The next day was Easter. We went to a church that my family goes to in Dallas. I sat down in my seat feeling tired on all levels. That Mushy Brain thing has persisted, and I can't even seem to remember to bring Douglas' "snack cup" on outings - this cup is his BFF that he loves with all his heart, and he likes to have it in his hands basically full-time. (He's like his mama...one of my long-time nicknames from Micah is "Snacky").
I had resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be one of those Easters where the spiritual meaning of the holiday is totally lost on me, where I am so busy or distracted with other things that I go through the entire month/week/day of this season without tuning in to any deeper meaning or celebration. And I was ok with this. I felt no false guilt about it nor any need to try to force it.
So I sat down in this behemoth church in Dallas and expected nothing from it - and that was ok with me. The service started with the lights out, beautiful candlelight, and the boistrous voice of a woman reading scripture. Then they turned the lights on and the entire choir started singing the Hallelujah Chorus. I love this song - it gives me goosebumps every single time I hear it. I sang it in choir in highschool and loved every minute of it.
I have never in my life heard the Hallelujah Chorus on Easter. I have no idea why. It's not like it's just a Christmas song. All I know is, it completely rocked my world. In an instant I was reduced to a puddle of tears. I was a hot mess. And these were not the nice, tear-filled-eyes kind of tears. I'm talkin' snot dripping, tears streaming, sobs rising kind of crying where you really aren't sure if you're going to be able to stop yourself from pretty much wailing and making a big scene. (I did make a small scene, btw, but not a big one).
I cried through the whole thing. And through a few more songs. I have cried a lot of times in my life, though I'm not the classic "Cryer." But I have only cried this kind of cry two times in my life, and both of them have been in this second adoption process. The cry I'm talking about is one where I don't feel sadness at all, and yet it's different than the Happy Tears I've had before. There is a heaviness and a mourning, but not sadness. There is a hope and a joy, but not happiness. And there is very little thinking that goes on when I have "these" cries. It's apart from my humanity, from my mind - it is totally in the realm of my soul and spirit. It's a really strange feeling...and amazing.
I had Nicole in mind as I cried. I wasn't thinking about details or about certain things about her, I just had her in my heart as the tears spilled over. Her loneliness, her grief, her fear, her youth, her pain, her hopelessness. And, at the same time, her hope, her faith, her perserverence, her courage, her bravery.
I have cried for a lot of reasons in my life - most often when I experience pain or when others around me do. But, again, this time it felt so different. The Hallelujah Chorus is a song of such celebration - I would even say it's one of the ultimate songs of joy and celebration and triumph and victory. In the context of that beautiful, amazing song, it was like my heart just opened up and cried out for Nicole.
I think this might be the difference between sympathy and compassion. Sympathy is what I've felt countless times throughout my life for other people. But compassion is different. And I think in that moment my heart opened up to compassion. It was this raw outpouring of emotion that was totally separate from my mind. My mind had nothing to do with it, nor was it even thinking much at all at the time. But somehow I knew what I was crying about. Not happy or sad tears, just tears that represent raw emotion. I've always thought tears had to be one or the other, but these felt birthed from both.
In my mind, I feel sympathy for Nicole - sorry for her. For her lot in life so far, for her pain, for her situation. In my mind I also feel threatened by her - whether she will stick with her decision or change her mind and thus cause us much pain.
But in my heart, at that moment, I learned that I feel compassion for her. It almost felt like I was crying on her behalf - crying out to God to give her peace and hope and comfort. Starting the service with the Hallelujah Chorus gave it such a joyful, hopeful feel. In that moment, basking in the reality of history's most amazing display of hope in the midst of darkness, I longed for her to feel true hope. The breathtakingly beautiful truth is that, in spite of and in the midst of all her pain, there is so much hope for her. There is always, always hope.
I want her to know that Jesus loves her so incredibly much, and that He will never, ever leave her - that she is never alone. These are the same things that we have always wanted Douglas and our future children to know, even when they are far away, in another woman's belly.
It was a very emotional hour for me. It is hard to describe because it was such a spiritual experience, not a literal one. It felt like an opening of my heart. A very raw, very real moment where it felt like my chest opened and my heart wept with hope and sorrow at the same time for this child who has a child in her belly. I guess that's what compassion feels like. It is intense.
And these couple times when I've felt this way, the experience is totally separate from my own human power or will - they happen completely in spite of me. Maybe being where I'm at right now in this process - vulnerable, exposed, mushy-brained, powerless - has its perks. Though I felt completely worn out after this experience, I somehow also felt lighter, more connected to reality, and full of peace and hope - the very things that I pray God will fill Nicole with.
Easter is about hope and victory over darkness. Somehow, that reality has taken on another dimension for me after having those moments where I was fully present to this pain and fear and loneliness that exists and yet filled with and surrounded by all the joy and hope and celebration of Life conquering death.
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