Hi Everyone,
I have always been a bit embarrassed by my biblical namesake. For years, Sarah, the wife of Abraham, seemed to me to be one of those characters whose presence in Scripture serves as an example of what not to do. The story I had in mind comes from Genesis 18, when three visitors, understood to be messengers from God, visit Abraham and Sarah, both nonagenarians, and promise them a son. Sarah responds by laughing, which is taken to be a sign of her lack of faith. As a five-or-six-year-old, I found this story very upsetting. You don’t laugh at God when He promises you something. If I’d received a message from God, I certainly would not have laughed.
And perhaps five-or-six-year-old (other) Sarah wouldn’t have either. Perhaps she would have had enough unadulterated belief at that point in her life that she could have swallowed crazy stories from a God she couldn’t see, without a trace of skepticism. But the older we get, the more we learn not to take people literally. We are constantly bombarded by pledges which we dismiss (almost) entirely: “Best burgers in America!” “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met!” “Only you can prevent forest fires!” “If elected, I will restore the economy!” A kernel of hope may begin to grow in us when we hear these things (“What if these really ARE the best burgers in America?” “What if my efforts to prevent environmental destruction actually made a tangible difference?”) But we suppress it, partly due to our experience of repeated disappointments, and partly because we know that we ourselves are not always to be trusted. It’s easier to react as Sarah did, laughing at promises too good to be true to prevent us from crying when we discover they are impossible.
Over the last year, I too have wrestled with cynicism as I’ve tried to determine what the next stage of my life will look like. My ever-patient parents bore the brunt of my negativity, as I scoffed dramatically at the notion that anyone anywhere would ever want to employ me. My laughter was distinctly ugly. It sounded like fear with tinny echoes alternating between self-pity and self-loathing. In a particularly exasperated moment, I wrote this poem:
Narcissus Contemplates Divorce
I’d been courting myself for years,
but I proposed my freshman year of college.
Nothing is sure in adolescence, but there,
amidst photographable brick arches and
impromptu late night roommate talks,
I knew:
I was the One.
We were married two years later,
myself and I,
on the handsome coast of Northern Spain,
verdurous hills and ruddy independence
my bridesmaids, a drunken seagull
my ring bearer.
“For better or worse,” we vowed,
and seeing Better reflected in our eyes,
we meant it.
The honeymoon was lengthy,
as we traveled and explored our globe-home,
the way everyone told us we should:
“while you’re not tied down.”
I learned about my delightfully complex self,
imbibing wide-eyed life lessons
like wine coolers.
Now, though, I wonder at myself.
Who are you? I ask, and receive only echo.
Reflections have lost their luster,
features flattened by time and tension.
Busy, crowded, Better had allowed me to ignore
ugliness lingering, wallowing, simmering,
in my core.
Perhaps we were wrong,
myself and I.
We were naive. We were Better then.
We coldly consider possibilities:
separation, annulment, divorce.
Myself’s cynicism, a loaded diaper, hangs from me,
weighing me down bottom first. But
loath to disappoint myself or any passersby,
I inject hope and confidence
at the end of conversations and poetry
with a needle the size of my ego’s phantom.
Leaving cheap Chap Stick kisses on the mirror,
I attempt to fool myself into loving again.
Our eyes link and leak hope in short, cathartic bursts
like comic relief at a funeral.
Who are you? my reflection returns,
and as silence beats a steady drum,
we march on.
I was more like Sarah than I thought: Cynical Sarah, Doubter of Promises.
Except that Sarah was wrong. About nine months after the three visitors announce their ludicrous message, she gives birth to a son. Abraham names him Isaac, Hebrew for “laughter.” I’ve always understood this to be purely delicious irony, a giant “I told you so!” from God. But recently, I’ve come to see Isaac’s name as a profound gift to Sarah, for even as she was laughing in scorn, Laughter himself was being formed within her. Whenever she called out her son’s name, she could be reminded of how her cynical dismay had turned to hopeful joy.
And over the last few months, I suspected that I too was wrong, even though I was too cautious to admit it fully. When I left Savannah, a friend from my church made me a bookmark with this Bible verse: “She is clothed with strength and dignity, she can laugh at the days to come” (Proverbs 31:25). Since I got the bookmark, I confess that much of my laughter at the days to come has been laced with doubt and downright negativity. But the whole point of a bookmark is to show a work in progress. So as I’ve continued to read (and/or write) the next chapter in my life as I’ve moved to Portland, I have been grateful to realize that laughter has been forming in me all along too. For me, as it was with Sarah, joyful laughter is both a method of pushing through cynicism, and an indication that I already have already done so.
I have many things to keep me laughing here in Portland:
1.) My housemates. Molly and Lucy, are fantastic and welcoming and hilarious.
Molly, me and Lucy at Multnomah Falls
We spend a good majority of our time together laughing, which, in my opinion, is an essential activity in friendship, and in being at home.
2.) My city. Part of the reason I wanted to move to Portland is because of its reputation for weirdness, and I have not been disappointed. This last weekend, for example, a new friend and I went to the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta, in which participants kayaked across a lake in giant pumpkins:
"Splash Gourdon" has apparently participated in the race for many years now.
The official Seed Extractor. Crucial job. Mustache required.
Some other racers. Waldo won the prize for best costume.
The gentleman in black is the mayor of Tualatin,
the host of the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta.
This racer valiantly chose to navigate the largest pumpkin at the race,
originally weighting over 1500 lbs.
3.) My job. Yes, I do have one. I suppose if I’m going to get an “I told you so!” I’m glad it comes with a job attached. I have been working mostly full time at a preschool just north of Vancouver, and while I’m still considering other options, this has been incredibly helpful as I’ve settled here.
I’ll write more on life in Portland next time, but for now, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite conversations from the preschool:
A three-year-old, totally out of the blue: “You have to be 16 to have beer.”
Me: “Actually, you have to be 21.”
Three-year-old: “Yeah... on my next birthday, I’m going to be 21.”
Ah, to have the faith of a child!
Thank you for all of your encouragement as I’ve made this move, and may you all live into deep laughter in the upcoming week!
Sarah/Mouse
