I went to one of the downtown churches today that I’ve only been to a few times, mostly because my local Anglican church wasn’t having Eucharist, which still seems strange to me. In the priest’s homily, she talked about how Advent requires us to go into the desert in order to get to Jerusalem: it isn’t a comfortable place to be, and it isn’t easy, but it’s the only way to be prepared for the journey.
I like that. It gives me hope that this place where I am is part of a journey and not a meaningless side trip along the way.
Where I am right now is fairly uncomfortable; I think this blog as of late has made that pretty clear. Bloggerific.
I went to pull my cell phone out of my bag to call for a ride home and grabbed it, as I usually do, based on the feeling of the case it’s in. Belatedly, I realized that I had in fact pulled out my Bible instead.
Maybe this is a message from God. Maybe it symbolizes that what I’m trying to do is call someone, anyone, who will help me get home. Maybe the word of God is precisely that way home, precisely that to which I must turn, to which I must reach out. Given that I was brought up Roman Catholic (whoda thunk it?), it’s not like reading the Bible is the first thing I do when I’m trying to figure something out in my faith life.
Maybe I need to do more of that: more turning to the Word itself and less trying to find someone to talk to who’ll help me sort out this emotional turmoil that is my life right now. Although I believe that human relationships, in all their imperfections, are an indispensible source of healing, it just doesn’t seem to be something that’s in the cards for me right now (although I must admit I am not a Tarot expert). So, less asking people for help and comfort and more praying with the Bible. Maybe that will work out and maybe it won’t, but right now it’s all I’ve got.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Here We Go A Wassailing
So today (Friday) I went to an Advent Carol service being put on by the Anglican chapel I normally go to. It was really, really pretty, with candles and readings and singing. But I was having a really, really bad day. I skipped saying the Rosary this morning, so I lost that little bubble that I usually have, and it just went downhill from there.
I had really been hoping to hear from someone, because I wanted to see them, so I was a bit disappointed about that. When I got to my carrel, all my books had been moved (again), and I had to wait for the girl using my desk to come back from God knows where so she could move her stuff. And I was tired and, due to exertion-induced asthma, couldn’t really breathe and needed to get my wind back, for which sitting is helpful.
Then, my kidneys etc. were doing that thing again where they don’t function properly. So that was frustrating as well as worrying, since I thought I’d gotten a handle on that. In any event, it causes a good amount of pain, so that didn’t make me cheerful. My meds were making it impossible to eat, so I was dizzy and lightheaded but couldn’t eat anything without getting nauseous. I skipped Advent devotions and evening prayer, which I’m sure was a bad idea. Coming home so late, I’ve also missed Compline. So I’m out a good, oh, two hours of prayer. That always makes me a bit cranky. I wrote a draft of a letter requesting medical leave – a concept which is itself worrying and stressful, ironically – but didn’t get a response to that, either. Also, I’ve had a constant headache since Wednesday. Ugh. I haven’t been sleeping and so I’m exhausted.
Anyway, so I go to this service and only actually know one song, which made me feel like a bit of an outsider, especially having spent the last few days with people singing songs I know. Holding the candle made me think of J---, God † rest his soul, who I was always afraid was going to light his music on fire during the Vigil. I’ve been missing him a lot lately: singing songs we had parts to together, expecting to hear his voice in my ear and sometimes almost hearing it.
I guess I was in a bit of a nostalgic mood. I also thought about B---, God † rest her soul, that time driving back from St. Mary’s hospital when my mother and S--- convinced her that Styrofoam grew on trees, and I was trying not to laugh. Or was it plastic bags?...What it felt like when she didn’t sit next to me in choir anymore. About S---, God † rest her soul, who sometimes drove me home from choir, and how much I cried at her funeral. About B---, God † rest his soul, whose funeral I altar served at and then cried later, realizing how much I never knew. About T---, God † rest his soul, and the first Christmas that he was sick. About my grandfather, God † rest his soul, where there was never any service and they wouldn’t let us into the hospital room to see him when he was dying. About P--- and R--- and K--- and R---, God † rest their souls. About Fr. S---, God † rest his soul, whose CBW I hymnbook I just got. About my friends and family who are dying. Most of all, I thought about Father, God † rest his soul; I got a Bible that belonged to him, and now I carry it with me.
