I finally found the words.
Well, here we are.
On January 27, 2019 I wrote a post saying "I'm back, and this time I'm not sorry." For a while, I truly offered no apologies for my thoughts, and I think that brought an introduction to the person I had become, at least to a certain extent. Those posts taught me so much about myself, showed me what I could do if I really did stop caring what other people thought of me. But I'm human, aren't I? It's simply dishonest to claim I don't care, because I actually care very much. The pressure I put on myself to be profound and vulnerable nearly crushed me.
And so I withdrew again, constructing a bubble wrap wall around the brick structure already standing, hoping the popping would alert me with enough time to run if the wall were to be breached. I withdrew to the journal in my room, and to a small circle of people who offered no judgment with their safety. The closer the calendar drew to 2020, the less certain I became of how I could even reflect on a year that both built me up and crushed my heart. So I waited to write again, the uncertainty weighing on my mind almost every day, as I struggled to find words that fit 12 months of change. This week I finally found them.
2019 was a river bed full of jagged, mossy rocks hidden beneath the murky surface, lined by identical rocks along the sloping shore, and in January I stood on one side looking around the bend, believing the navigation would be simple if I just walked in the water to avoid the sharp terrain above it. Without much thought, I stepped into the water wearing sandals and shorts, bare toes and sunburned knees exposed. After only a few steps, I discovered the slippery rocks and hesitated, evaluating the shore full of equally sharp and jagged obstacles. Stubborn resolve took over and I continued forward, slipping on the uneven surfaces every few steps. I leaned forward and placed my hands on the rocks I could barely see, guiding my steps the best way I could, losing sight of the distant shore but feeling a sense of balance I had lacked before.
The first several months of 2019 offered opportunities to serve at ReNew in a rapidly increasing capacity; I snatched every chance up eagerly as my enthusiasm to be back in ministry increased. With these Sunday mornings and Thursday evenings came friendships I hadn't anticipated, bringing conversations that pushed me to love better and more openly. I joined a small group and grew closer to people I never would have guessed would become my dear friends. For the first time in my adult life, I had a reason to leave my apartment besides work and an hour-long church service. Months continued to pass and those friendships grew stronger, as did my confidence in my abilities and my belief that people both loved me and wanted me here.
My feet still slipped on the rocks below me, but now I had nowhere to fall, my hands anchoring me with a false sense of security. Progress was excruciatingly slow; since I couldn't clearly see the shore with my head down, I had to focus on each individual step and pray the sandy beach on the other side would be worth it. Every time I gripped a new rock with numb fingers and took a shaky step forward, anxiety shot through my feet like it does when you walk on an icy sidewalk and anticipate a fall. The sun beat down on my back and I couldn't help thinking about the sunburn that would likely reach the back of my legs to match the front.
There are moments of 2019 that will be stored like snapshots forever. I've pinned them to the bulletin board on the walls of my heart and part of me would rather keep them hidden, safe from anyone who wouldn't appreciate their beauty. If I'm being completely honest, this is partly why it has been so difficult for me to write any sort of reflection until now. The longer I protect those snapshots, the more secure I feel in the stories associated with each one. But I want my writing to hold meaning, to show some sort of empathy for the human experience, so I have sought and found a compromise of honesty shrouded in metaphor. Now I offer you a glimpse of these snapshots, from a distance but in good light.
Good Friday, in a loud and crowded restaurant after an evening church service...the first time I sat around a table with people I had grown to love and realized they wanted me there. I reached for a rock in hopes of keeping my balance and found some sense of security in the mossy surface I gripped tightly. A rock of belonging.
A Thursday night conversation that lasted hours...a moment of significance I couldn't have anticipated as my foot fell asleep while I sat on it; I stretched across two chairs with trembling hands below spinning ceiling fans, sharing parts of a story I had never breathed aloud before and knowing I was safe to do so. Another few steps, the rocks seemed less slippery for a while, my cold fingers finding warm spots in the water that brought small comfort. A rock of trust.
A trip to do a cancer walk with family that became a reunion with camp friends...a weekend that still exists in my mind as one that couldn't have actually happened, full of spontaneity and vulnerability. In the midst of the cold water, my hands found another warm spot and grasped a smooth rock that offered a brief rest to my numb fingers. A rock of relief.
An evening in late September that presented an opportunity to take a stunning chance at vulnerability...that week I slowly realized this new, more honest version of my life couldn't be changed back. For a moment, my fingers frantically sought new anchor points, unable to grip anything solid, and I panicked as my balance slipped. A rock of doubt.
A week of terrifying honesty...I rapidly widened my circle of trustworthy hands on my shoulders and gradually my fears were reduced to a mere thought in the back of my mind. Just when my feet began to lose their place, desperate hands brushed something solid. Not rocks, but a hand in front of mine. I straightened to find I was no longer alone, and dry ground was mere steps away. A hand of safety.
2019 ended with a sense of both relief and anticipation. I'm confident there will be more snapshots to pin this year, I just don't know what they will look like yet. As I approach the return across the river bed, I'm choosing dry land this time. No need to journey alone, there will be hands to steady me if my balance falters, for others have chosen this route before.
There are still moments lacking closure, stories requiring more context, but I can finally look forward rather than down at my feet. My balance continues to falter; my resolve does not.
At last, 2020. Let it become a season of sunshine after one of breaking clouds.
