Fall.  I'm that figure looking back at the East Gate of Eden.  And isn't that curse accompanied by hope?  Doesn't God promise a way to rejoice in sorrow?  Isn't he called the Comforter in Sorrow?  Aren't Christians described as "sorrowful yet always rejoicing?"  How can this be? 

Is our coming joy dependent upon our present sorrow? 

When I'm sorrowful, I let my heart break apart so God can enter and heal.  Sorrow accompanies me--a true companion--that reminds me what I have lost but also what will one day be restored--in God's way and in God's time.  It's a beautiful reminder of an usual form of flair.

A Boat Ride in the Rain

It's a dreary, rainy day on the last day of our lake visit.  My daughters climb into the boat. My youngest giggles:   "It's raining, Mom!  It's water above us and below us!  The water is everywhere!"  The boat speeds up. 
"Mom, stick your hand out of the boat.  The waves will give you a high-five."  I stick my hand out into the wave the boat makes, and sure enough, I'm slapped right back with a wet high-five.  She thinks of the water as having hands.  And with those hands it celebrates with high-fives.

Who cares if it’s raining?