Praise in the Midst of Uncertainty, Sickness, and Grief

I’m celebrating the feast day of Francis of Assisi this week. It’s formally observed on October 4^th every year. In this harvest season, as I drive through the Illinois countryside past golden fields of corn and soybeans, I think of Francis, Clare, and their love for nature.

I see them running through the fields in the scenic Umbrian countryside, robes flapping as they shout their words of praise—cadences about glorious flowers, singing birds, and glowing fields of wheat. In what would come to be known as his Canticle of Creation, Francis praises the beauty of the natural world and the presence of its creatures, including brother Sun and sister Moon.




(In the background, I hear Donovan singing during this scene in the 1972 Zeffirelli movie. That’s neither here nor there, but sometimes life seems richer when there’s a soundtrack.)




Except Francis didn’t write this poem when he was out in the fields being inspired, but when he was seriously ill and suffering in bed. As it probably is for you, praise is the last thing on my mind when I’m sick. How was he able to sing praises of joy when he felt so horrible that he couldn't get up? 

 

Already in exile from his home and family, after days of being cold and achy, perhaps these words slipped into his consciousness when a single ray of warm sunshine touched his skin, like the comforting touch of a friend. Rather than dwell on his suffering, he celebrated this simple pleasure. I have no doubt that Clare tended to him during this time, bringing hot tea, perhaps another blanket, and Francis felt gratitude for her well up, too.

 

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When someone we love dies, grief pulls a damper over every good thing, and it’s almost impossible to give thanks for anything. It took me half a year after my wife Evelyn died before I could enjoy the simple, physical pleasures of the world again, like fresh brewed coffee and the taste of hot, buttered toast. It was a full year before I felt anything close to joy, and even that was fleeting.

 

After a tragedy has knocked us over, after the shock of death that devastated our lives has lifted, after the emotional waves of grief that have battered us for months have receded, we look for rays of light to give us hope. We listen to the silence for songs of comfort and words of reassurance from friends. Slowly, we begin to gather the tattered remnants of our life together and weave our loss into a new tapestry of life. 

 

After family members were murdered in the Holocaust by the Nazis, violinist Yitzhak Perlman said, “Our task is to make music with what remains.” 

 

The loss of someone close impacts us so hard that it seems to negate everything else. It’s difficult to feel thankful for anything. Then one day, on a day we expect to feel miserable, we find that we are enjoying something, if only for a moment. And it dawns on us, as it probably did for Francis, that what we love about life is not just one person, as dear as they are to us, but also the thousand little things that make up each day. Life is not either / or.

 

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I do not live in the countryside so there are no fields outside my door to run through, but there are rhythms and music to life in the city—the quietness of dawn, the growing schuss as rush hour traffic begins and then ebbs, the deep throttle of semis, the happy shouts of friends greeting each other across the street, the chuck-chuck, chuck-chuck of car tires going over railroad tracks, and the animated conversations at an outdoor café. Nature is present, too—the singing of wrens and blue birds in neighborhood parks, the clicking nails of squirrels as they chase each other up and down trees, and the rustle of dry oak leaves as they skitter and tumble down a sidewalk. All these sounds rise together into a hymn of life.

 

We aren’t limited by the facts of our past, the sorrow of the present, or our fears for the future. Life is what we love today, and what we imagine it can become tomorrow.