Displaced

The courtyard outside the North York Civic Centre is busy. People sit around the picnic tables scattered under the trees or on the metal benches that line the fountain in the middle of the square. Unlike the suburb where I spent the past three years, or the quiet street where I grew up, Yonge and Shepherd is a constant swarm of activity and noise and traffic. The relentless nature of it is overwhelming.

Today, however, it does not bother me. I am sitting on one of the benches, sipping my morning coffee. It is my first day off in a week. I have done my best to keep busy, but the truth is, I like my job. Working with special needs students -- be it in a group home or residence or camp -- is always rewarding. My clients remind me that it is in the simple things where we find the greatest portions of joy. And while I'm with them, for a while at least, I don't have to think about home.

But today I am not working. And I am home.

If only I knew what that meant.

I can tell you my physical address, can take you there and point to the room where I sleep. But I might as well be pointing to a bed on a stage. My condo represents my house. But it isn't my home.

A small brown and white puppy bounces in behind its owner, tail wagging, excited by its morning walk. His owner, a tiny woman in her mid-thirties, leans down to rub its face before continuing. I smile as the puppy twists the leash around her legs in excitement, and it is some time before the owner untangles them. My gaze drifts. Beyond the puppy, a ripped Wendy's wrapper twists and swirls in the wind.

I am still not sure how I got here. All displacement is hard, and all of us will deal with it a few times in our lives. Moving. Changing jobs. Deaths in our family. It is part of being human to see change and see it suddenly, so much so that the movement of "there to here" feels like a chasm.

In my case, the chasm is not only moving to a new location, but doing so without the one I thought was my life partner. And it is that part with which I struggle on a daily basis. The one that deals with home.

Before I moved here, the building never mattered. Neither did the address.

She was my home.

The wrapper flutters in the wind and sticks against the side of a garbage can. I stare at it for a while, hoping it will shake itself loose.

I take a deep breath and slowly get to my feet. An elderly woman walking a medium sized Pointer stops and lets me pet him.

Time is a wonderful healer, but it moves slow for me these days. I try not to think about her and what she's doing or what we could be doing together. I try not to think about home.

Sometimes I am successful.

And yet, I am lucky. I have friends who take the time to wade through this painful transition, friends who are helping me face the chasm behind me and pushing towards the future. Not everyone has this. I think of the homeless man that I spoke with the other night. He claimed to be a professor from Columbia. He spoke of how much he missed his family. I have no idea if what he was saying was true, but it was clear that he was lonely. Clear that he had no house. Clear he had no home.

What I face, and what so many of us face, is not unusual. It is painful and awful and isolating, but it is normative. At some point in our lives, we will all feel this loss. I have worked with many children who grew up without a home. Too many. And so while my days are long and filled with questions, I remind myself that I have been given insight into the hurt of others, an insight I do not take lightly.

I slowly head back to my building. I notice a man sitting alone on one of the benches. His pants are pulled up high, his face unshaven. He is muttering to himself. He rises suddenly and sits again, still muttering. It looks like he hasn't showered in some time.

Where is his home? Who takes care of him? Is he alone?

I walk the final two blocks to my building. A torn piece of newspaper swirls in front of me before sticking against the window of the convenience store. I think about the puppy, so excited at his new world. And I think about the garbage, abandoned and left to the wind.

I put the torn newspaper in the garbage bin.

Everything has a place.

I Wish

            A cool breeze wafts across the porch. It carries with it the scent of the purple flowered bush next to the steps, sweet and tangy. It has flowered every spring, but only for about six weeks, when the flowers die and do not reappear until the following year. I wish I knew the name of it. I wish the flowers bloomed longer.

            I wish for a lot of things.

            It is bright today. Hot. But under the shade of my neighbor’s towering birch, it is cool enough on the porch. Cool enough to write, anyway. And think. Though only one thing dominates my mind these days. It follows me everywhere I go, lingers like a foul odor, does not allow much room for anything else. It is all I can do to go to work, and try, at least, for a little while, to forget that my life has changed forever.

            I glance over at the window where my cat has curled up on one of the many boxes that now fill my house. They line the walls and lay scattered across the living room floor. Books and kitchen things. Old files and memorabilia and photographs. Tools and Christmas decorations and things from my childhood. All packed away. The furniture is still there, but the shelves are empty.

The house is empty.

I am empty.

She left three months ago, and I still do not understand. I wonder if I’ll ever understand.

Last year was hard. I have wrestled with depression my entire life, but last year it struck in a way I had never experienced. I lost my job. I broke into hives. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Some days it was all I could to get out of bed.

It was hard on her, too. It is painful to live with someone with mental health issues, and last year must have been a nightmare for her. It is one thing for me to talk about the emptiness and loneliness inherent with depression, but altogether something else for our loved ones who are powerless to help. I had hoped that she would stay, counted on this year being better, but it was all too much, I think.

She deserves to be happy.

I would have fought for this relationship, done whatever it took to make it right, but sometimes we reach the end of our rope and must protect ourselves. We’re no good to the rest of the world if we’re miserable, and everyone deserves the right to be happy, no matter how much it hurts. No matter how much I hurt.

