by Sarah Cushing
As we enter this Advent season, I find myself once again invited to consider how I can best live into seasons of waiting. Leaving L’Arche continues to be one of the hardest things I have ever done. I often find myself surprised and overwhelmed at how much is left unanswered within me and how uncertain the future still feels. Advent offers me a chance to pause, to take stock of what is, and search for the places within waiting where I can offer myself a bit more compassion.
I made the decision to spend my final weeks in community not saying goodbye, but attempting to soak it all up – the big and small moments, the relationships that had been built over many years and those that had just started to develop, the things I knew for certain and those questions that still had no answers. I knew if I attempted to say goodbye before I was gone, I would miss too much of what mattered the most to me – the everyday moments with kind, imperfect, forgiving humans. My final weeks in community were perfectly ordinary – a beautiful mess of busy & bored & tired & hopeful. They were real days and I was grateful for them.
I got to my community blessing and it finally hit me how unprepared I was to say goodbye. I had a brief moment of panic but decided against attempts to come up with a last ditch effort to “appear” ready. I decided to just let it be. Maybe I wasn’t ready to say goodbye or articulate my gratitude, but I did feel capable of showing up to humans that I loved. So I sat in that circle and I listened. I watched the faces and bodies of humans I love dearly, pour out gratitude in ways only they could. I remember more smiles than tears, more hope than fear. I remember someone asking me after how I felt, and my honest response of “I’m just so grateful.” I left that circle knowing I had been there fully – that I had received the love as best I could.
Today, when I look at this picture of Sharilynn and me from the blessing, I feel something more – another layer formed – something less clear, something more mysterious. I see the pain on Sharilynn’s face and I am reminded of a similar pain that lives deep within me. Most days my grief doesn’t find words. Most days the pain doesn’t find its way to my face. There are moments when I question if I am doing this right – if there is a better way to balance gratitude and grief. Some days, all I want is to be back in that circle next to Sharilynn. Some days, I really wish there were more answers than there are.
I look at this picture and I am reminded of how Sharilynn let herself feel the pain that day. I remember that this is just one of the many times she has allowed herself the space to grieve. I have always been in awe of her ability to give space to emotions that have no words, and often, not even a clear place to land. Sharilynn reminds me of the gift that is staying. This Advent I will be working on finding the grace and patience to let myself stay in what is – searching for places to slip in extra doses of compassion – small reminders that even when waiting feels messy and hard, there is blessing to be found.
| Stay by Jan Richardson I know how your mind rushes ahead, trying to fathom what could follow this. What will you do? Where will you go? How will you live? You will want to outrun the grief. You will want to keep turning toward the horizon, watching for what was lost to come back, to return to you and never leave again. For now, hear me when I say all you need to do is still yourself, is to turn towards one another, is to stay. Wait and see what comes to fill the gaping hole in your chest. Wait with your hands open to receive what could never come except to what is empty and hollow. You cannot know it now, cannot even imagine what lies ahead. But I tell you, the day is coming when breath will fill your lungs as it never has before. And with your own ears you will hear words coming to you new and startling. You will dream dreams and you will see the world ablaze with blessing. Wait for it. Still yourself. Stay. |
Submitted by Sarah Cushing
