Chris and I went on an enneagram retreat recently. It was two full days of white-knuckled self-awareness. Two full days of I’d rather pull the covers over my face and hide forever. But after two days of total and complete denial, we relented because it’s far easier to just be at truth with your self, than to try to keep writing your own perfect narrative of your own very less-than-perfect self.
Because this has definitely been a less-than-perfect season. Me, Chris, and our loved ones ache, tire, and fear. And here I am, in this full knowledge that I can fix nothing. I mean, I can’t fix my self, and I certainly can’t fix the hurt and grief of the people I love.
One weekend recently was particularly hard, and my family all just sat together. We sat in the living room telling stories, we sat around the kitchen cooking and laughing, we sat in the dining room crying. Sitting and being. That’s all it was. It was presence and it was bearing witness to one another’s pain without trying to fix it.
So we turn again to this week — my favorite week of the year. The week that changes me more than January 1, more than “Back to School.” This is the week that feels like the start of a new year. It always has for me. Or at least it has for the years I’ve spent wandering around this strange land of adulthood. It’s a week of mysterious and mystical power, in the reminder that I have such little power. The events of Holy Week are transformative, and don’t require anything from me. It’s actually the opposite, these events take place in spite of what I lack.
I need lots of reminders– reminders to listen and to slow down and to remember. This week is my favorite reminder. It reminds me to live in that place of just being with my self and with one another. Not with ignorance or naivete, but the opposite: with honesty and humility. Because regardless of what I do or what I am capable of knowing or what I can control, on the third day, the tomb was empty and my Savior King, both God and man, was victorious over all of it.
And I had nothing to do with it.
Thank you thank you thank you. Your vulnerability is stunning and welcoming.