Love is not about me.

I take a deep breath and stare out across the street. Watch the leaves on the trees shift and sway in the wind. Love is not about me. I have said that a thousand times these past three months. I believe it, but it only helps a little. It certainly sounds right. Something you say to convince people around you that you’re being wise and kind and patient, when inside your emotions are a boiling cauldron of frustration and sadness and anger. When your emotions are desperately trying to escape so they can scream and yell and lash out, and all you have is this thin barrier, largely constructed of mantras and clichés and whispered hope, to reign them in.

Sometimes they escape. Sometimes I do not think kind things. Sometimes I am so overwhelmed I can hardly move.

She deserves to be happy.

I have always believed this. That hasn’t changed.

Pain of this magnitude is a great teacher, if we allow it. It gives us a mirror into our lives that we rarely see. And for a while, we can see ourselves from the perspective of someone else. I have stared into this mirror for three months, and it has taught me a great deal. It has also given me more wishes.

I wish I’d known she was so unhappy. I wish I’d been a better husband. I wish I’d been enough.

I sigh and put down my laptop. It is time to pack again.

Back inside, I pack two more boxes. The wedding photos are the hardest, but I see her everywhere. I remember everything, every story behind every book and nicnac and kitchen appliance. And every time I put them in a box, part of me disappears with them.

Tears slide down my cheeks. It feels like I have been crying for a long time. I know that one day the tears will stop, and that spring will come again and I will live without pain. I believe that, I just can’t feel it. Not yet. Perhaps not for a while.

Some days I think about our life together. Think about what I could have done differently. At night, I sometimes dream that we’re together, that I’ve made better choices and she is happy. Those mornings are difficult.

I do not believe everything is my fault, of course. I am not that arrogant. But I cannot control anything but who I am and the choices I made, and to focus on anything else is fool’s gold. The intent of pain’s mirror is not to cast blame or throw stones, but to check my thoughts and heart and actions.

Where did I go wrong? What could I have done better? What kind of person do I want to be going forward? Again, these are the kind of questions that sound like I have things all together, but don’t be fooled. No one “has it all together” when they lose the love of their life.

As a Christian, I believe in God. I also believe in a broken world, which is as much a reflection of my faith as it is my understanding of humanity. We are not perfect. We make choices that hurt people. And we do it every day.

I do it every day.

And somewhere along the way, I made too many of these choices. Perhaps she made too many of these choices. And so we broke.

That doesn’t make me a bad person. And it doesn’t make her a bad person. It makes us both human.

I put down the third box and head back onto the porch. I scrub the tears from my face. I am greeted by the fresh scent of my little shrub. I wish she were here. I wish I could tell her how much I loved her and hoped for her happiness. I wish that my heart did not feel so empty.

I wish for a lot of things.

Sick Not Weak: My Walk With Depression

           

           

I glanced up at the gray morning sky from my usual spot on the porch. Rain echoed off our metal overhang. A robin bounced across my front lawn, alternately glaring at me and digging her beak into the wet grass. I normally enjoyed the rain – I usually considered it ideal writing weather – but today I could have used some sun. It had been a long weekend. A hard weekend. Perhaps the toughest one I’d ever gone through, and I was still worn out.

            The past year and a half had been something of a nightmare for me. My depression had flared up in a way I could have never imagined. It had cost me my job, and from there, things had become progressively worse. I broke out in hives for months. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking when I was in public. I pulled away from everyone, including those I loved the most. Some days I could not get out of bed. It was like my world had become suddenly bleached with gray, as if the sun and life and hope had been sucked out of my existence. Though I’d dealt with depression for two decades, it had never been this bad. A friend of mine, who also dealt with mental health issues, told me that I needed to get a handle on it or I would lose everything. I did not know how to do that.

            And through it all, I stayed quiet. On my (many) Facebook posts and blogs and tweets, I rarely, if ever, mentioned it. I didn’t want to bring others down, and frankly, I wasn’t proud of my situation. I’d felt the stigma of depression for most of my life, heard the whispers that mental health sufferers weren’t working hard enough. That they just needed to let it go. That they weren’t religious enough or weren’t praying hard enough. I had tried, but I couldn’t get there. Despite tears and soul crushing effort, I couldn’t reach the sun. Every day it seemed to rain, even when there were no clouds. And without a job, medication was out of the question. So was counseling. I did not know what to do.

            I could feel people slipping away from me, people I loved, friends and family. I wanted to tell them that I was trying. That I still loved them. That I wasn’t ignoring them and that I could feel their presence at all times. I just couldn’t touch them.  

            And still I remained silent. 

            Perhaps it was my pride. Or perhaps it was this notion that I would wake up one morning and everything would be okay again. Or that I would step out onto the porch and the sun would be shining again.

            It didn’t happen.

