Opposite World

I pop my headphones in and head to my favorite spot in my host city to get some exercise.  Often this space is shared with nearby friends; we catch up and hear about each other’s lives as we trek round and round the 1.2 km track. Thanks to a WhatsApp audio call, this morning I share it with my sister, half a world away. I update her on my life abroad, she tells me funny stories about her growing kids, and we settle into easy conversation. 

I’m rounding the back corner, the space where monkeys often roam and where I’m hawk-eyed on the lookout for nasty snakes. She makes a big statement and then casually says, “Opposite world!”

I’m confused. “Opposite what?” What did you just say?”

“Oh, that’s just something my kids say all the time right now. They say the opposite of what they’re meaning and then yell ‘opposite world’.” 

Something inside me stings a bit. I miss those little stinkers, knowing their funny-isms and the things they’re into. Being half a world away in those growing-up years is hard. We laugh awhile about the funny ways kids say things and the conversation turns with the next bend in the trail.

And that was the day “opposite world” became a part of my vocabulary. 

Comfort and joy . . .

These words have become a pair, a set. Around this time of year, they go together like tinsel and lights, hot chocolate and marshmallows, peppermint and mocha. You say one, and the next slides easily off your tongue. 

But consider with me.

For comfort to be needed, something uncomfortable must have happened. Comfort is not noted if it has always been there. We notice it when we have first known its glaring absence. Then comfort moves in like a flood, sweeping into a cold room and wrapping us in its embrace. 

We need to have lived in an opposite world from joy.

And our Father pairs the two.  Comfort and joy.

The prophet Isaiah seems to love the word comfort. A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon this declaration of comfort in chapter 51:

For the Lord comforts Zion;

He comforts all her waste places

And makes her wildernesses like Eden

Her desert like the garden of the LORD;

Joy and gladness will be found in her,

Thanksgiving and the voice of song.

Isaiah 51:3 ESV

I stopped dead in my tracks when I read that. What a beautiful promise. Since then, I’ve been pondering this and considering all the anchors the verse throws my way.

First, we have a Lord who acknowledges that we need comfort. Acknowledges that wastelands and wildernesses and deserts are a part of the story.  He sees us in the midst of those seasons. Knowing I am seen is a game-changer for me. 

Next, he sends comfort directly to where I am. He enters the waste places, the wilderness, and the desert—perhaps not always in the form of the immediate rescue I’m begging for, but always in the form of entrance. Entering the space wherein we stand, enveloping us in a comfort that endures. Knowing I am not alone is a game-changer for me. 

And eventually, the wilderness will flourish again. The desert will bloom. Sunlight and rain will bring the nourishment needed for a garden to blossom and produce fruit. The day of harvest and plenty and pleasure are coming. Knowing a new day is ahead is a game-changer for me. 

He could stop there. The comfort has come. He has visited his people with his great presence and has been mighty to save.

But he doesn’t stop. He leads us into opposite world: He leads us into joy. 

In the progression of that one verse, the Lord has led Zion from a deeply uncomfortable place to a place defined by joy.  A place where words like joy, gladness, thanksgiving, and song are the defining characteristics. That’s the destination. 

Oh friend, if you are in a wasteland, a wilderness, or a desert, there is so much hope for you!  Your feet stand in the place where the Father loves to visit his children. You are seen, you are not alone, and you won’t be there forever. 

An opposite world is waiting. 

Joy. Gladness. Thanksgiving. Song.

That makes me want to sing . . . O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.