Time Travel with Eleanor Rigby
It's quiet in my house and my coffee is black. Water is spreading the colors across the surface of a canvas, free from everything except the laws of gravity. Free to blend and spill over the edge in tiny waterfalls of blue and honeycomb. An Eleanor Rigby cover comes on my station. It's so good.
I am instantly transported to an old college classroom where glass doors are fogged from the clash of AC and humidity. Sidewalks are lined with Florida stinkbugs. We thought the world would be amazing, that everything could be as easy as following the illuminated path to the glory of our futures. Back then we only saw black and white. We couldn't understand that everything was a complicated and beautiful shade of grey.
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice
In the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face
That she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
He handed us each a copy of the lyrics to Eleanor Rigby, by the Beatles. We were so perplexed and blissfully young. We barely understood that it was poetry. He asked us to study each line and look for the truth. We had no idea that we were the luckiest English majors on the planet. He dared us to consider that Eleanor Rigby was a work of art.
At the time, I thought it might be impossible to extract hope from these lines of depressing of verse. Today I hear it in every last syllable.
My parents came from complicated homes. They carried a deep brokenness into marriage and parenthood. The church culture taught to forget themselves and be holy. So they kept their mouths shut as the festering wounds of depression and insecurity screamed out in pain. Instead of being a safe haven for the weary and wounded, failure and brokenness were shameful. They passed out masks and collectively decided they were the truth. The answer was more activities and to shout louder declarations.
We watched many fragile kingdoms implode, crumbling into dust at our feet and we craved honesty and authenticity. In the ruins, we wondered if knowing ourselves was the brave act of reaching for God. Could the complex minds God gave us be the very tool we needed to navigate our humanity? Would it be possible that by understanding our motivations and decoding our pain, God would begin to repair our wounds? Why were problems only addressed when it was too late? How else could we go forward in this troubled world?
We decided to burn the masks. Shame would not be our suffocating end. Sadness and doubt could exist in profound faith. Perfection was a lie. We asked God if he was big enough to handle our questions and he said, "Yes, little ones, look at stars. You are small and precious to me. I have planted a tiny piece of that light in you. Do you see it too?"
I read stories with my kids, dramatic tales about characters who are lost and alone. Proud China rabbits who travel the world to discover love only at the cost of heartbreak. Brave mice fighting for honor. In these books, our characters find friends in unusual places and learn to look past the surface and see the brokenness. They recognize the ache in the melancholy, a beautiful sadness. We don't deny the existence of darkness. Instead, we prepare and learn how to look for the light.
Listening to Eleanor Rigby in a quiet house, I remembered a professor who placed song lyrics on our desks and invited us to consider the pain of the world once a day. He saw our rose-colored goggles and asked us to set them aside. Our eyes adjusted. We watched terrible things happen and in time found that we were always enfolded in grace.
Eleanor Rigby, how she continues to hope, after all this time.
Father McKenzie, how he loves, even when he receives nothing back.
And all those lonely people, everywhere.
Is this not the gospel?
We are beautiful, because we know brokenness, like stained glass windows, made up of many colors and jagged shapes smashed into pieces, so radiant in the light.
I am instantly transported to an old college classroom where glass doors are fogged from the clash of AC and humidity. Sidewalks are lined with Florida stinkbugs. We thought the world would be amazing, that everything could be as easy as following the illuminated path to the glory of our futures. Back then we only saw black and white. We couldn't understand that everything was a complicated and beautiful shade of grey.
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice
In the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face
That she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
He handed us each a copy of the lyrics to Eleanor Rigby, by the Beatles. We were so perplexed and blissfully young. We barely understood that it was poetry. He asked us to study each line and look for the truth. We had no idea that we were the luckiest English majors on the planet. He dared us to consider that Eleanor Rigby was a work of art.
Father McKenzie, writing the words
Of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him working, darning his socks
In the night when there's nobody there
What does he care
Of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him working, darning his socks
In the night when there's nobody there
What does he care
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Ah look at all the lonely people
Ah, look…
Ah, look…
My parents came from complicated homes. They carried a deep brokenness into marriage and parenthood. The church culture taught to forget themselves and be holy. So they kept their mouths shut as the festering wounds of depression and insecurity screamed out in pain. Instead of being a safe haven for the weary and wounded, failure and brokenness were shameful. They passed out masks and collectively decided they were the truth. The answer was more activities and to shout louder declarations.
We watched many fragile kingdoms implode, crumbling into dust at our feet and we craved honesty and authenticity. In the ruins, we wondered if knowing ourselves was the brave act of reaching for God. Could the complex minds God gave us be the very tool we needed to navigate our humanity? Would it be possible that by understanding our motivations and decoding our pain, God would begin to repair our wounds? Why were problems only addressed when it was too late? How else could we go forward in this troubled world?
We decided to burn the masks. Shame would not be our suffocating end. Sadness and doubt could exist in profound faith. Perfection was a lie. We asked God if he was big enough to handle our questions and he said, "Yes, little ones, look at stars. You are small and precious to me. I have planted a tiny piece of that light in you. Do you see it too?"
I read stories with my kids, dramatic tales about characters who are lost and alone. Proud China rabbits who travel the world to discover love only at the cost of heartbreak. Brave mice fighting for honor. In these books, our characters find friends in unusual places and learn to look past the surface and see the brokenness. They recognize the ache in the melancholy, a beautiful sadness. We don't deny the existence of darkness. Instead, we prepare and learn how to look for the light.
Listening to Eleanor Rigby in a quiet house, I remembered a professor who placed song lyrics on our desks and invited us to consider the pain of the world once a day. He saw our rose-colored goggles and asked us to set them aside. Our eyes adjusted. We watched terrible things happen and in time found that we were always enfolded in grace.
Eleanor Rigby, how she continues to hope, after all this time.
Father McKenzie, how he loves, even when he receives nothing back.
And all those lonely people, everywhere.
Is this not the gospel?
We are beautiful, because we know brokenness, like stained glass windows, made up of many colors and jagged shapes smashed into pieces, so radiant in the light.
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