tidings of discomfort and joy

My mother's chicken soup can raise the dead. She chooses not to advertise that, and I can't say we have completed any successful double blind studies, but I will claim it still. And if not the body, certainly the soul of anyone who tastes it experiences some type of resurrection. Mom started making this soup when I was very small and intolerant of most foods. On my worst of belly days, even ice chips and broth refused to cooperate. When the waves of nausea calmed down and the contents inside stopped trying to get out, my belly would feel like an echoing cavern. Anyone with a good bout of the stomach flu can attest, after the worst of it has passed, you experience a hunger that feels almost animalistic. Appetite says that something specific sounds good, a bag of chips, a pint of Ben & Jerry's, an entire block of cheese, but gut emptied hunger is different. The luxury of picky has passed, and every commercial for every food that would normally skim under the radar comes alive. You could swear that your TV has smell-o-vision. If this hunger is an extenuating circumstance where you are not allowed to have food for a long period of time, you may even resort to watching hours of Giada on Food Network or searching for recipes on Pinterest to get some sort of psycho-caloric satisfaction. Real hunger wakes you up. The deep hunger that is born from a prolonged time of fasting creates a unique gift, the first bite experience. Much like seeing your first snow, or feeling the magic of a first kiss, the first bite experience is a state of heightened awareness, a freezing of time. Your tongue has lapsed into flavor amnesia, and swears that this bite of food is the only bite of food it has ever encountered. You may plan very carefully what you choose to eat for this food reunion, or you may step cautiously back into the land of the digesting with a few saltines. What's crazy is it doesn't matter. Whether a juicy steak or just some pitiful refrigerated pre-made turkey sandwich from the hospital cafeteria (real life), breaking a fast is a glorious, visceral experience. Most of my times without food were welcomed warmly by my mother's soup. I am not sure how many simmering pots of affection she has made for me over the years, but each one spoke love and healing to my hungry body. As high of an honor as this chicken elixir holds in my heart, today as I get to enjoy another bowl I find myself thinking more on the hunger than the cure. Last night when mom dropped off my portion of the pot, I was looking forward to it, but my appetite had already landed on a certain salad from a certain place, so in addition to the soup I had that as well. After both, I still felt a little hungry for something else, and landed on my go-to love for lunchmeat. Yesterday, I wasn't the one who was sick and in need of the soup, but I got a bonus bowl because good mommas can't help but feed their chicks. The soup was the same recipe that has made the clouds part and angels sing in the past, but I was too full to fully savor it. Full from the Chinese food I had for lunch with my cousin, full of intentions to seek out that salad I was hung up on, and even full of the distraction of making to-do lists for the coming week as I sat down to eat it. The measure of comfort that soup brings me is tied up and tangled with how much I need it at the time. The hungrier I feel, the richer it tastes. 

And so it is in life. These times when I have received the most love, comfort, seen the most kindness in others and found it all to be so satisfying are in the spaces where I feel the most lack. In the discomfort, we give people the room to offer us what they have. Our dissatisfaction and emptiness gives us eyes to see what will truly fill. 

Being aware of what is not right makes what is right much sweeter, much brighter. Like driving out the miles to a secluded spot lets your eyes see the stars in a way that street lights just won’t allow, suffering is a dark road that lends itself to some stunning scenery. Discomfort is a doorway to joy. Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted. It is in the grief over what hurts and what is not how it should be that we are given the space to really recognize goodness when it shows its face. This season of cheer can place those in a time of suffering in the awkward position of trying to pretend everything is fine. We mistakingly trade the depth of celebration for the veneer of having it all together and looking happy to be doing it. This is a great loss. Historically, advent is a season of tension. We hold our breath because what we see in front of us and what has been promised feels incongruent, unfulfilled. Advent can only culminate into a big beautiful celebration because we know what it is to wait and to grieve. Advent is truly a time of hunger, but because of the space we find ourselves, we don't have to feel the hunger if we don't want to. Small deposits can fill a shallow place, and many people who spend their lives avoiding deep pain end up missing out on deep joy. If this December you find yourself grieving what feels empty or off, give thanks. The deeper the trenches, the more they can hold. You are digging wells, my friend. Don't try to cover it up with more stuff or a busier schedule or a Venti mocha. Stay hungry for a while. Let it wake you up and remind you of what truly fills. Your pain is not an obstacle to joy this Christmas season, it may be the dark road to it.