Lost together.

“SUPPOSE, for the sake of argument, that a man were turned into a mackerel. His sentiments touching the change may not be a matter for urgent, but they cannot fail to be a matter for clarifying consideration. There are many things that he would lose by passing into the fishy state; such as the pleasure of being in the neighborhood of a Free Library, the pleasure of climbing the Alps, the pleasure of taking snuff, the pleasure of joining a heroic political minority, and also, I suppose and hope, the pleasure of having mackerel for breakfast.

But there is one pleasure which the man made mackerel would, I think, lose more completely and finally than any of these pleasures: I allude to the pleasure of sea-bathing. To dip his head in cold water would not be something sacred and startling; it would not be to have all stars in his eyes and all song in his ears. For the sea-creature knows nothing of the sea, just as the earth-creature knows nothing of the earth.

This forgetfulness of what we have is the real Fall of Man and the Fall of All Things. The evil which infects the immense goodness of existence does not embody itself in the fact that men are weary of woes and oppressions. It embodies itself in the shameful fact that they are often weary of joys and weary of generosities. Poetry, the highest form of literature, has here its immortal function; it is engaged continually in a desperate and divine battle against things being taken for granted. A fierce sense of the value of things lies at the heart, not merely of optimistic literature, but of much of the best literature which is called pessimistic. Assuredly it lies at the heart of tragedy; for if lives were not valuable tragedies would not be tragic. If life begins by taking things for granted, poetry answers by taking things away.

It may be that this is indeed the whole meaning of death; that heaven, knowing how we tire of our toys, forces us to hold this life on a frail and romantic tenure.”

~G.K. Chesterton

Funny, how it is often the people we love and cherish the most that cause us the most intense of pains, the hottest of frustrations, the deepest of griefs.

That day, for all the things that went wrong, one after another, on a day that was meant to be special, I was exasperated. Tossed like firedust into a cloud of smoke, I wanted to walk home, wanted to say the special-ness of what was meant to be was over, I was through with it. Angry and disappointed and full of spite, I wanted to call it a day.

It crushed you completely, to see how a much anticipated evening had dissolved into ash. I had burned at how incredulous I thought it was to have been told to wear heels for the special occasion, only to find us walking what seemed like miles in uncertainty, with me not knowing where we were heading, and you, not having planned ahead how to get there and us getting lost, again. I thought of the many jinxed dates we had had, with restaurants closed down (not once, but twice), movie tickets with the wrong timing, and now, getting lost to a dinner location, while dealing with the stress of having to get to an orchestra in time.

Yes, an orchestra. Because you have always been a gentleman and always wanted to bring me to watch something cultured- a play or a concert or an orchestra of some sort. Two days ago, a friend of yours had tickets to a wonderful orchestra performance at the esplanade, and what better way, you thought, to top up the evening for me with a romantic date at a restaurant?

But it was far away and we were lost and time was tight. You wanted me to be in heels because you thought it might add to the special-ness of the occasion. But little did you expect there to be so much walking, so much searching, so much stress. I was upset that it was a poorly-planned evening. I wanted to go home.

Tiffs. They happen all the time. Stress, fatigue and a thousand other inexplicable factors interact with one another to produce the unpredictability factor, which wins or kills one’s time together. While I thought I had every right to be angry, you too, thought you had tried your best. We were both hurt, disappointed and intensely frustrated with ourselves, and each other. I turned my back away and stormed off, but it was only when our eyes met that I realized how hard you had tried, how hard you always try. Things often seemed to have their way of working against us whenever you tried to plan something special.

But I forgot, you are a missionary. You have been in Singapore for less than a year and you don’t go to fancy places so you spent the whole afternoon trying to find a nice place online, not realizing that there were many decent places we could eat at nearby the esplanade. I forgot, you are a missionary so you don’t have a car to drive me around. I forgot, that I fell in love with you precisely because you are simple, unencumbered and genuine, but I also forgot, that as a haughty product of my high-maintenance, instant-gratification social milieu, I also was not prepared for the new stresses of having a fiancée who might be less familiar with the surroundings than I and who got around by train, bus and foot everywhere.

By then, we both wanted to go home. Even though we had both dressed up for the occasion. You even wore your dress shoes and contact lenses. Even though it was so rare to get tickets to an orchestra. Even though we had both been excited like two little children at Christmas- you, for finally having the chance to take me on what you thought was a “proper date” and I, for being taken on one. But it was when our eyes met and we both saw hurt in each other’s eyes that we stopped and turned back. We forsook our plans to head back home because we realized, that what we have, is temporary.

