How much sorrow can a heart take? How many stories can it hold?
I’m asking for a friend…
Yesterday, the jury in the trial of former Minneapolis Police officer Derek Chauvin started their deliberations over the charges brought against him in the killing of George Floyd.
Just before 11pm on Thursday, April 15th, 19 year-old Brandon Hole opened fire on workers at a FedEX facility leaving several injured and eight people dead. He then turned the gun on himself and committed suicide.
Mass killings have claimed four or more American lives every week for the past six weeks, leaving 48 dead.
On Monday, March 29th, 13 year-old Adam Toledo was pursued down a dark alleyway in Chicago by police and shot dead.
Ten days ago, a video surfaced from December 2020 documenting the stopping, mistreatment and pepper spraying of Second Lt. Caron Nazario by Virginia police.
Although occurring at different times, all of these items hit our news cycles, here in the States, within the space of a week of one another. This short but weighty list is not comprehensive though; it does not touch on what has been happening beyond our borders or in our individual lives - the surge in outbreaks of violence and protests in Goma, DRC; the military coup and protests in Myanmar; President Idriss Déby of Chad passing away at the weekend from injuries incurred on the frontlines of battle with rebel group, Fact; the pandemic continuing while we hit 3 million deaths worldwide as a result of Covid-19, and the list goes on…
How do we hold it all when our arms will only stretch so far wide?
I find myself, more than ever before, living in a space of tension. Feeling like a creaky old bridge stretched across water that I didn’t ask to be positioned over, every step taken across the wooden planks causing me to bend and shudder at their weight. I look into the innocent, loving face of my son - the fulfillment of promise and the delight of my heart - and I encounter the beauty, wonder, delight and joy with which he embraces each moment. The worries, stresses and heartaches momentarily fading away as I watch him move about with such comical curiosity, and hungrily receive his random displays of affection.
Maybe this is the ‘privilege’ which comes with growing older? As our tent pegs get stretched out a little further, and a little further more, we do not just gain a bigger house but a larger community. We no longer have to simply have capacity for our little village; we have gained the whole world within the flimsy canvas walls of our homes.
I started writing this blog in response to a question which I was genuinely asking myself. That friend is me. How much sorrow can my heart take? How many stories can it hold? I think the answer is actually far more than it may feel like in the moment. The resilience found within the bones of those whose hearts have been broken, is far stronger than the sum of that which tries to overwhelm them.
The truth is that I have moments where I don’t think I can take another headline, another piece of bad news, another situation which will result in me having to alter and pivot my plans because the luxury of choice has been removed. It feels overwhelming. And yet, here I am, still going, still reading more headlines, finding more space, shifting and making room, learning and adapting.
This doesn’t make me superhuman, neither does it leave me unscathed, but I am struck by hope as I type these words. Delicate though it may be. The weights of our world are many, they are heavy and overwhelming, but they are not greater than hope, they are not greater than love.
“I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.”
― Maya Angelou
How much sorrow can our hearts take, and how many stories can they hold? I’m not sure, but I’m realising that it might be more than we first thought, and with those stories and sorrows also comes joy and delight, comes connection and community, comes comfort and strength.
