The nineteenth century French poet Paul Verlaine fairly early on in his career penned a brief example of said art entitled Chanson d’Automne which translates more or less into Song of (or for) Autumn. A literal translation of the poem reads as thus:
The long sobs
Of the violins
Of autumn
Wound my heart
With a languor
Monotonous.All suffocating
And pale when
The hour strikes
I remember
The old days
And weepAnd I go away
In the ill wind
that carries me off
This side and beyond
Like the
Dead leaf.
Cheery little ditty, what say?
Life isn’t all lollipop dreams in a cotton candy sky. There are miserable times through which we all pass. While we’ve all heard Psalm 23 so many times it’s in danger of becoming a cliché, the words “though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death” should never be glossed over. We have faced, are facing, and will face heartache on a scale unimaginable beforehand. Such is the price of being human.
It must be noted the poem has another meaning entirely unrelated to its content. “Wound my heart with a languor monotonous” was the code phrase used by the Allies in World War Two to let the French Resistance know that D-Day was at hand. It is somewhat ironic that such a melancholy line was a signal that liberation and freedom were here. Nevertheless there it was.
One of faith’s elements found puzzling by those who sadly have never tasted the sweet wine of a relationship with Christ is how the believer can endure sometimes unspeakable hardship and horror, yet remain steadfast in thought, deed and word that there is a loving God. The natural tendency is to see the wounds and think a loving God would never permit His children to suffer in such a fashion. Yet it is this selfsame suffering that brings the believer closer to God rather than drive them away.
The heart that knows Christ has the ability, no matter the obstacles placed in its way by others and self, to see eternity. Fully understand, no. Now we see through a glass darkly, as Paul wrote to the church at Corinth. But we still see.
The heart that knows Christ, throughout its time on this planet, comes to accept how suffering is not only unavoidable but vital for growth. Like it? No. Need it? Yes. We need it for understanding of both self and others.
When one understands we live in a world where humanity is both possessor of free will and by dint of its imperfection not only separated from God but also inclined toward doing evil, the question of why are there times of sorrow is answered. It comes with life. How we respond, though, is of utmost importance.
Only those who have been through the fire can speak with authority to those still engulfed in flames. Be it depression’s mind-sapping bitter brew or physical pain or illness’ screaming harpy digging its claws in deep, be it financial woes leaving one to wonder where the next meal is coming from and will there be a roof over their head come the morn, be it the unheard goodbye spoken to the departed or the devastation wreaked by the living having broken your heart; these and so many other sorrows are the fire. We have passed, are passing and will pass through one or more tongues of this flame. From them we are purified. With them as our backdrop we can extend the open hand to others, doing the work we are asked to do by the One with nail-pierced hands. We can comfort. We can encourage. We can love.
Just as Verlaine’s verse expresses gloomy fatalism yet was the password to joy, so too are our trials. Do not demean your pain, for it is quite real. Yet at the same time bear in mind how the pain moves you toward Christ Who in turn moves you toward others feeling the same pain. We can bring them hope and healing even as others bring us hope and healing learned by passing through the fire.
Now that’s poetry.
