I was looking for a distraction earlier today and stumbled upon the list that I wrote in February of 100 things about me. As I re-read through the list, I was shocked at the number of them that aren’t true any more. This, on the back of a comment that I made to a friend last week that my life this semester looks radically different than it did last October.
(For the record, numbers 2, 21, 24, 56, and 63 are not true at all … and numbers 23, 26, 35, 43, and 100 require revision somehow)
I would really love to think that I’m good at change. That I don’t react negatively when the foundations of my life are shaken, that I don’t freak out when things don’t go according to plan, that I don’t have to hermit some days when my reality shifts and I am in need of space to mourn that. I would love to think that I can just move on blithely from things and it would all be okay.
But I don’t. I do need to hermit and I do need space to mourn and I’m still trying to figure out how to live in the shifted reality of the fact that I’m not a youth worker any more. Have I said that out loud on this blog? There it is. I am not a youth worker any more. My soul still moves in the rhythms of student ministry and the fact that my life doesn’t is something I’m still coming to terms with. The mourning of that comes and goes in waves. This week – for some reason – I’ve found myself talking a lot about what life looked like “then” and what happened to get me to “now” and I’m discovering a new season of mourning.
When I was in Belfast, Carole told me that I should view healing from trauma like going up a windy mountain away from the sea. The trauma – that thing that scarred me and defines me – that happened on the beach. The first time around the mountain – when I come close to it again – it will burn my soul and the grief will feel almost identical to the original pain. I think that in the past few months that I’ve made significant progress up the mountain. There are days that I’m really proud of myself about that. I can drive past certain buildings and not crumble. I can see people on campus and not run. These are major victories. And when I’m on the other side of the mountain from the beach, I’m fine. I can talk objectively and logically about everything. However, when I’m on the same side, it’s a different ball game. It appears that I’m not far enough up the mountain that I can’t smell the pain whenever I’m on its same side and feel it grip my soul.
I am in desperate need of a new season. In some strange and beautiful ways, I’m finding newness among the death that clouds my life here in Waco and I hope to continue to do that. I am thankful for the people who have entered the sojourn up the mountain – people who have committed to being journey friends and family. I am thankful for the new things to laugh about and the new things to dream of. I am thankful to be part of big conversations about how to be the hands and feet of the Kingdom in Waco.
However, still, in the wee small hours of the morning… when it is only silence and myself as my own worst enemy … I am aching to be so much farther up that mountain. And I still wish that I was better with change.
