Forlorn

We visited the lake where Virgil drove off the road. His car sank into the deep—a superb setting for a novel—as Lake Superior is the deepest of the Great Lakes. And because the lake resembles the sea, it’s a superb setting for a family vacation. This post is not about the vacation, but rather about lamenting, as you’ll soon read.

For me, Virgil Wander first portrayed this mysterious “sea” with famed shipwrecks, islands, and lighthouses. For my family, the idea of driving past Minnesota, into Canada, intrigued. We’d see the “sea” before winter shrouded the lake with fog and snow, then cross the Canadian border just past Grand Portage.

There’s an eerie pause between autumn and winter. When most trees have shed their last leaves, a chill in the air stings at your fingers. My view of the lake was intermingled with joy and the uncomfortable. A shore of rocks outlines the rugged sea, and you can’t imagine walking barefoot or enjoying the water. It’s not that I lamented over this, rather, I’m lamenting now.

Standing beside Lake Superior, or standing in my backyard, mid-November, presents a picture of the forlorn. When I lived in California, I never paused to notice that moment when fall became winter. Now, with age and months of subzero temps ahead, the Midwest landscape mirrors a melancholy. I’m reminded of the passing of time. Gardens wither, cars rust, sidewalks crumble, and my face carries more lines than last year.

As a storyteller, I seek stories to tie up neatly for a reader’s benefit and enjoyment, yet at times, lament is necessary. Silver linings can eclipse lament, and what if lament—feeling forlorn—ushers in a better view?

There are Psalms that end without resolution. Loss and disappointment characterize life this side of heaven. Might lament cause people to pause and prepare? Maybe tears, maybe repentance, maybe gratitude can then follow. The uncomfortable exists alongside unshakable joy, for lamenting reminds you there’s a larger narrative taking place. Which ushers in a better view for your December.

Advent presents a storyline, not of silver linings, but of the immovable God: The Father, good and faithful, the Son, Jesus, “God with us,” * perfect and personal, the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, who accompanies you in the lamenting. God’s story “is the story that makes sense of all our stories” (Jared Wilson says in The Storied Life), even as you stand on a rocky shore and the wind stings your fingers. You can rehearse the creation-fall-redemption-restoration story-arc in which God, the divine author, sends Jesus to overthrow foes, to assure victory.

As winter lurks: lament, reflect. Advent approaches.

I wrote this short poem to help further the weight of the forlorn as you prepare for December and for Advent.

“Poem of Lament”

Autumn’s end declares an abyss,

Where sunlight and warmth appear dismissed.

Hope dissolves, fervor listless,

Creation decries winter’s lengthiness.

Frost and chill and silence descend.

Creatures, plants, deplete and bend.

As if to die or summon rest,

The earth depicts a pause, a stretch.

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*". . . and they shall call his name Immanuel (which means, God with us)." Matthew 1:23, ESV