At a Crossroads

Decision-making must continue in the land of prolonged grief

With apologies for the quality of the image, this is what I see this morning as I look out from my sunroom desk.

For several minutes now my rabbit friend has been sitting beneath its perceived protection of a large rock and its surrounding foliage, alternately flicking its ears while bringing its paws up together, rapidly rubbing them together in an effort to dispel the morning dew from its fur. Eyes darting about, listening intently to the world around it, whether the rabbit knows it or not, it is at a crossroads. Oriented to is momentary context, a decision needs to be made: how long to stay in relative safety and at what moment to hop forward.

I am no expert in animal behavior, and I have my own questions about animal sentience: how much do other living, non-human beings “know” about themselves, their surroundings or their environment? I would guess that scientists might say animals are instinctive — not intuitive — beings, and their behavior is based upon simple behavior. Nothing more, nothing less.

I have admitted that I do not know much about animal behavior, so I might as well confess that I don’t have that much of an understanding of human behavior either. Once upon a time, before grief invaded my life, I thought I knew. In those pre-significant-loss days it seemed to me that when we human are presented with or come upon options in our lives, we have the rational capacity to make fairly good decisions based on our moral commitments or our views of the world. I suppose that somewhere still, in the cellars of my consciousness, I still maintain that position, but I have found that, like the rabbit I am observing this morning, while I am in grief I have ton continually make the decision whether to stay in my own perceived safety zone or to step forward into the unknown arenas of life.

Yesterday in a wonderfully supportive text, one my Virginia friends made a connection for me I had not yet made:

I wanted to wish a wonderful start tomorrow with your new Crossroads home. Isn’t it ironic that that’s the name of your church, kind of the same in your life right now …

She is exactly right. I am at a Cross Roads and hadn’t yet made that connection (surprising for a normatively intuitive guy like me). This, incidentally, is one of the fruits of seeking to live an inter-dependent life, recognizing how valuable others are in our lives. If I were simply pursuing a life of independence, with no need or care for the thoughts of others, I may have missed this life signpost. And if I were muddled in a life of dependence, I would be so self-seeking that gracious interludes like this one would pass by me as purposeless. Inter-dependence (living within community in physical and virtual space) is a gift.

Last night I was browsing FaceBook (still relatively “new” to me, as I eschewed its presence in my life until my most recent congregation, where it was a primary, vibrant source of connection for its members), I noted the announcement of leadership changes at Claudia’s final, primary place of mission engagement. In a succession plan which she and I had talked about a great deal in the past year or so, the leader who invited her to come has taken a new role, and a leader that Claudia recruited to join the executive team became the new CEO of the organization. Last week I noticed as well that Claudia’s former position was being advertised as open.

I was reminded that I am not the only one at a cross roads in life, and I texted my appreciation and support to Claudia’s well-loved colleague, expressing my love for his kindness over the years and my prayers in his new chapter of life.

He responded thoughtfully, saying in part:

It does my heart good to see you in your new home and parish. I believe you are entering your best season of ministry.

I’ve read that sentence again and again in the past day. It grabs my attention and my heart because I have questioned that over the past three months. Claudia and I were always a team: we were team parents, we were mutual cheerleaders for one another, and we were a team in the local church settings where I’ve been appointed pastor.

Just yesterday I was telling one of my Willmar sons, who accompanied me to my new church office on my first day, “I’m excited to be here at Cross Roads UMC. Good people, beautiful facility, lots of possibility. But I’m a one-man team now. Mom used to tend to the relationships and was my biggest behind-the-scenes cheerleader. But now it’s just me, and I’m going to try to learn some additional roles. I’m not sure how that’s going to go, but I’m going to do it.”

He looked at me and said, “But that’s what you always have done in churches, right?”

I queried, “What do you mean?”

“I mean the Bishop has always sent you to build up a congregation, right? That’s what you’ve always done best, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, “I guess it is. This time will be so different without your Mom, but I believe that’s what God calls me to do, and I really find great meaning in that. So we’ll see.”

My “we’ll see” sounds weaker than what I really intended to say. I should have said something like this:

I am at a Cross Roads (literally and figuratively) in my life. I still feel the pain of loss so deeply, but I feel God’s call even more intensely than ever to stretch forward. I have had (and will continue to need) moments to quietly sit in the shadow of the Rock, like my early-morning leporine (“of or relating to the rabbit”) visitor, my ears discerning, my eyes observing, my tentative paws rubbing against one another in anticipation.

And then, at just the right moment I will hop from my cross road moment in a decisive move to stretch forward. I will do this again and again, because this is how we live with grief. We allow moments to rest and reflect, we observe our surroundings and then we act, and in such action we find new life.

Just like my rabbit friend, who while I watched, crossed the “road,” navigated his way to within inches of my sun room windows and continued forward with his day.