Glory Be

And Other Jokes

In The Magician’s Nephew there is this little scene after an exuberant jackdaw embarrasses himself in front of a crowd of new-made creatures:

“Aslan! Aslan! Have I made the first joke? Will everybody always be told how I made the first joke?”

“No little friend,” said the Lion. “You have not made the first joke; you have only been the first joke.” Then everyone laughed more than ever; but the Jackdaw didn’t mind and laughed just as loud…

What a glory, creatureliness! Not to make, but to be.

The crowning glory of every Habit retreat is when writers stand up to read their work. Fifty of us gather for a weekend of shared food and word at North Wind Manor, where we comprise a room primed to receive one another’s poems and songs, novels and short stories, essays and memoir pieces. I’ve been to 7 of 8 retreats, and I did not intend to read anything this time. I’d settled on applauding from the audience when an email dropped into my inbox saying three more liturgies were needed.

The last time I took the stage (holiday karaoke aside) was to read my part at another Habit event in Colorado. There Elizabeth and I read our serial correspondence inspired by The Habit of Being. It felt natural and fun to read letters back and forth, though we were both a bundle of nerves behind the podium. When the timer jingled a minute into our performance, peals of laughter punched the ceiling and caught us up too. We did not make the joke; we were the joke.

A week before this winter’s retreat I dashed off a prayer. As soon as I’d sent it, regret sucked at my heels. (A familiar feeling follows every single substack post, by the way.) But my prayer was needed, and duty trumps all for a firstborn. I laughed when I was assigned to pray over breakfast. I know the Divine Wink when I see it! Saturday’s tradition is a steaming spread of steel-cut oats with all the fixings. I like to call it porridge, Old World style, or as Margaret Wise Brown would have it, “a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush.” My grandma often made a big pot on the farmhouse stove, so, to me, oatmeal tastes like love and home.

Fireplace aflicker, quilts folded over chairs, morning kissing us with fresh light, I stumbled through my porridge prayer there at the table. I prayed for blind stumblers and I praised the faithful presence who is himself, Christ. Afterward we talked about what it means to glorify God as writers. When the podcast guest Becca Jordan spoke of glory, she said it quite often comes through failure. You know, like death on a cross.

Recently mine appears that way. Brett recovers from retina surgery. Elanor soldiers through her semester. Our unemployment checks run out next month, but we’ve managed to squirrel some away as we press on past barred gates and doors slammed shut. Vision loss and academic probation weigh heavily on me. Doesn’t my daughter’s standing reflect on me, her teacher? Don’t I need to put down my pen and pick up literally anything else when no employer wants my husband? Pride’s ultimatums presume the future rests solely on my shoulders. Blame bends inward, distorted and self-absorbed. Knee-deep in a swamp, I stumble blindly. Meaning can only take shape at a distance, and I’m too close, stuck in the scarcity of a moment that feels years long. But here, belly-up at the bottom, I have to admit the gift of each rejection. Every closed door narrows the way. Maybe the unlooked-for calling is to take the road less traveled by, to learn the secret of little-or-much. Jesus didn’t have a job for a few years either.

None of us want our glory to be obedience unto death, not even the death of a dream. But desires become idols if we cannot loosen our grip. There may be better things than a scholarship, a job offer, even a regular writing rhythm, if we dare believe it. Tempted as we are to measure ourselves by GPA or income level or substack following, those are merely things we make, not who we are. We are creatures, holy and beloved.¹ Provided for. Accompanied in suffering. Justly hilarious bunglers and drawlers and porridge prayer pray-ers. We are made for glory. Our glory is to be.

1. Colossians 3:12