I Lost Part of Me This Year

Yesterday driving home in the dark, cold, rain from an incredible Thanksgiving weekend, I leaned my head against the window and thought, "I've lost a lot this year. But what I haven't allowed myself to think about is, I've lost part of me." 

I wasn't sure what that thought was totally about, but I knew it was true. I am different today than I was a year ago; this year has changed me; this year has taken a part of me, and I can feel it deep in my bones.

Throughout the night as I woke up during a fitful sleep, the words, but more the truth of it, continued to taunt me. I am still trying to make it make total sense, but this I know.

I am not the same. There is more quiet in my heart and my mind--an introspective quiet. I want to be alone more than I ever have before. I crave solitude. I often can't find the words to express what I want to say, and I have lost some of the energy of trying to figure it out. I ache for quiet. I don't immediately find the positive in every situation, and I have lost the ardor to do so. I allow darkness to permeate for longer periods of time before I move forward. And I feel more deeply than I ever have before, and that is often painful. I would more often than not consider myself in a state of melancholy.

Last year at this time I thought I had the world by the tail. I believed all four of my children were in healthy places and were on the straight and arrow path towards adulthood. I was entering my fourth year as priest-in-charge/rector of St. Thomas and my fifth year as coordinator of youth and young adult ministries for the Diocese of Kentucky, and I believed I knew exactly what God was calling me to do and be. Chris and I were enjoying empty nest; I had just officiated at the wedding of a young couple, and I felt that powerful love in our marriage.  My extended family all seemed to be doing well, and our relationships were solid. I had amazing friends and believed this would be the year I would reconnect with many.

Last year on Advent 1 I was full of giggles and excitement. I thought I understood and was fully embracing the theme of the day. As the first candle, the candle of hope was lit by a sweet family with a small child,  I beamed and my heart was full to bursting.

Then 2019 came.

I've talked to many people about this year. I'll be honest, I have yet to talk to anyone for whom this was the best year. If you're out there, I'd love to hear it. Really I would. It just doesn't hold true for me or for most people I know.

Now a whole year later, I am looking back at the person I was then, and I know part of that person is gone, and I'm almost 100% certain it's a permanent loss.

Some may not notice. I am still pretty out there; I am still loud and "extra"; I still say and do outrageous things. But I am less sure of what the "right" things to say and do are; I am less confident I know how to relate to people. (Just an aside, I am confident and even recently for the first time in probably forever able to verbalize what I know I do well. He was as surprised as I was to hear me do it!) But I am less confident I can handle anything. But this I do know.

I can show up.

I can show up in hospital rooms and funeral homes. I can show up in rehab centers and in the woods. I can show up in phone calls and texts and letters. I can show up in grieving homes and in homes full of joy. I can show up when I am full of energy, and I can show up when doing so takes every ounce of strength I have. I can show up for old friends and new friends and people I can't categorize. I can show up for myself. I can show up even if I have nothing to say.

This morning as a family with grown children lit the candle of hope, I felt tears in my eyes threatening to coarse down my face. This year I lost part of who I was, but I am filled with hope. It is not the hope I thought I understood last year. It is not optimism or exuberance. It is a hope that strengthens me to stay connected to myself, others and God. It is a hope that says through the darkness of the world, there is light. It is a hope that has walked with me through the valley of the shadow of death, and it is a hope that knows to my very core that God was and is there. It is a quiet hope that envelopes me because I know I can't fix everything; I can't stop pain; I don't have the right words; I don't know what is to come, but I can show up.