            This past weekend was the most difficult weekend of my life because I was finally confronted with the consequences of not doing anything. Of not talking about my pain. Of not taking actions to manage my depression in a more healthy manner. And while it was painful, it was also a relief. I had been guilty of the worst course of action for a mental health sufferer. I’d buried my head in the sand and tried to fix things on my own. I’d refused to look in the mirror and admit the truth. So I did. And this is what I saw:

            Your name is Stephen Burns. You are 43 years old. You suffer from depression. You have hurt people close to you because you refuse to face, to truly face, the issues you wrestle with every day. If you don’t do something, you’ll lose everything. You are sick, not weak.

            As you can imagine, it was not an easy image to process. My habit for dealing with my inner torment had always been to bury it. Close down. Disengage. (And occasionally lash out in anger on Facebook) I had often heard thoughts telling me that my depression wasn’t real, that it wasn’t a real sickness, and that if I was a stronger person I could handle it.

            Some days I was able to reject those lies. Too often I believed them.

            Faced with the prospect of my world collapsing, I confronted my sickness. And (in what I don’t think was a coincidence) I found a website, a community, at SickNotWeak. Started by TSN personality Michael Landsberg, himself a depression sufferer, the site was a wonderment to me. I found stories there, written by other sufferers. I found a place to go when the sun dipped behind the clouds. I found a community of people willing to do something, for themselves and others, to help bring light back into their life.

            This past year I’d published my first novel, The Last Angel. Though I’d waited a lifetime to achieve that, and though the reviews were positive, it didn’t help the way I’d thought it would. My personal achievement seemed to have no impact on my mental health. Despite the plethora of kind words and encouraging reviews, most days I would wake up and hear different voices. Ones telling me that I still hadn’t sold many books. That I was still a failure. That I’d always be a failure. I cringed at the internal criticism and sank into myself. Sank into my pain and torment. I thought I had lost control of my life. I had begun to think it would never change.

            That too, was a lie.

            This past Saturday I devised some new strategies (which I will delve into later this week), some of which I’d gleamed from SickNotWeak, to help me deal with my depression. And yesterday, for the first day in a long time, I felt like I was in control of my life again.

Writing this essay was one of those strategies, but again, I hesitated. It had only been a few days. What difference did a few days make? I hadn’t accomplished anything. This time, however, I was able to ignore the lie.

This essay was never meant to be a testimony of accomplishment, but a challenge to be open about who I was and what I suffered from. And perhaps let others know that I felt their pain. That I suffered with them. That they weren’t alone.

I was tired of running. Tired of hiding. It was time to do something.

The robin fluttered off into the large maple on our lawn, and I watched her settle there, her orange chest thrust forward bobbing confidently on the tiny branch. I shook my head. Mental health issues were more prevalent in our society than people imagined. And so many of us who suffered from it on a daily basis were afraid to talk about it. Afraid because we worried what people would think or that we’d bring others down or that we were only using it as an excuse.

I’d learned my lesson the hard way. I couldn’t do it alone. I couldn’t conquer it without help. And while honesty was important, it wasn’t enough. I needed to act.

I stood, resting my laptop on my chair. It continued to rain, the wind gusting against the branches, the grass brown and mottled. Spring hadn’t arrived. Not yet. But as I glanced up at the gray skies, I spotted a ray of sunlight hidden behind the clouds. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Stephen

AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you suffer from mental health issues, there are numerous places where you can get help. I highly recommend SickNotWeak. And if you want to contact me, just go to my contact page and you can find me. I'll be happy to get back to you. 

A New Home

The balcony is higher than I remember. Across the lake, the Toronto cityscape merges with the parks and green trees surrounding my new home. About five feet from the railing a tall pine extends its branches just past the eighth floor. A redwing blackbird flashes to the top of its limbs and sings before darting away, diving into the air currents and fluttering to another tree farther down.

For the first time in nearly two years I am alone. No sounds of my housemates getting up for work or getting breakfast or early morning chatter; just the distant hum of the highway and the quiet echoes of my coffee percolating in the kitchen. It’s strange, and in some ways welcome, this quietness, this sense of distance. There is sadness there, however, and it surprises me. After two years, my life has been irrevocably changed by my housemates and friends, and my ideas about community and privacy have as well.

I head to the kitchen to pour my morning coffee. The apartment is filled with boxes and a few scattered furniture items, and my sandals slap against the hardwood floor. With a bit of digging I find a mug and manage to pour myself the all important first cup of the day. It is hard not to think about what changes have come, and the changes that will soon ensue. For today though, I am lost in the memories of my move to Toronto two years ago, of my first meeting with my housemates, my first experience of living in community, and the way the many nights and long conversations on the stoop have changed me and challenged me.

I’m back outside, and I can hear my neighbor rattling around on the balcony next door. Somehow it reassures me, and I smile into my cup even as I thank God for the past week. Of all the things I’ve learned these past two years, perhaps the most poignant is that it isn’t enough to simply say you believe something. It’s fine to talk about the “rightness” of your religion, but it’s more important to chat with someone outside your faith – not because you want to evangelize them – but just because you want to hear their story. It’s fine to talk about issues, but not unless we’ve met the people who believe other than we do. The older I get, the less sure I am about many things, including my faith. The pathway to God seems murkier, especially when trying to steer through the natural prejudices of my culture and upbringing.