I’ve been surrounded by so much recent grieving this last while, but I haven’t had the opportunity to share my stories with anyone, to have anyone hold me while I cry, to have anyone willing to be there in all my sorrow. I’ve been trying to be that person, the person I don’t have and have never had, and it’s at the point where I’m not sure I can deal with this all alone anymore. At any rate, I don’t want to, but there seems to be nowhere to go.
Add to this the fact that I already kind of dread Christmas – the year I was really sick, some horrible things happened and were said in the family that kind of tainted it forever for me – and you have a mixture of everything that’s fucked up about me, and it’s really volatile.
So I leave after the service and go sit in my little alcove, where, of course, I cry. Some really cool friends saw me and came and made me laugh, and I felt a bit better. But I had been bursting into tears all day. I was afraid to go to the thing they had afterward because, well, it’s humiliating to cry in front of people, especially when they have no idea why it’s happening. I was also really embarrassed to see the person I had wanted to meet, because I think it’s not really fair for me to ask, again, for someone to help me out by listening. I mean, really Kat, get a life. I’m sure everyone now thinks I’m even weirder than they thought before, but I’m not sure I actually care. Better to seem like some sort of social phobic person than some sort of crazy freak who keeps crying. That’s my theory, anyway. I am grateful I was able to make it through the skit part, which is what I really wanted to see.
Going back toward the train, I had to keep stopping to cry. I thought about jumping in front of the Metro, but then I realized that that’s stupid. Having been in the position where I’ve almost died, waking up in the ICU freezing cold with monitors and IV’s and various other medical stuff, not knowing what happened, I understand that just because everything happens to hurt right now isn’t a good reason to not struggle to live. You know that you’re a bit of a wreck when random homeless people ask if you’re alright, though.
So, it’s been a long day, full of me sobbing and trying unsuccessfully to hold it together, of me gathering yet more proof about why it is I need to get off my current medication cycle given that it’s actually making me physically ill, full of me embarrassing myself and whatnot. Retrospectively, I probably shouldn’t have tried to stay at all. But I wanted so badly to try and be normal, to try and do a normal thing that I used to do all the time, to do something that I really wanted to do, and I underestimated how much everything is still affecting me. It’s difficult to explain it to people and it’s difficult for people to understand. It actually really hurts when people make fun of me for it, because it isn’t something I can control, nor do I fully understand it myself. But that feeling of hurt, which makes it harder to think even of trying, is something that I can’t really articulate because it makes me more vulnerable and more fragile in the face of future making-fun-of-me. So I don’t talk about it. Except in this blog, which has no bearing on or effect in the real world.
Wow: it’s Saturday, and I’m still crying while typing this stupid post. Aren’t I special.
I had really been hoping to hear from someone, because I wanted to see them, so I was a bit disappointed about that. When I got to my carrel, all my books had been moved (again), and I had to wait for the girl using my desk to come back from God knows where so she could move her stuff. And I was tired and, due to exertion-induced asthma, couldn’t really breathe and needed to get my wind back, for which sitting is helpful.
Then, my kidneys etc. were doing that thing again where they don’t function properly. So that was frustrating as well as worrying, since I thought I’d gotten a handle on that. In any event, it causes a good amount of pain, so that didn’t make me cheerful. My meds were making it impossible to eat, so I was dizzy and lightheaded but couldn’t eat anything without getting nauseous. I skipped Advent devotions and evening prayer, which I’m sure was a bad idea. Coming home so late, I’ve also missed Compline. So I’m out a good, oh, two hours of prayer. That always makes me a bit cranky. I wrote a draft of a letter requesting medical leave – a concept which is itself worrying and stressful, ironically – but didn’t get a response to that, either. Also, I’ve had a constant headache since Wednesday. Ugh. I haven’t been sleeping and so I’m exhausted.
Anyway, so I go to this service and only actually know one song, which made me feel like a bit of an outsider, especially having spent the last few days with people singing songs I know. Holding the candle made me think of J---, God † rest his soul, who I was always afraid was going to light his music on fire during the Vigil. I’ve been missing him a lot lately: singing songs we had parts to together, expecting to hear his voice in my ear and sometimes almost hearing it.
