Giff... on the Way
"When you walk to the edge of all the light you know and are about to take that first step into the darkness of the unknown, you must believe that only one of two things will happen: There will be something solid for you to stand upon, or, you will be taught how to fly.” - Barbara J. Winter
Of all places, I first discovered this quote on a Hallmark Card given to me by my Mum's boyfriend in the wake of teenage legal troubles and a complete crash in my life and faith. I was twenty.
Since, I have shared it with those who suffer, I've quoted it to myself in the mirror, and I've said it graveside to families overcome by grief, who held on to a casket with their fingernails. Hope is a powerful drug – believing that the story doesn't end in this tragic or devastating moment – that no matter how lost you've become or who you may have betrayed, there is always a road (or a flight) home.
I posted BJW's quote on Instagram the week I left active ministry in December, but then since, it seems like I'm the one holding on by my finger nails.
Don't get me wrong, my faith is still there (although it seems to transform faster than I'm ready to keep up with or acknowledge each day). I've never doubted the God who lifted me up (read: manhandled me) well before I plummeted into the abyss. But hope in new life requires a desire to live into that new life, and to let go of the life that went before. God is indeed in the dead-raising-business, but he doesn't raise the dead back to that same old road leading towards expiration at the precipice of the cliff.
God lifts us up to embrace her audacious choice not to just let us disappear.
I depart today for two weeks of intensive treatment for C-PTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and issues of childhood trauma and abuse at a facility in the United States, and let me tell you, I'm standing at the edge of the cliff again, and the darkness of the unknown seems more daunting than ever. The internal struggle of taking self-indulgent time to get help when so many cannot; the knowledge that my old life has died and although God has the capacity to breathe new life in, it will never be the same; but most of all, I hear the dark voice of temptation whisper to me from the abyss: "It will never work. You will never change."
At the celebration of my first Mass as a Priest, my mentor and one of my spiritual fathers, Bishop William Cliff told the congregation – while making sure I knew he was talking right at me – about the three lies Satan tries to tell us every day; three lies we must whole heartedly reject to accept the embrace of a salvific God.
- You are utterly alone.
- You are trapped.
- Nothing will ever change.
Well, Satan's had a megaphone lately, so it's time to drown him out.
I am not alone. I am not trapped. Things can (and will) change.
Today, as I come to the edge of all the light I've ever known and step into the darkness of the terrifying unknown, I pray only one of two things will happen: There will be something solid for me to stand upon, or, I will be taught how to fly.