My boyfriend, Clayton, is one of the smartest people I have ever met. I’m not just saying that because I like him. He talks about things that I’ve never heard of or even considered, and he talks about them in a way that shows a deep understanding of them. Last Sunday, Clayton was on one of his nerd rants while we were driving to my parents’ house for an after-church social visit. He was talking about philosophy, names like Heidegger and Sarte and Kirkegaard and how they fit together and who agreed with who. My knowledge of philosophy extends no farther than Plato’s cave. I could only smile and nod and give a few surface-level comments where I thought they’d fit.
As we neared my parents’ house, though, I finally decided to give a more substantial contribution to the conversation. “You know how people talk about how having kids re-enchants them to the world, because kids notice all the small, beautiful things in life?” I asked. “My philosophy is that grown-ups shouldn’t lose their own wonder. That noticing the small things and enjoying them should be an essential part of life.”
Clayton nodded. “Fairyland philosphy,” he said.
“What?”
“That’s called fairyland philosophy.” Clayton then started talking about G.K. Chesterton and George MacDonald and how we should love the rose because it is red and it could have been black instead, and I lost him again.
Regardless of what it’s called or who’s talked about it, fairyland philosophy is an important part of my life. There was a squirrel outside my window this morning. My cat stuck his tongue out yesterday. Autumn is approaching, and I can get the mail without melting into a pile of sticky skin and frizzy hair. I find and appreciate the small things, and they enchant my life.
Even when bad things happen, I try to find some good in them. My paycheck isn’t as large as I wanted it to be? That’s alright, I’ll still be able to pay rent, and God provides. The new recipe I’m experimenting with turned out nasty? I’ll never use too much thyme in a recipe again. Even when my grandmother passed away in 2022, I felt an element of relief. She had been suffering with dementia for years, and I knew that in heaven, she was herself again.
But sometimes, things happen that take me out of fairyland. The past several days have been awful on a national level. Two children dead in a Catholic school shooting. A Ukranian refugee stabbed to death on a subway. Charlie Kirk, a man who never wanted more than an honest dialogue, assassinated in front of his wife and two small children.
If I squint hard enough, I can still find silver linings to these tragedies. The children from the Catholic school shooting are in heaven now. The subway murder has opened discussion about criminal justice that will hopefully prevent similar crimes from occurring in the future. I’ve seen a couple of people on Twitter saying that the Kirk assassination has driven them to renew their faith in God. But fairyland philosophy is not the same as toxic positivity. Fairyland has monsters. The darkness is real. Death for the Christian may be the gateway to eternal life, but it still hurts the living. We must grieve with those who grieve.
Last night, I sat on my library floor with a craft project. I kept making mistakes and tearing out stitches. Finally, I set it aside and let myself grieve. I did not cry (I rarely do), but I prayed. Rather, the Spirit prayed for me. I could not find words, only groanings.
This morning, I feel better. I noticed the squirrel outside my window. I thanked God for a good night’s sleep. Part of me still grieves, still fears, still rages at the evil. What can I do about the evil in this world? I can pray. I can try to be a light to the world around me. I can take steps to protect myself and my loved ones if the evil creeps closer to me. Beyond that, I can do nothing.
The joy of the Lord and the grief of this world can co-exist. Peace that passes understanding can guard our hearts and minds no matter what storms come against us. God is good, and He is just. He will punish the guilty, reward the martyrs, and comfort those who mourn. Our job is to trust Him in the meanwhile.
Do not ignore the beauty of the world because it co-exists with darkness. Yes, grieve. Fight the darkness in a tangible way if you’re able to, and in prayer otherwise. But in between battles, in between waves of grief, notice the roses. Rejoice because they are red. Fighting is easier when you know the beauty you are protecting.