I guess I was in a bit of a nostalgic mood. I also thought about B---, God † rest her soul, that time driving back from St. Mary’s hospital when my mother and S--- convinced her that Styrofoam grew on trees, and I was trying not to laugh. Or was it plastic bags?...What it felt like when she didn’t sit next to me in choir anymore. About S---, God † rest her soul, who sometimes drove me home from choir, and how much I cried at her funeral. About B---, God † rest his soul, whose funeral I altar served at and then cried later, realizing how much I never knew. About T---, God † rest his soul, and the first Christmas that he was sick. About my grandfather, God † rest his soul, where there was never any service and they wouldn’t let us into the hospital room to see him when he was dying. About P--- and R--- and K--- and R---, God † rest their souls. About Fr. S---, God † rest his soul, whose CBW I hymnbook I just got. About my friends and family who are dying. Most of all, I thought about Father, God † rest his soul; I got a Bible that belonged to him, and now I carry it with me.
I’ve been surrounded by so much recent grieving this last while, but I haven’t had the opportunity to share my stories with anyone, to have anyone hold me while I cry, to have anyone willing to be there in all my sorrow. I’ve been trying to be that person, the person I don’t have and have never had, and it’s at the point where I’m not sure I can deal with this all alone anymore. At any rate, I don’t want to, but there seems to be nowhere to go.
Add to this the fact that I already kind of dread Christmas – the year I was really sick, some horrible things happened and were said in the family that kind of tainted it forever for me – and you have a mixture of everything that’s fucked up about me, and it’s really volatile.
So I leave after the service and go sit in my little alcove, where, of course, I cry. Some really cool friends saw me and came and made me laugh, and I felt a bit better. But I had been bursting into tears all day. I was afraid to go to the thing they had afterward because, well, it’s humiliating to cry in front of people, especially when they have no idea why it’s happening. I was also really embarrassed to see the person I had wanted to meet, because I think it’s not really fair for me to ask, again, for someone to help me out by listening. I mean, really Kat, get a life. I’m sure everyone now thinks I’m even weirder than they thought before, but I’m not sure I actually care. Better to seem like some sort of social phobic person than some sort of crazy freak who keeps crying. That’s my theory, anyway. I am grateful I was able to make it through the skit part, which is what I really wanted to see.
Going back toward the train, I had to keep stopping to cry. I thought about jumping in front of the Metro, but then I realized that that’s stupid. Having been in the position where I’ve almost died, waking up in the ICU freezing cold with monitors and IV’s and various other medical stuff, not knowing what happened, I understand that just because everything happens to hurt right now isn’t a good reason to not struggle to live. You know that you’re a bit of a wreck when random homeless people ask if you’re alright, though.
So, it’s been a long day, full of me sobbing and trying unsuccessfully to hold it together, of me gathering yet more proof about why it is I need to get off my current medication cycle given that it’s actually making me physically ill, full of me embarrassing myself and whatnot. Retrospectively, I probably shouldn’t have tried to stay at all. But I wanted so badly to try and be normal, to try and do a normal thing that I used to do all the time, to do something that I really wanted to do, and I underestimated how much everything is still affecting me. It’s difficult to explain it to people and it’s difficult for people to understand. It actually really hurts when people make fun of me for it, because it isn’t something I can control, nor do I fully understand it myself. But that feeling of hurt, which makes it harder to think even of trying, is something that I can’t really articulate because it makes me more vulnerable and more fragile in the face of future making-fun-of-me. So I don’t talk about it. Except in this blog, which has no bearing on or effect in the real world.
Wow: it’s Saturday, and I’m still crying while typing this stupid post. Aren’t I special.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Where Shall I Find Rest
The other week – a Wednesday – I went to mid-week Mass at the Anglican chapel I usually go to. I was coming back after a (fairly) long absence, especially considering my penchant in days of yore for attending Mass every day. Anyway, the point is that, right before the consecration, I felt suddenly overwhelmed and cried a little. I’m fairly sure no one noticed. Fairly.
This really drives home the fact that I feel like I’m experiencing a sort of religious angst that was both unexpected and not: at a very deep level, I still feel incredibly torn between two paths – one that I’m leaving and one that I’m seeking. Conflicted. Confused.
The day before, I had gone to Mass at the university’s Catholic center for the first time, for reasons that were both whimsical and practical. Practically, the schedule for Mass intentions at my home parish has been thrown into complete disarray, since it was based on the presupposition that Mass was being said every day. Therefore, to ensure a timely Mass intention which I could attend, I got one at the Center. Whimsically, I went because Father was always saying, “Are you going to go to the Center? You should really go to the Center. Have you gone to the Center yet?” Anyway, it seemed perfect that now, after he died, I finally did what he’d nagged me to do for years.