What makes it so ironic is that the times I feel closest to God are the times I confess my struggles. Times like this morning when I sit and chat with a God I long to serve and know, and One whom I respect enough to realize I may have it all wrong. Jesus has long been my hero, but in rational terms, there is nothing really concrete about my faith. I can’t prove it to you or hand you a lab test or logically convince you that I am right, if only because I may be wrong. I may be completely off about the whole idea of creation and loving Creator. What I do know, however, is that in building relationships with the people around me, in opening my ears and eyes to hear their story, I sense the imprint of a loving God in them, and that is what stirs me to pray. It is what stirs me to love better and more, and try harder at putting my ‘self’ to the side more often. My housemates helped teach me that, and I will do my best not to forget those lessons.

I stare out across lake to the city, until my gaze flickers at the two crows circling upward in draft, their wings wide, heads high, before diving back down towards the ground. The sound of morning traffic reaches up to the balcony, and it is with a contented sigh that I sip my coffee and look down at the world below.

Change can be difficult, but as I’ve learned, it is the one thing that helps us to grow in both understanding and wonder at the life around us. I’ll miss my housemates, but as in all things, it is time to move on.

My prayer this week is that you would embrace the changes inevitable in life, that you would hear God’s voice amidst the questions of your everyday journey, and that you would find both joy and peace, and perhaps a little conversation amidst all of life’s struggles and hardships.

Much love

-Steve

This blog is dedicated to Szymon, Nads, Keti, Tika, Nemo, Hanz, Didi, Ashley, Mitoki, Yuca, and Eriko

Two Words, One Phrase, and the End of Hope

Saturday Night, 2:30am

I didn't see it the first time I walked outside that evening. I didn't see it when I came back in or later that night when I went outside to spend some time with my housemates on the stoop. By the time I finally said goodnight to Bethany and walked her to the car, I still hadn't noticed the plain manila envelope with my name and address on it. It wasn't until my night was over, when my Friday smile seemed complete, that I chanced to glance upon it, tucked beneath a book at the front door where one of my housemates had left the Friday morning mail. In a very short time, that envelope would turn my Friday happiness to abject discouragement. Its contents would hold up to me a simple question, a phrase that had haunted me for most of my life, and despite the implications, would compel me once more to reflect on them.

But that was still to come.

Friday Evening, 5:20 pm

I'm standing under the awning outside the subway entrance, away from the drizzling rain as the traffic snarls around the corner, horns honking, the cars stuck halfway through the intersection. I love Fridays. No work, some time to write, and the week's wait to see my girl is finally over. Daylight has already started to fade, and the crowds jostle past me along the sidewalk as everyone hurries home for the weekend. A group of teenagers, excited and slightly blind to the people around them, sweep past me. Two construction workers amble along behind them, arguing about the Leafs. Mostly though, I notice the professionals. The suits and sharply clicking heels. There seems an endless stream of them. They stride with good posture as they chat on their cell phones, impervious to the people around them. I glance down at my workout pants and running shoes. Soon enough I'll be heading home, to the tiny room I call home and the house I share with my nine roommates. I watch a man in a dark suit, who looks to be about five years younger than me, stroll by, laughing into his cell phone even as he glances at the shiny silver watch on his wrist. I nod to myself, determined to not give away my Friday happiness or think about what might have been as I head down the stairs to the subway.


When I was a kid, I tended to flit from dream to dream. One year I wanted to be a boxer. No coincidence, it was the year I saw Rocky III. The next year I chanced upon the movie Breakin', while on vacation with my parents, and for a whole summer I wanted to be a professional break-dancer. (Not ideal for the chubby, white suburban kid.) And so it went. From sportscaster to wildlife biologist, I finally 'settled' on professional ministry, believing it was what God wanted from me, and believing my abilities matched that which was required to work in the church.

At first, I was right. I loved the ministry. I loved the people. The purpose. The ideals. The surety of it all. Somewhere along the way however, it started getting messy. I asked too many questions, witnessed too many things being ignored, and could no longer find the willingness to work in a world that seemed so largely composed and ruled by the Western tendency towards commoditization and moral religiosity. Somehow, we'd taken the gospel, and all the hope it contained, and buried it in post-Enlightenment Rationalism, this idea that we have all the answers. That we must have all the answers. That God is a neat package to be delivered by us. That we are Jesus.

I never really adjusted after leaving the cozy world of ministry. No matter what job I took, the world forever seemed strange to me. I bounced from job to job, and as I grew older, watched quietly as my friends grew into homes and families and promotions, even as I would begin yet another 'career.'

I felt like a traveler walking the long roads between towns, stopping to rest for a while, but forever pushing forward. A part of me longed to settle down, but my feet had their own ideas. Perhaps it was the memory of my time in the church, and how it'd felt when I left. This crashing of life and hope when the world I believed in proved itself to be nothing more than a simple human creation that often had little to do with God.


