You know that feeling when emotions are running high and you can feel your spirit being tugged in multiple directions at the same time? Joy, sorrow, anticipation, fear, and awe—all mixed into one. Color. Truth. Death. Life. Stories. Birth. Opportunities. Fruit. Plants. Trash. Songs. Words. Prayer . . . I’m trying to hash it out. To see where it leads; to see what lessons I’ll learn. This is oddly placed, but all these jumbled thoughts coincide (providentially?) with the end of Harry Potter, so I think this might help: It’s a quote from a Relevant magazine, speaking about the end of a fictional story (Harry Potter) that had the power to tug heart-strings and captivate fans,
". . . But his [Harry's] death [and life] does what any great Christian art ought to: Using a profound story, it provides a singular glimpse into the Christian story that can both deepen and widen our experience of faith."
I, for sure, have questions that yearn for answers; physical needs that need to be met; ideas and thoughts and dreams that I don’t want to see quenched. I desire immediacy! But at the same time relish the Story. Oh the frustration of conundrums!
On Monday night some friends and I went to go see Harry Potter 7.2. The film was successfully dramatic; the score, breath-taking; the suspense, immense. But when it was over I felt a little bare, maybe empty is the right word. It is similar to the feeling I get when I accidentally leave my ring on the kitchen counter instead of on my finger, where it belongs. I spent all of today at work trying to figure this feeling out.
And I think it can be boiled down to the same reason I enjoy/must/feel obligated to sit through the entire credits at the end of a film. My friends often think I’m crazy. And I am sure I can see the theater cleaners out of the corner of my eye with their brooms at the ready. But you see, I take joy in seeing the hearts, hands and minds behind the scenes. The art that I just watched didn’t appear out of thin air. Big dreams, deep concentration, and long, hard hours were poured into its creation. Pieces had to be fit together, teams forged, trust and sight balanced until the work was completed.
The credits of a film are not glamorous; they do not often exhibit special effects nor the stars’ shining faces. But they do tell a story. And on days like today, it feels like that story is more fulfilling than the one they worked so hard to create. I find joy in the process. The act of creating—shaping characters, building places, forming themes, revealing secrets, offering promises.
The process. That is what I find so compelling. It is precisely why everyone loves a good story. The beginning might be haunting; the ending, heroic, but what is in the middle is what counts. It teaches us to have faith/patience/trust. Anticipation runs like a fever, but the story can only be told as quickly as it is created, as each page is turned and each new chapter begun.
Some of my favorite writers encourage the living of a “better story.” Such wise advice! But so often we are only concerned with the starts and the finishes. No one hopes for or expects “40 years in the desert,” yet those are often the times we glean from the most. So next time you finish a good book or thrilling film, take a second to step back and think about the process—the brilliance of creative wisdom, but most importantly the loving mercy of our Creator who gave us a True Story against which all others will be measured.
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