I have been re-reading the diary of Etty Hillesum, a young Dutch Jewish woman who died in Auschwitz. In September 1942, on sick leave from her voluntary work in the Westerbork transit camp, grieving the death of the man she loved and aware of encroaching annihilation, she was nonetheless able to write:
I now realise, God, how much You have given me. So much that was beautiful and so much that was hard to bear. Yet whenever I showed myself ready to bear it, the hard was directly transformed into the beautiful. And the beautiful was sometimes much harder to bear, so overpowering did it seem. To think that one small human heart can experience so much, oh God, so much suffering and so much love, I am so grateful to You, God, for having chosen my heart, in these times, to experience all the things it has experienced.
I am not sure I can quite echo her poetic radiance and her gratitude, but within her words I can find something of how I have been living these days - and, judging by conversations and my social media feeds, how so many others are too. My days have become a mixture of highs and lows - of small, simple joys and beauties, and sad, aching news. I can delight in trees frothing with blossom, in spring flowers and greening, and gaze in awe at Venus and our lovely full moon, even as I feel the pain of so many deaths, and so much suffering. There are times of anger, and of anxiety, alongside truly moving moments filled with hope and inspiration and connection (including the nights we've clapped for the NHS and keyworkers)… and more prosaic concerns, which, less than a month ago, were not concerns at all.
Yesterday, my colleagues and I held our final Zoom meeting before Easter. We shared the many ways in which we are able to keep hope alive during this pandemic, having begun with a prayer based on this translation of 1 Cor 13.7 - Love is always ready to hope and to endure whatever comes. This love-grounded hope and endurance are what I read in Etty's words, despite the evil and death surrounding her: and now, for us, there is so much which can give us all hope, in the love and compassion and selflessness which shine forth, in this ravaged and wounded world, as so many lights in darkness.
We've come to the end of this utterly extraordinary Lent, knowing that Easter, too, will be extraordinary, in ways we probably cannot yet imagine. I know that my awareness of Lent - or rather, of Easter's eventuality - along with all the signs of spring and new life, have enabled me to keep hope alive, as we all await a longed-for Resurrection. May the love we give and receive keep us full of hope, able to endure whatever comes...
I now realise, God, how much You have given me. So much that was beautiful and so much that was hard to bear. Yet whenever I showed myself ready to bear it, the hard was directly transformed into the beautiful. And the beautiful was sometimes much harder to bear, so overpowering did it seem. To think that one small human heart can experience so much, oh God, so much suffering and so much love, I am so grateful to You, God, for having chosen my heart, in these times, to experience all the things it has experienced.I am not sure I can quite echo her poetic radiance and her gratitude, but within her words I can find something of how I have been living these days - and, judging by conversations and my social media feeds, how so many others are too. My days have become a mixture of highs and lows - of small, simple joys and beauties, and sad, aching news. I can delight in trees frothing with blossom, in spring flowers and greening, and gaze in awe at Venus and our lovely full moon, even as I feel the pain of so many deaths, and so much suffering. There are times of anger, and of anxiety, alongside truly moving moments filled with hope and inspiration and connection (including the nights we've clapped for the NHS and keyworkers)… and more prosaic concerns, which, less than a month ago, were not concerns at all.
Yesterday, my colleagues and I held our final Zoom meeting before Easter. We shared the many ways in which we are able to keep hope alive during this pandemic, having begun with a prayer based on this translation of 1 Cor 13.7 - Love is always ready to hope and to endure whatever comes. This love-grounded hope and endurance are what I read in Etty's words, despite the evil and death surrounding her: and now, for us, there is so much which can give us all hope, in the love and compassion and selflessness which shine forth, in this ravaged and wounded world, as so many lights in darkness.
We've come to the end of this utterly extraordinary Lent, knowing that Easter, too, will be extraordinary, in ways we probably cannot yet imagine. I know that my awareness of Lent - or rather, of Easter's eventuality - along with all the signs of spring and new life, have enabled me to keep hope alive, as we all await a longed-for Resurrection. May the love we give and receive keep us full of hope, able to endure whatever comes...
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