Love ya, babes. 💜
On January 27, 2019 I wrote a post saying "I'm back, and this time I'm not sorry." For a while, I truly offered no apologies for my thoughts, and I think that brought an introduction to the person I had become, at least to a certain extent. Those posts taught me so much about myself, showed me what I could do if I really did stop caring what other people thought of me. But I'm human, aren't I? It's simply dishonest to claim I don't care, because I actually care very much. The pressure I put on myself to be profound and vulnerable nearly crushed me.
And so I withdrew again, constructing a bubble wrap wall around the brick structure already standing, hoping the popping would alert me with enough time to run if the wall were to be breached. I withdrew to the journal in my room, and to a small circle of people who offered no judgment with their safety. The closer the calendar drew to 2020, the less certain I became of how I could even reflect on a year that both built me up and crushed my heart. So I waited to write again, the uncertainty weighing on my mind almost every day, as I struggled to find words that fit 12 months of change. This week I finally found them.
2019 was a river bed full of jagged, mossy rocks hidden beneath the murky surface, lined by identical rocks along the sloping shore, and in January I stood on one side looking around the bend, believing the navigation would be simple if I just walked in the water to avoid the sharp terrain above it. Without much thought, I stepped into the water wearing sandals and shorts, bare toes and sunburned knees exposed. After only a few steps, I discovered the slippery rocks and hesitated, evaluating the shore full of equally sharp and jagged obstacles. Stubborn resolve took over and I continued forward, slipping on the uneven surfaces every few steps. I leaned forward and placed my hands on the rocks I could barely see, guiding my steps the best way I could, losing sight of the distant shore but feeling a sense of balance I had lacked before.
The first several months of 2019 offered opportunities to serve at ReNew in a rapidly increasing capacity; I snatched every chance up eagerly as my enthusiasm to be back in ministry increased. With these Sunday mornings and Thursday evenings came friendships I hadn't anticipated, bringing conversations that pushed me to love better and more openly. I joined a small group and grew closer to people I never would have guessed would become my dear friends. For the first time in my adult life, I had a reason to leave my apartment besides work and an hour-long church service. Months continued to pass and those friendships grew stronger, as did my confidence in my abilities and my belief that people both loved me and wanted me here.
My feet still slipped on the rocks below me, but now I had nowhere to fall, my hands anchoring me with a false sense of security. Progress was excruciatingly slow; since I couldn't clearly see the shore with my head down, I had to focus on each individual step and pray the sandy beach on the other side would be worth it. Every time I gripped a new rock with numb fingers and took a shaky step forward, anxiety shot through my feet like it does when you walk on an icy sidewalk and anticipate a fall. The sun beat down on my back and I couldn't help thinking about the sunburn that would likely reach the back of my legs to match the front.
There are moments of 2019 that will be stored like snapshots forever. I've pinned them to the bulletin board on the walls of my heart and part of me would rather keep them hidden, safe from anyone who wouldn't appreciate their beauty. If I'm being completely honest, this is partly why it has been so difficult for me to write any sort of reflection until now. The longer I protect those snapshots, the more secure I feel in the stories associated with each one. But I want my writing to hold meaning, to show some sort of empathy for the human experience, so I have sought and found a compromise of honesty shrouded in metaphor. Now I offer you a glimpse of these snapshots, from a distance but in good light.
Good Friday, in a loud and crowded restaurant after an evening church service...the first time I sat around a table with people I had grown to love and realized they wanted me there. I reached for a rock in hopes of keeping my balance and found some sense of security in the mossy surface I gripped tightly. A rock of belonging.
A Thursday night conversation that lasted hours...a moment of significance I couldn't have anticipated as my foot fell asleep while I sat on it; I stretched across two chairs with trembling hands below spinning ceiling fans, sharing parts of a story I had never breathed aloud before and knowing I was safe to do so. Another few steps, the rocks seemed less slippery for a while, my cold fingers finding warm spots in the water that brought small comfort. A rock of trust.
A trip to do a cancer walk with family that became a reunion with camp friends...a weekend that still exists in my mind as one that couldn't have actually happened, full of spontaneity and vulnerability. In the midst of the cold water, my hands found another warm spot and grasped a smooth rock that offered a brief rest to my numb fingers. A rock of relief.
An evening in late September that presented an opportunity to take a stunning chance at vulnerability...that week I slowly realized this new, more honest version of my life couldn't be changed back. For a moment, my fingers frantically sought new anchor points, unable to grip anything solid, and I panicked as my balance slipped. A rock of doubt.
A week of terrifying honesty...I rapidly widened my circle of trustworthy hands on my shoulders and gradually my fears were reduced to a mere thought in the back of my mind. Just when my feet began to lose their place, desperate hands brushed something solid. Not rocks, but a hand in front of mine. I straightened to find I was no longer alone, and dry ground was mere steps away. A hand of safety.
2019 ended with a sense of both relief and anticipation. I'm confident there will be more snapshots to pin this year, I just don't know what they will look like yet. As I approach the return across the river bed, I'm choosing dry land this time. No need to journey alone, there will be hands to steady me if my balance falters, for others have chosen this route before.
There are still moments lacking closure, stories requiring more context, but I can finally look forward rather than down at my feet. My balance continues to falter; my resolve does not.
At last, 2020. Let it become a season of sunshine after one of breaking clouds.
Love ya, babes. 💜
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