Henri Nouwen's most recent book, The Life of the Beloved, is written in the form of a personal letter to a friend. Elaine V. Emeth, who was a spiritual director and co-author of The Wholeness Handbook (Continuum, 1991) at the time of this article, responded to his book in a like manner.
-The Editors
Dear Henri Nouwen,
I want to tell you what your new book, The Life of the Beloved, has meant to me. The manuscript came into my hands at a synchronistic moment: The healing ministry at my church planned to use it as the basis of our annual retreat, and a dear friend of our family died during the week I received and read it. Your book touches my heart in many ways, but I want to respond to three specific areas: being given in death, freedom, and suffering.
When our friend Timer died after a life of energetic community service and commitment to representing those who cannot represent themselves--voiceless people and "the rivers, the creeks, and the critters" of the state of Florida--I felt an unexplainable joy that eclipsed my sense of loss. I thought, "Way to go, Timer!" He exemplified for me the way to live and the way to die.
The last years of his life had been marked by a heroic battle with cancer; the last several months he walked in the shadow of death, knowing that he was vulnerable to a sudden bleeding episode that could end his life in minutes. Yet he lived every day just as he always had: fully, gratefully, faithfully, and busily. To him, cancer was just a fact of his life, an interruption and an inconvenience sometimes, but he had work to do, people to get to know, dreams to fulfill, and he actively pursued them until just a few days before he died.
What you wrote about being given in life and death helped me to understand my joy in the face of Timer's death. He had fought the good fight, run the race, and given himself completely in life. In its own timing, his body gave its last breath, its last heartbeat, as each of our bodies must. Death may have taken his body, but he is still with us, still giving himself to us, in the creeks and the critters of Florida, in the work he accomplished, in the family he began, and in the dreams he shared.
This is not to romanticize death--frankly, I hate it. Death is precisely the point where I am confronted with who is God (God) and who is not (me). But I know that death does not have the final word. We survivors claim Timer's eternal life and gradually live into the new intimacy of relationship changed by death. Thank you, Henri, for articulating the possibility of giving one's self in life and in death. Thank you, Timer, for living it; we are so blessed.
The second topic area that is particularly meaningful to me at this time is the freedom to love and to be loved. I did not realize that I had a habit of telling God exactly how I want my needs met until I stopped doing it for the weekend of our healing ministry retreat. Since I was going with people I already knew and liked, I looked forward to a "fun" weekend, one that would be incidentally "spiritual." In preparation, I prayed that I might be able to let go of all expectations and simply be able to give and to receive love as opportunities came along. I had no idea how that little prayer would change my weekend and my life since then.
The open-heartedness I was given completely changed my perception of my kindred retreatants, some of whom I had known for years, but who suddenly seemed like angelic, radiant beings. I had stumbled into a new level of intimacy and grace. Being called God's "beloved" awakened a throbbing hunger in my heart. I took risks in self-revelation and was willing to allow myself to be cradled in the prayers of others and to receive their blessings.
When my prayers and presence matched another's need, giving was as natural and effortless as breathing. Every person, every element of our retreat, from our service of Holy Communion under a tree full of singing birds, through the green rolling hills, the starry skies and fireflies, scripture, smiles and tears, touch, music, and personal blessings, echoed the healing words, "You are my Beloved." These words sank deep into the aching void in my soul. Had this been available all along? How had I missed it before?
Apparently, God's plan for me is simpler and better than what I struggle to create for myself. Yet open-heartedness is a surprisingly hard discipline, requiring me to let go of my own agenda and simply to receive what is given. What comes often feels too penetrating, too poignant, too holy for me to bear. It is tempting either to grasp for love on my own terms, or to put limits on love when it threatens to overwhelm any part of myself that feels unlovable. I pray for the ongoing grace to avoid placing my own conditions on unconditional love.
The third topic I want to respond to is the subject of suffering. In one place you write that we should enjoy the good things in life as affirmations of our belovedness. In another place you write that brokenness must not be interpreted as a sign that we are cursed, but it needs to be placed under blessing. If brokenness is, as you say, "the joy of being disciplined, purified, and pruned," then some of us need more detail about the steps from anguish to peace-in-the-midst-of-suffering.
When I see people live in spirit-grinding poverty and physical, educational, and spiritual starvation; when I am a companion to people who grope through the dark corridors of healing childhood trauma; when I count among my friends people who experience violence, mental illness, chronic pain, disability, discrimination, loss, or any other "purifying" experience, all I can say is, "Spare me from the 'joy' of being disciplined, purified, and pruned." We need more specific insight into this process of finding the blessing within pain. It is not comforting to be told that we are beloved while we feel we are being pruned with blunt instruments.
This blessing-in-brokenness of which you write is undoubtedly the meaning of redemption. It does not mean that the original injustice or trauma is OK, but that God can transform anything into blessing. The pruning metaphor works for me only if I think of God as a gardener who grieves while watching a violent storm rip through his prized garden. Afterward, the gardener tenderly prunes his injured plants in order to guarantee survival and to restore beauty and harmony. I hope that someday you will write more about suffering and discernment between that which diminishes life and that which heals.
May I conclude with a blessing? Blessed are you, Henri Nouwen, beloved child of God, trailblazer on the inner journey. Blessed are we who are touched by God's love through your written word. God rejoices over you and hugs you in strong, loving arms. May you experience your belovedness as deep-rooted and unshakable.
With gratitude,
Elaine V. Emeth
The Life of the Beloved. By Henri J.M. Nouwen. The Crossroad Publishing Co., 1992.
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