The Unexpected Gift

The Uses of Sorrow 

by Mary Oliver

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand

that this, too, was a gift.

It's a bit past 7 a.m. this Friday morning and here I am, staring blankly at my brightly lit computer screen, hoping that the fluorescent panel will satiate my need for actual sunlight. Humidity trapped in my bedroom causes water droplets to arrange themselves playfully in a thin layer across my glass window. It's raining from the inside today. That must mean it's time to cue my dehumidifier--the large and fairly awkward, box-like contraption that draws water from the air. This apartment is my first experience in needing a dehumidifier. I guess some places are better at circulating the moisture, while this apartment likes to trap it and keep it inside.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I've been questioning what it is that I'm thankful for. The holiday itself elicits mixed emotions for me. I recall learning the "history" of how the Native Americans helped the Pilgrims by supplying them with corn and other food crops during the winter, when the Pilgrims had first arrived in America. The story gets fuzzy after that...perhaps the Native Americans invited the Pilgrims over to their place and had a really big turkey dinner, complete with mashed potatoes, candied yams, hot rolls and pumpkin pie. Or, was it just a simple meal of corn and vegetables with little meat involved? To take it even further, maybe the Native Americans weren't really given a choice in having to share their food with the Pilgrims. I digress. As I get older, the details are harder to grasp and understand in context. But the idea of Thanksgiving remains. And instead of focusing on what this "holiday" might mean to the average American, I'd like to instead contemplate words I've read somewhere about 'being a person of thanks' and 'sacrificing thank offerings'. Those words and ideas make sense--at least when things are going well.

I was given this poem by Mary Oliver from a friend Tuesday evening. She read it aloud to my group in our meeting, tears grazing her face. Her words struck a cord deep within me. It resonated with all the women in attendance. Each of the ladies had been transparent that night in sharing our struggles, or in carrying the burdens of others. As Oliver writes, "Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift." The timing of this poem was perfect. It coincides with my list of what I'm thankful for.

I'm thankful for the countless ways that God shows me that He's real. I'm thankful for my incredible husband, my family, my friends, my community group, my work in a field that I love, my quirky spirit, my love for all things creative, my baker's hands. I'm also thankful for my past, for the experiences that have allowed me to seek God from a place of desperation. I'm thankful for the gift of sorrow. I'm thankful because it reminds me that I am not crafted for a world where there is darkness and despair. I have hope for something Greater, which perhaps in feeling sorrow, I can better understand and cling to--because my heart is not rooted in this world. My story doesn't end in pain. 

It's ironic that during the holiday season, I feel a greater awareness of the desperation of others. Frenetic shopping, decadent meals, gifts that won't really satisfy. It's an odd reality, the world we live in. But as I re-read Mary Oliver's poem, I'm encouraged. Her words are paradoxical, because who would want to receive the gift of darkness? And who would think it fair to share that gift with someone else? How can pain be a blessing? I don't have the answer to that question for anyone else but me. It is a gift that I received long ago and sometimes find myself re-opening. It's a painful process, but one that becomes more hopeful as I share it with others.