I confess that I experienced the comfort I always do at Roman Catholic churches that comes from knowing the liturgy and being able to participate in the service without any sort of book. (After all, We Are Church, are we not?) I also received Eucharist: I’ve been doing that ever since Father died, which makes that about, oh, five times now. It was interesting that I decided to do that in the first place, since I had always sworn not to, and even more interesting that I felt no conflict at any time while I was doing it, or in the time surrounding.
However, when I went to Anglican church on Wednesday, less that 24 hours later, I felt a profound sense of…having done something wrong. As in, what have I done? I knew that by the laws I grew up with the idea of receiving Eucharist in two denominations at once is, well, frowned upon, though that doesn’t quite convey the horror orthodox, law-abiding Catholics would feel at the suggestion. Oh, I had all sorts of nice reasons planned out. ‘I still believe in the Apostolic succession of the Episcopate and the doctrine of Transubstantiation, so I’m not really separate when it comes to Eucharist.’ ‘It’s about me and Jesus, not the Church.’ ‘Now that Father’s dead, no one will be hurt.’ But those are really all justifications I came up with after having already acted on the basis of what I felt compelled to do.
I just feel…so profoundly confused. I don’t really know how to name what I feel, or even if it has a name. In many ways, I long for the certainty that I had in my youth. I am forced to ask myself why I decided to leave the Catholic Church in the first place. My blog has actually been very helpful in this: I looked back over parts of it and was able to say, ‘oh yeah, now I remember.’ But to base this decision primarily on private experience is, of course, profoundly un-Catholic.
I miss my community, the people that I love, singing hymns I know, being familiar with the liturgy to the point that I can reflect on it instead of trying to figure out what it is that I’m supposed to be doing. I wish I knew what the Anglican Church is, the beliefs, sacraments, colors, documents, prayers, movements, fundamental beliefs (aside from the shared Creed, of course)…I wish that there was someone to just, I don’t know, teach and discuss these things with me, so that I might find a way to catch my footing. I feel lost, and therefore conflicted about where it is that I am meant to be. I wonder if I’m supposed to go back to Catholic churches, if that’s what recent events have been pointing me towards, even though I do not believe, fundamentally, that this is true. In a way, my recent experiences of comfort represent a profound temptation to slip back into what is easy and familiar rather than to seek out in difficulty what path it is right for me to take.
In the Roman Catholic Church, there is a highly structured catechetical program for adults who want to be initiated into the Church, complete with discussions, teachings, and guidelines for experiencing what the corporate beliefs are. I don’t know if the same thing exists in Anglican churches. The Alpha program is not what I mean: I found it interesting but ultimately unenlightening and insufficient when I did it at my home parish several years ago. I want…I don’t know…someone cleverer than me to help me make my way through the tangled branches of it all. All this is assuming, of course, that there are shared corporate beliefs, at least sufficiently for such a program of study to be viable. Even looking at the latitude for variation is important, I think, since this is not something the Roman Catholic Church itself excels at.
Thus far, I have been unable to find this mythical mentor. For one thing, the church I’ve been going to places no importance at all upon actually belonging to the Anglican Church. For another…um…I’m not sure the priest there is actually suited for dealing with me in this way: I’m afraid I might actually trample him with my incessant questioning. I need someone to challenge my assumptions and show me new things, who isn’t going to get confused by what it is I’m asking. I have an unfortunate and sneaking suspicion that I already know more about liturgy and doctrine than this priest, given my hyper-dedication to studying catechism, tradition and law, as well as classical philosophy and theology. This actually puts me at a disadvantage, since I am well-schooled in the doctrines, history, and documents of the most systematic church currently in existence. The Roman Catholic Church is not exactly known for its brilliant expression of mystery…oh, there’s mystery in the doctrines and teachings, but it’s lodged firmly inside a logical and thorough account of the mystery in question. For example: transubstantiation. It uses the language of substantial ontology to capture the reality of what Eucharist is. The idea is that the accidental properties of the bread and wine remain, but that their substance is effaced and replaced by the substance of the Body and Blood of Christ. Yes, this remains a mystery, and the doctrine does not pretend otherwise. But the doctrine seems to, in a way, take away this fundamental aspect of mystery in gratitude and replace it with a kind of gratitude-in-understanding. Which is the only problem I have with the doctrine of transubstantiation as such.