Friday Evening, 5:43 pm

The train is packed, and I'm forced to stand near the doors. The woman beside me, a tall, thick blonde wearing an expensive looking skirt suit, is typing away on her blackberry. She notices me briefly, and with a look of disdain, turns her gaze back to the blackberry. A part of me wants to tell her not to be so egocentric. That she's not that special and that she merely happened to be in my line of sight. Who is she to look at me like that? I can feel my indignation rising, my jaws tightening.

I may wear workout clothes, but just wait until my books are published. Wait until it's my turn to look at you like that.


Leaving the ministry had the lasting effect of this feeling like I was a permanent stranger, but as my inability to feel as if I fit in somewhere deepened, I began to write more, and along the way discovered what would become my singular passion in life. Writing could be done anywhere if one had the discipline. It was writing that saw me through my divorce, writing that helped me move through my battles with depression, and writing that helped me work through the different questions in my life, not the least of which was this sense that I'd irrevocably messed up along the way, and that "normalcy" and "success" would forever be a stranger to me. In writing, I discovered that there was one dream to which I could always return. One place. One hope. One constant outside my faith that would help me navigate the seemingly transient nature of my personality. Year after year, I worked on my craft, occasionally publishing articles in magazines, but knowing that until a publisher said yes to one of my books, I would forever hold myself in doubt as "real" writer.

In some ways, I guess my hope was that the recognition would cement my credentials as someone who had done something, as someone who had accomplished something. It wasn't about the approval of others; so much as it was the approval of myself.


Friday Evening, 5:56 pm

I'm staring at the blonde now, waiting for her to look up so I can sniff and look away. Give her a taste of her own medicine. It's all contrived, I want to say. Sure, you have money and a career, and I might not look like much to you and your rich coterie, but you're just a shallow egg in a world of instant chicken. Just wait until I start publishing books.

My mind, as it often does these past two weeks, goes to my latest book proposal. Three months have passed since I sent it away. I am expecting to hear back from them some time in the next week.

I'd worked hard on my latest project. A year writing the book. Months editing. Another two months on the forty-page proposal. I had picked a publisher suited to my book. The only thing left was to wait.

My excitement builds the more I think about it, and by the time I get off the train I am no longer aware of the blonde or the two lawyers who bustle past me. Throughout the years, I have developed patience when it comes to the pursuit of my dreams. I know the publishing world is fickle. I know that there are tens of thousands with whom I am competing. Still, a part of me believes that perhaps finally, after so many years, my time has come.


Friday Night, 1:20am

I wave as Bethany drives away. As always, a piece of me sighs with sadness and then smiles at what I've been given. It is hard to pursue your dreams, hard to wait for success. For now, I am grateful for my new job, my family and friends. Soon, I tell myself, perhaps very soon, I'll finally realize my dream. I step inside and take off my shoes. As I slide them off to the side, I notice the manila envelope with my name on it.

My hands are shaking as I carry it up the stairs with me. I peel off my coat and gently set it aside. No longer able to wait, I slide my thumb underneath the flap and pry open the contents. The first page is a letter, and within seconds, I have my answer.

"Dear Stephen,
Thank you so much for the opportunity to review your proposal... unfortunately, we are unable to find a place in our publishing schedule for your manuscript, so we are returning your proposal..."

I let the letter slide from my fingers onto the table, and flip through my unmarked forty-page proposal before tossing it to the side. For the moment, I am numb. I've been rejected before, but somehow this one feels different. It feels... complete.

If only I'd stayed at one job. If only I'd accepted the truth about life. If only I'd made better decisions about my career. And about my writing. I'd still be unpublished, but at least I would have something to show for it. A house. A career. Some security. Because of my thoughtless and naive belief in pursuing my dreams, I'd made myself into a poor writer-wanna-be. A writer in name only. And a failure by any measure. I thought about the two lawyers in the subway. I knew that I was burying myself in self-pity, but I couldn't seem to escape it. If only I hadn't bothered to pursue my dream. If only I'd learned to appreciate more the simple things in life, and the rule by which most people lived. Why couldn't I be more normal? Why did I always have to be so...

I slipped my coat on and headed back outside, glancing only once at my carefully worked proposal now scattered across the kitchen table like yesterday's newspaper.

It was drizzling still as I ambled down the driveway. The streetlights reflected off the puddles like hazy film, the quiet of the early hour unusually oppressive. If only. Two words that had haunted me my entire life. I knew the words were dangerous, because they reflected on what could never be. They were hope thieves, words that created space for the not-possible. If only. Two words that could never be used in a positive way. Two words that spoke, not of the future, but of the irreversible past. Comparative in nature, to use the phrase "if only" was to reflect on what never would happen, and do so in the most disparaging nature. Unlike its distant cousin, "what if", that allowed and encouraged hope to endure, "if only" recognized one thing, and one thing alone:

"You failed. You failed and it was your fault. You failed, it was your fault, and you will regret it the rest of your life. Even worse, there is nothing you can do about it. You will never be able to change or alter what you have done."

