And the connections continue

Taking time to “connect the dots” in relationships orients our lives in surprising ways

If you’re my age you might remember “connect the dots,” an activity in which an incomplete picture has an array of numbered “dots” on a sheet of paper, and beginning with dot one, you bridge the gaps, number by number, until you have a complete picture.

Sometimes the picture is easily discernible (even before the connecting process):

And sometimes it’s not:

But in either case, it takes some intentionality to see the connections which form a bigger picture. I have learned in my six months (can it be that long already?!) of loss and reorientation that isolation is a real issue for grievers. Many of us who grieve have thoughtful friends and family members who pursue us in our pain and offer us the sacred gift of connection. Not all grievers have such ready access to others in times of great loss and find they need to be much more proactive in pursuing connections. I have been blessed in the former way, but even then I find that it is all too easy to feel isolated (or to choose isolation).

When I’m having “a moment,” I need to be deliberate, step back and allow myself to see connections that might otherwise be fleeting. And then there are those moments that catch me by surprise, where I am joyously surprised by what I learn.

Yesterday was one of those days. I spent most of the day at a church about an hour away from me, gathering with other leaders (clergy and lay) to meet with individuals serving, or intending to serve, in pastoral roles in my region of The United Methodist Church. It has been nearly ten years since I last served in this role in the Minnesota Conference (although I had the privilege of doing so for a number years in Virginia when I lived there).

Before the meeting I had perused the email distribution list, and I saw that I knew all but one of the committee members, so in anticipation I knew it would be a homecoming of sorts. I had no idea just how beautiful it would be, though.

I parked my car in the church parking lot, which is surrounded by a large expanse of what appeared to be a prairie grass restoration area. This made my Minnesota Master Naturalist heart leap for joy, so I was already smiling inwardly as I walked the sidewalk, opened the doors and turned toward the meeting room.

There to greet me was the church’s pastor, also a committee member. She greeted me so warmly, a smile on her face, her arms stretched forward in a collegial embrace. In nano-seconds the past decade was suffused with a connection stemming back more than twenty years. I entered the room, to be met with smiles, welcomes, handshakes, hugs and a chorus of “welcome back.”

I was so touched, but I had anticipated these renewed connections to be lovely, my only surprise being how sweet they tasted to my soul. This connectional life is one of the reasons, years ago, after I found myself displaced from the denomination of my youth and young adulthood, that I chose to become a United Methodist. Even then, as a much younger person, I could sense, intuitively, a unique ethos of care. These past thirty years have proven my initial hunch to be absolutely true, and I bask in the sunlight of my return “home,” where life-long connections continue to breathe life.

Our task of the day, as I alluded to earlier, was to interview those in process seeking ordination or other licensure. We had productive conversations, and I so pleased to see the quality of candidates coming before the committee. The details are, of course confidential, but I need to tell you about an epiphanic moment of connection that took me by surprise.

Interviewees provide committee members written work preceding their appearance, so we have a chance to prayerfully read about their understanding of theology and ministry practice. Each of the candidates’ papers were interesting and I could sense God’s work in their lives and in their vocations. One, in particular, caught my attention because the individual grew up in the part of the country where I completed my undergraduate degree.

In the midst of our interview, I asked the candidate to say a little more about the cultural differences between that part of the country and Minnesota. I explained that my question was motivated by my own experience, now some forty years past, in navigating regional, cultural differences, even within the same denomination. I disclosed that I lived for four years in the same state. The candidate, a delightful conversationalist with a thoughtful theological mind, asked me where. I gave a few more details and watched as the interviewee’s face lit up, a look of shock and disbelief emerging. “No way! That’s my hometown. Really?”

In an unexpected moment of epiphany, I felt my heart “strangely warmed” (if you know, you know) by an unexpected connection. Although I already felt very much at home with the committee members around the table, there was a new surge of energy in my soul as I encountered another person with a commonality. My four undergraduate years were some of the best of my life, and for a shimmering moment I was taken back to another day, another place and time in my life where my wife and I first met.

And even though I hadn’t been feeling alone or isolated prior to that moment, I experienced the double blessing of a new connection built upon more than three decades of other connections. Later in the day, returning to an empty house — an experience I am still learning to adjust to — I didn’t feel quite as alone after all.

My journey of reorientation and redefinition is often very challenging. It is, after all, hard for an old dog to learn new tricks. But it is possible when I trust that Love has always and continues to weave together all the seemingly disparate strands of my life into something meaningful and worthwhile.

I just need to take the time to connect the dots, step by step, until a clearer picture emerges.