But I digress.
The point is that I desperately need and want to learn about this way of being Christian that I am circling. But it just doesn’t seem to be happening. I also don’t have a confessor I click with…ideally, the two would be combined, since the idea of sin and understandings of doctrine are sometimes tightly bound up with each other.
Oh, my heart! There is such a great temptation in my longing, for that which I know and have known. I returned to my home congregation because I needed and wanted to be there, to grieve with the people I love and who love me, to face and experience loss in and with the community entire. I’ve gone to the funerals of three people from that church now whom I have loved deeply, and if there’s only one thing I’ve learned it’s that grieving is never done alone, not really. We come together and prepare, together, to go back out our separate ways. Although the healing and the returning to our separate lives is done individually, the process of that healing, as well as the sending forth, is only really accomplished in communion with one another. But now, out of this need to be home again, is the fear – and secret longing, as well – that I will not be able, not be willing, to go onward again as before. The tendency to return to the people who love and miss me, whom I love and miss, and the Church as I have understood it for so long, is a powerful one. In so many ways, I just don’t know what to do. It’s isolating and heartbreaking and I don’t know that I am strong enough to try and do this on my own anymore. But that still doesn’t change the fact that the place I need to turn to and lean on for support if I am to change doesn’t seem to exist, at least for me. I world of mirage and doubt and fear…where is this place that I have taken myself? Where shall I find rest?
To quote Jeremiah: “This is what the Lord says: ‘Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.’” (6:16)
Or, Psalm 62: “My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will never be shaken […] Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him […] Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.” (1-8)
Or, Frodo: “There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?”
Or, with Matthew: “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (11:29)
Or, with St. Augustine: “God, you have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless till they find their rest in you.”
This really drives home the fact that I feel like I’m experiencing a sort of religious angst that was both unexpected and not: at a very deep level, I still feel incredibly torn between two paths – one that I’m leaving and one that I’m seeking. Conflicted. Confused.
The day before, I had gone to Mass at the university’s Catholic center for the first time, for reasons that were both whimsical and practical. Practically, the schedule for Mass intentions at my home parish has been thrown into complete disarray, since it was based on the presupposition that Mass was being said every day. Therefore, to ensure a timely Mass intention which I could attend, I got one at the Center. Whimsically, I went because Father was always saying, “Are you going to go to the Center? You should really go to the Center. Have you gone to the Center yet?” Anyway, it seemed perfect that now, after he died, I finally did what he’d nagged me to do for years.
I confess that I experienced the comfort I always do at Roman Catholic churches that comes from knowing the liturgy and being able to participate in the service without any sort of book. (After all, We Are Church, are we not?) I also received Eucharist: I’ve been doing that ever since Father died, which makes that about, oh, five times now. It was interesting that I decided to do that in the first place, since I had always sworn not to, and even more interesting that I felt no conflict at any time while I was doing it, or in the time surrounding.
However, when I went to Anglican church on Wednesday, less that 24 hours later, I felt a profound sense of…having done something wrong. As in, what have I done? I knew that by the laws I grew up with the idea of receiving Eucharist in two denominations at once is, well, frowned upon, though that doesn’t quite convey the horror orthodox, law-abiding Catholics would feel at the suggestion. Oh, I had all sorts of nice reasons planned out. ‘I still believe in the Apostolic succession of the Episcopate and the doctrine of Transubstantiation, so I’m not really separate when it comes to Eucharist.’ ‘It’s about me and Jesus, not the Church.’ ‘Now that Father’s dead, no one will be hurt.’ But those are really all justifications I came up with after having already acted on the basis of what I felt compelled to do.
I just feel…so profoundly confused. I don’t really know how to name what I feel, or even if it has a name. In many ways, I long for the certainty that I had in my youth. I am forced to ask myself why I decided to leave the Catholic Church in the first place. My blog has actually been very helpful in this: I looked back over parts of it and was able to say, ‘oh yeah, now I remember.’ But to base this decision primarily on private experience is, of course, profoundly un-Catholic.