In the distance, a car splashed down the road. I glanced up at the tree in my neighbour's yard, its leaves gone, glistening in the dim light of the street like a wet stick. I tried to remember how I'd felt moments before, to recall the gratitude, but it was a vague memory that suddenly seemed like another lifetime.

If only.

It was a long time before I finally headed in, and longer still before I fell into a rough sleep.


Sunday Afternoon, 1:30pm.

Another rainy day, only today is colder. I am outside, holding my coffee to warm my hands. I am still not sure how I feel. The weekend has given me time to process my rejection, but if I dwell on it for too long I can feel the emotions, tender and bruised, rising within me. I am hoping that to feel some encouragement. To be able to look forward again as I did just this past week. And most importantly, that I will be able to encourage people with my words and life. For now, however, I am lost in a cloud of sadness.

I know that I will bounce back, that I will once again press forward, hopeful and excited about the one passion around which I have carried for so long, and which has carried me on its shoulders for even longer. At least, I think I will bounce back. For the moment, I feel truly insignificant.

I feel like a failure.


Sunday Afternoon, 3:20pm.
I am in my room now, my papers and books scattered as always across my desk. My TV is off. The cursor blinks in front of me, and from my speakers comes the soothing sounds of Thomas Newman and Alan Silvestri. "If only" is more than a phrase. It is a statement of belief. It is a creed of the impossible and the destroyer of hope. It speaks the language of regret, and offers us coal in the place of diamonds. Perhaps the worst part is that it forces us to look at our past and give ourselves a failing grade. It doesn't allow for natural human weakness, for the rhythms of life, or for the possibility of chance. And most importantly, it does not allow a place for God. It speaks with surety about what was lost, and offers us nothing in return.

But life is surely more than that, isn't it? I am struck by the number of people, who like myself, wrestle with this idea of failure. This idea of a "progressive" life. What if life isn't supposed to be progressive? What if life is more than the next promotion, the bigger house, the better clothes? What if life is really not about the success we find, but the character we create along the way? The one that says "yes" to God, and "yes" to those around us.

Eliminating the phrase does not make things easy. Even now, I can feel the inner bruises, and the scars I know it will leave from this latest rejection. I wish I had a better answer about where God is in this process. I wish I knew why my friend, Ernie, who is the best artist I know, couldn't get his pieces into a gallery. I wish I knew why the relationship between talent and success made little sense, and why some people fulfilled their dreams and while others spent their lives in pursuit.

What I do know is that to find success and to fulfill your dreams are not necessarily the same thing. That to hope for the future is always better than to dwell on what never will be. And that the pain we feel when we experience failure is better than the emptiness of a life on the treadmill to nowhere. In that, this feeling, yes, of pain, is the feeling of a life hungry and hopeful. The rich and fabulous can have their cell phones and surety. Let them have their assured airs and marbled moments. Perhaps the life worth living is not the one we see on television or in the magazines, but the one carved out of the inevitable sorrow in the pursuit of our dreams.

"If only" may whisper that we are failures, and for a time, it may even convince us that it is true. My prayer then, this week, is that we would remember the most influential person who ever walked the planet never published a single book. Never traveled more than 35 miles from his hometown. And lived as a simple carpenter for most of his life.

To follow your dreams is to travel the road less traveled. And while there may be times you get lost, times when hope seems a distant memory, and times when the loneliness of the pursuit threatens to pull you under, remember that the only life worth living is the one you've been given, far beyond the shiny medals of self righteousness of those who would look down on you. Sadness will come, but only for a time. Pursue the life you were born to live, and hold fast to the passions of your heart. It will not be easy, but then, I don't think it is supposed to be. It is in our deepest sorrows that we discover who we truly are, and it is in those moments, more than any other, when we face up to the waves of doubt and discouragement, when we acknowledge what has happened and yet press forward, that we achieve something greater than our dreams.

-Steve

When Hope Leaves

The sky is clear tonight, and the moon shadows the few clouds in the sky, looking down at me as I lean against my stoop. There's no reason for the melancholy that pervades my mood, no reason I can think of anyway. Is it the exhaustion of the week? Or is it the exhaustion of life? I'm not sure. Dreaming has its consequences, and while it lends wonderful moments that rip through us with an overpowering wonderment and joy, the reverse is also true. And tonight, for one night at least, my joy seems to be lost near the bottom of the river.

Such is the rhythms of life. That does not, however make it easy.

The street is quiet. Even the friendly raccoons who live behind my neighbour's house are not out tonight. It is an overwhelming sense that within my neighbourhood, within my busy house, all is quiet. I am alone. Ever alone. I try to pray, but I cannot form the words tonight, not even in my mind. God is absent. And so is the rest of the world.

When I was a kid, I used to get these moments when I felt this way. Perhaps it was one reason why I read so much, why I engaged my imagination. Even at a young age, it seemed to me that people inevitably let you down. That life was no fairy tale. I forgot that for a while when I first joined the church. I thought that somehow if I filled my life with "God-talk", all would be well. The years have passed and have revealed that time for what it was, more an episode than a series. On nights like tonight, I still long for those days. I long for the surety. I long for the rulebook, no matter how wrong it may be. What I want on nights like these is for someone to tell me how life works, and to stop whining and get "busy."