Temporary, because what we have now is but a glimpse to eternity. Temporary, because a moment of anger and spite and disappointment can possibly trade in a lifetime of faithful loving to the fire. Temporary, because at the end of the day, our time together is so short. Suddenly I remembered the transience of our lives, the fleeting-ness of yours, the price ours was bought with and the second chance you were given through your transplant, and I wanted to make it all better again.

It is scary when we begin to realize, that it is often what we take for granted that kills our joy. In the first place, neither of us deserved the joy of being with each other, and certainly, neither of us deserved those wonderful tickets. You had exclaimed when we first met up, “ You know, I’ve always dreamt of taking you to the orchestra, and look how God provided!”  You were so very excited. You are a missionary, these moments are precious. This moment of anger and disappointment was consequential, because it meant our joy together was shorter, briefer than it already is in the light of an eternity.

It is true. The mackerel no longer knows the joy of a refreshing splash in its face. And I often wonder, if our familiarity breeds in us a sense of the mundane, a chore-like dissonance in the symphony of our lives woven together. Why was I so upset? Why were you so saddened? And so you kissed me on the cheek over and over even though you were sad and said you love me, as if you needed to remind me of the constancy of your faithfulness in the face of trials, big or little ones.

A little drama and a little hardship, kicks the mackerel out of its comfort zone onto dry land, if only for a while. Remembrance, on the other hand, plops the struggling, gasping fish back into its home, giving it the opportunity to re-experience the refreshing taste of water, to exult in what was once taken for granted, to re-live gratitude, joy and awe.

So it is every time we make up. We had dinner at a small café nearby, and literally ran, I, barefoot, and you with your dress shoes to the orchestra. We made it just in time. It was a gorgeous performance. I have never enjoyed an orchestra that much. They were wonderful seats. And while we were both sad, we held hands still, knowing it was better to be in water and lost together, than to be on dry land gasping for the comfort of each other.

Remembrance, for the mackerel, ushers in the joy of being in water again. So I remembered the times you came to the hospital when I had finished my thirty-hour shift, once even with beautiful white and purple eustomias, one of my favorites; I remembered the times you picked your phone up to pray for me late in the night when I can’t sleep because of some fear, anxiety or stress I face; I remembered the everyday text messages you sent me to remind me of the consistency of your love.

Though we have not moved into our new place to stay together (we insist on living together only after marriage), we have been cooking together and packing and unpacking at our new place. I remembered how you always help with the dishes and clean up the mess of the kitchen after I cook for you, how you always clear the trash. I remembered how you helped me move my boxes over and even almost sprained your back carrying the dressing table. I remembered how amidst the stress of the wedding planning and shifting homes, you always find the opportunity to sneak in an “I love you” at the oddest of times.

And then I, like the mackerel, saw the beauty of being in water again.

What was so bad about lost, even again? Even in heels, even on a date, even at the risk of missing an orchestra? Perhaps this was all but training and trials we had to go through together in the rigors of the mission field in future. Perhaps this was all a lesson in submission, in grace, in realizing your masculinity and my respect and love for you was more important than us being lost. The old song “Lost together”, an old song you sent to me before while you were still trying to win my heart, came to mind.

“I am sad but I love you,” you said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “At least we are lost together.”

We laughed.

I am always hurting you. And you, me. But we make up quickly and stay together, we go through the tedium of talking things out and listening to each other’s rants, we look back and try to laugh about it because we’d rather the quick welcome of water and rather being lost together, than spend time choking in air.

I remind myself of the value of you and us by remembering the possibility of tragedy, of the uncertain future of your liver transplant and death coming between us. It is true, that it is only in the face of tragedy or potential tragedy that we learn to see familiarity with fresh eyes, cherish the moments we have and appreciate those frail and fleeting moments of laughter and joy together. In the face of that reality, we could have missed the orchestra, we could have spent time aplenty walking around and finding other places to eat, we could have sat down and ranted and cried and laughed about it.

But at least we were lost together.

 

 

 

Lost Together

Strange and beautiful

Are the stars tonight

That dance around your head

In your eyes I see that perfect world

I hope that doesn’t sound too weird

And I want all the world to know

That your love’s all I need

All that I need

 

And if we’re lost

Then we are lost together

Yea if we’re lost

Then we are lost together

 

I stand before this faceless crowd

And I wonder why I bother

So much controlled by so few

 

Stumbling from one disaster to another

I’ve heard it all so many times before

It’s all a dream to me now

A dream to me now

 

And if we’re lost

Then we are lost together

Yea if we’re lost

Then we are lost together

 

In the silence of this whispered night

I listen only to your breath

And that second of a shooting star

Somehow it all make sense

And I want all the world to know

That your love’s all I need 

All that I need