I miss my community, the people that I love, singing hymns I know, being familiar with the liturgy to the point that I can reflect on it instead of trying to figure out what it is that I’m supposed to be doing. I wish I knew what the Anglican Church is, the beliefs, sacraments, colors, documents, prayers, movements, fundamental beliefs (aside from the shared Creed, of course)…I wish that there was someone to just, I don’t know, teach and discuss these things with me, so that I might find a way to catch my footing. I feel lost, and therefore conflicted about where it is that I am meant to be. I wonder if I’m supposed to go back to Catholic churches, if that’s what recent events have been pointing me towards, even though I do not believe, fundamentally, that this is true. In a way, my recent experiences of comfort represent a profound temptation to slip back into what is easy and familiar rather than to seek out in difficulty what path it is right for me to take.
In the Roman Catholic Church, there is a highly structured catechetical program for adults who want to be initiated into the Church, complete with discussions, teachings, and guidelines for experiencing what the corporate beliefs are. I don’t know if the same thing exists in Anglican churches. The Alpha program is not what I mean: I found it interesting but ultimately unenlightening and insufficient when I did it at my home parish several years ago. I want…I don’t know…someone cleverer than me to help me make my way through the tangled branches of it all. All this is assuming, of course, that there are shared corporate beliefs, at least sufficiently for such a program of study to be viable. Even looking at the latitude for variation is important, I think, since this is not something the Roman Catholic Church itself excels at.
Thus far, I have been unable to find this mythical mentor. For one thing, the church I’ve been going to places no importance at all upon actually belonging to the Anglican Church. For another…um…I’m not sure the priest there is actually suited for dealing with me in this way: I’m afraid I might actually trample him with my incessant questioning. I need someone to challenge my assumptions and show me new things, who isn’t going to get confused by what it is I’m asking. I have an unfortunate and sneaking suspicion that I already know more about liturgy and doctrine than this priest, given my hyper-dedication to studying catechism, tradition and law, as well as classical philosophy and theology. This actually puts me at a disadvantage, since I am well-schooled in the doctrines, history, and documents of the most systematic church currently in existence. The Roman Catholic Church is not exactly known for its brilliant expression of mystery…oh, there’s mystery in the doctrines and teachings, but it’s lodged firmly inside a logical and thorough account of the mystery in question. For example: transubstantiation. It uses the language of substantial ontology to capture the reality of what Eucharist is. The idea is that the accidental properties of the bread and wine remain, but that their substance is effaced and replaced by the substance of the Body and Blood of Christ. Yes, this remains a mystery, and the doctrine does not pretend otherwise. But the doctrine seems to, in a way, take away this fundamental aspect of mystery in gratitude and replace it with a kind of gratitude-in-understanding. Which is the only problem I have with the doctrine of transubstantiation as such.
But I digress.
The point is that I desperately need and want to learn about this way of being Christian that I am circling. But it just doesn’t seem to be happening. I also don’t have a confessor I click with…ideally, the two would be combined, since the idea of sin and understandings of doctrine are sometimes tightly bound up with each other.
Oh, my heart! There is such a great temptation in my longing, for that which I know and have known. I returned to my home congregation because I needed and wanted to be there, to grieve with the people I love and who love me, to face and experience loss in and with the community entire. I’ve gone to the funerals of three people from that church now whom I have loved deeply, and if there’s only one thing I’ve learned it’s that grieving is never done alone, not really. We come together and prepare, together, to go back out our separate ways. Although the healing and the returning to our separate lives is done individually, the process of that healing, as well as the sending forth, is only really accomplished in communion with one another. But now, out of this need to be home again, is the fear – and secret longing, as well – that I will not be able, not be willing, to go onward again as before. The tendency to return to the people who love and miss me, whom I love and miss, and the Church as I have understood it for so long, is a powerful one. In so many ways, I just don’t know what to do. It’s isolating and heartbreaking and I don’t know that I am strong enough to try and do this on my own anymore. But that still doesn’t change the fact that the place I need to turn to and lean on for support if I am to change doesn’t seem to exist, at least for me. I world of mirage and doubt and fear…where is this place that I have taken myself? Where shall I find rest?
To quote Jeremiah: “This is what the Lord says: ‘Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.’” (6:16)
Or, Psalm 62: “My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will never be shaken […] Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him […] Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.” (1-8)
Or, Frodo: “There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?”
Or, with Matthew: “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (11:29)
Or, with St. Augustine: “God, you have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless till they find their rest in you.”
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