But then, that would be a lie, wouldn't it?

I pull my toque down more tightly as the cool wind slices through spring air. The trees rustle in the breeze, the new blossoms scattering in the moonlight along the street. One of the darkest secrets of Christianity is that no matter how much we believe in God, no matter how strong our faith is, that we will all have moments like this, when we wonder where God is. Where we wonder why he has left us all alone. We don't talk about it much because I guess it doesn't sell very well. How do we promote a faith that says in many ways, your human experience will not change. That you will still experience sadness. That you will still experience heartache and sorrow and despair. Instead, we turn Jesus into a cosmopolitan fixer, the One who will take all of our crap and pain and hurt and bad choices and somehow turn it into the pleasure dome.

The truth is that being a Christian doesn't save you from the human experience. If anything, it accentuates it. I believe that God is watching me tonight, that he loves me, and yet, I am lonely and inexplicably filled with sorrow. I believe that God knows this. Yet, nothing changes. Were I to break out in exuberant song or lament filled prayer, the pain would still exist. This is not easy to understand, especially not tonight.

The apple tree in my neighbour's yard is starting to blossom. It brings an unexpected smile. My housemates and I ate most of the apples last year, late at night amidst much laughter and goofiness. It's a good memory, and it holds me for the moment. But what do I do with it? What do I do with the good memories that come in the midst of sadness?

As a former pastor, it is here where normally an appropriate anecdote would fill the space. A story about the lesson I've learned. A story about how I learned that God really cared for me (and certainly, this has happened enough). But tonight I have nothing to offer. Nothing to offer God or the people around me. Even my soul feels heavy and silent.

The truth is that life is not an anecdote, and while it contains joy, it contains great sadness. Sadness that is sometimes inexplicable. To lighten it without facing it would be to lessen the experience and learning and depth that come with these moments. And while I know that I am filled with sadness, I know that tomorrow will be another day. I know that I will sleep in a warm bed with food in the cupboard. Many people long for that which I already possess.

I pause again under the still night sky. He is absent tonight. So am I. I can't sleep, and I am too tired to write. Too sad to know why. I climb the steps and head back into the house. Tomorrow will bring another day, I know that. But for tonight, I am empty.

-Steve

Broken

The snow crunched softly under my feet as I moved down the driveway. I tightened the scarf around my neck. The air was cold, but there was no wind. The lights reflected over the snow, and the whitened street seemed almost to glow, as if the winter had brought with her a different kingdom, a place of dreams and possibility. Up ahead, smoke curled lazily from one of the houses into the night and a sense of peace flooded over me as I jammed my hands into my parka. I breathed deep the crisp air and whispered a prayer of thanks into the quiet, not wanting to break the stillness of the moment or the deep sense of being that sifted through my emotions. Small tears began to form in my eyes, unexpected and unexplained, but instead of wiping them away I let gather and slide down my cheek, the cold marking their trail across my skin like a gentle caress.

In a few minutes I would go inside and attempt to write my story, I would break down the small but seemingly momentous happenings inside me this past week. I would try to explain what I felt and what God had done, not because my story was different or special, but because it was the same story that others had experienced. That others needed to experience. The kind of story that, when you looked back on it, was an event that ultimately shifted the direction of your life. For now however, I just wanted to enjoy the quietness of the moment. To breathe deep the night air and thank God for doing something I hadn't expected. Of course, I should have known that He'd be there...

...the house was quiet. My housemates were all gone, at school or at work. I could hear the rain patter against the glass of my window, and gray light filtered into my room. I lay beneath my covers, my mind racing, my body almost sore with the effort of moving into another position. It was all so ridiculous, I thought, that I was still lying here. I had so many things going for me, all I had to do was get up and head to school. The thought, however lucid, drifted away from me and disappeared into the four blank walls that hedged me in as I shifted deeper under the covers.
"Maybe tomorrow." I murmured to myself, over and over, like a soft mantra. "Maybe tomorrow." I looked at the window, at the tiny rivulets of rain trickling down the glass like tears. I tried to squeeze into a more positive frame of mind, but somehow I couldn't think of anything, and I could feel myself shut down as my eyes closed and I drifted back to sleep.

When I'd first left Ottawa three months ago, I'd come to Toronto with the hopes and excitement of someone in pursuit of their dreams. I'd do my Masters, focus on my writing, and hopefully accomplish the things I'd always believed I was capable of doing. Now, only three months later, I lay beneath my covers on a rainy afternoon, broke, behind in my school, and wondering just where things had gone wrong. I knew that God loved me, but it felt like I'd lost Him somewhere. Or that He'd lost me, as if I'd been dropped off at the corner somewhere along the way. I hadn't slept much lately, and the nights were filled with worries and tightened fists.

Was this it? Was this the end of my pursuit of something greater?

I'd taken a year's leave, but the thought of going back to my life in Ottawa filled me with an unexplainable sadness. I wasn't sure anyone would understand why I was sad or struggling, in as much as I was in a new city and should just wait, things would get better, wouldn't they? Yes, yes, the pursuit of dreams was a good thing, and the advanced degree was practical, especially if you wanted to teach. Why was I getting so uptight? Relax, it'll get better. And if you lose a course, so what?

What most people didn't understand, was that while I told people I'd come to Toronto to pursue my dreams, it wasn't the whole truth. For two years on my balcony in Ottawa, during my quiet times, there was a Scripture that had arrested me so completely that I hadn't been able to shake it. "Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it." (Matt 10:39) Somehow, in some way, if there was one thing I was sure of during my quiet times on the balcony, it was the understanding that to lose my life, I needed to move. And so while my dreams forged an inspiration for me to pack up and leave, it wasn't simply for them that I'd left. No, I'd left in pursuit of something else.

I'd left my life in pursuit of the God I loved, the God I longed to serve with every fiber of my being. And now, He'd disappeared...

The clock flashed the red numbers in the darkness. 11:06pm. I was immobile on my bed. It'd been hours since I moved, but it felt like days. I could feel myself breaking inside, and I swallowed hard. People would never understand this if I told them or tried to explain it, and suddenly I didn't care. I didn't care if people thought I was crazy or dramatic. I didn't care if I couldn't rationalize what I was doing or how I felt when it came to my faith. I was tired of supporting thought structures that purported to the idea of Christianity but left out the reality of a supernatural God. I was tired of having to explain in a reasonable way this idea of Jesus, this idea that God 'made sense.' Mostly though, I was just tired of bouncing between the "rational Steve" and the "God-seeking Steve". I could no longer buy into modernity's idea that we could organize God into a part of our life.

Either He was real, or he wasn't. Either He was life, or He wasn't.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. So where was He? Why had He left me here in this position... like this! I slipped over on to my knees, and I poured out my anger and frustration, that somehow began to mix with sobs and tears of frustration.

"Either you do something tomorrow, or I will never trust you again!" I said finally. I meant it. I was done. I sprawled onto my face and lay prone in prayer for another thirty minutes. It wasn't as if my struggles were simply emotional, they were finite as well. School. Finances. Job.

Somewhere along the way, I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, it was 2am. I was wide awake. I didn't feel any different, but I showered and dressed and started working on my papers. My emotions were spent. The hours passed, and I thought about the previous night, but only in passing. I stayed up the rest of the day and went to bed early. For the past week I'd been unable to sleep before 5am, so this was a pleasant surprise, but not a big deal.

I began to hope that things had turned around, that God had answered my prayer, but things started getting worse. The news from school wasn't good, and the check I'd been expecting for the past two weeks would be a month late. I hadn't heard back from any of the jobs I'd applied for, and while each day I was up early now, hopeful that something good would happen, each day I was dealt at least one body blow that would suck the wind out of me.

The night before I'd gone to sleep with my face still wet with tears. I hadn't been broken just once, but shattered into a thousand pieces. And yet, the more I felt myself breaking, the more I opened myself up to my friends about the tearing inside my heart, the more I sensed something else squeezed into the newly formed cracks. Love. Hope.

Everyone likes to be the strong one. The wise one. But I could no longer do that, no longer pretend that I was strong or wise. My friends rallied around me, and I felt an emasculated fool. Somewhere along the way, however, even that began to drift. I didn't care any more. When I went out, I began to see things. I noticed the old lady on the street, struggling against the cold wind. I noticed the woman with red eyes in the checkout line. I noticed the man with dingy pants and dirty hair standing outside the mall.

It wasn't that I was blind to these things before, or maybe I was, but it was hitting me in a new way. I thought about all my pretensions and ideals, my smugness and arrogance about 'certain' people, and I could feel my heart break a little bit more. And like a laser, God cut through my selfishness and showed me what I'd neglected to see. And I cried and whispered into the cold night air when I realized why God had 'left me.'

"God, forgive me. Your world is dying, and I am more worried about MY pedigree, about MY dreams, than I am about serving you."

He hadn't left me at all. It'd been me all along. I was the one who had left.

The sun is bright this morning, but the air is icy and cold. I can't help but think about this past week, and about God's faithfulness. Even now, my eyes fill with tears as I dwell on what I've learned.

I spent many years going to churches that promised the world, that if people just came forward, God would change their life. I grew bitter over time because those changes never happened, that God never made my life 'great' the way I'd been promised, so I'm hesitant to even write my story. I am convinced that God works slowly in us, because it is what we can handle, what can be permanent. But I do still believe there are moments when God asks us to respond, when he moves in a way that can change us forever. If we let Him.

No, even now I knew this was different, because it was less about me, and more about Him. I'd learned something about myself, and something about God. As long as my dreams merely included Him, there would always be something missing in my life. But if my dreams were ABOUT Him, then I would never have to worry.

God wants to move in our daily lives. He wants us to depend on Him. He wants us to grab the 'horns of the altar' and not let go. He wants to give us joy. For many of us, however, we must first be broken.

-Steve