I’m not much of a sports guy, but many of my best friends are, so I spent a lot of 2014 watching Minnesota sports- the Timberwolves, the Twins, the Vikings, and the Wild. At bars, I sat there, mumbling into the ears of whoever was nearest, so, remind me… What is a balk? When watching hockey, I sometimes repeated an old question that I still don’t feel I’ve once received a satisfying answer to: is there any strategy here? It’s a fair question, I think.
In all my years of watching and not understanding professional sports, my absolute favorite question to ask during a game is: Are we any good? When I ask this, it’s because we are playing so obviously bad. Players are hiding their heads beneath towels and the scoreboard is awkwardly lopsided. But, like all sports nuts, my friends are resolute in their loyalty.
“It’s a rebuilding year.” They say.
What they really mean when they say “rebuilding year” is that this year, we’re duds. It’s not pretty. And it’s not going to get any better. This year can only be considered practice for the next year, or perhaps two from now, when the team will be back on top, each player having reached their peak in development by then. But not this year. This year is for the dull work of development. Of losing and losing and learning through the loss.
2014 been a rebuilding year.
At the tail end of 2013, I was driving home from Washington, DC where I spent three confusing months aiming at “finding my purpose” and ending up empty handed, flooring it through Ohio in tears. This was merely the latest of my adventures. Exactly one year before I was flying over Europe, coming home after spending a very interesting yet also confusing three months in the tiny country of Kosovo.
I started this year with a job as a special-ed para and was eventually cut in April due to budgetary thing that I had not been made aware of- I was given two days notice. Then, I picked up a job as a barista and a personal care attendant for a young man my age with autism. Shortly after that, I was hired as a special ed para for the fall school year at my old high school, a position where I am constantly bumping into old teachers who faintly remember me. And yet again, I am confused. What am I doing here? Where am I headed? What is next? Mind goes blank.
I decided to venture into the dating world this year by going on a short string of dates with one guy. Funny and kind as this boy was, he was also the first boy I ever dated, and that tectonic shift- from friendship with men to flings with them- threw me so far off balance that one day, I cut off communication in an abrupt and unforgivable way. A few months later, he let me back as a friend and was gracious with my fears- he had once had them too, and he admitted his own doubts about our compatibility. With him and another friend, I went to a couple gay bars. As they danced, drinks shaking in their hands, I stood in a far corner looking like Bambi in headlights. The slightest graze of an elbow made me jump out of my skin. I rarely went out with them again.
For the first time in two years I wasn’t in Washington D.C. or Pristina, Kosovo and I thrived within the Minnesota Fall. Until it fell away completely and the winter swept in, caging me in my house by the heavy darkness at four pm and the subzero temperatures all day long. For some odd reason, I thought this would be the perfect time to switch off my antidepressants and move towards something more exclusively antianxiety and I paid for this decision with all the withdrawal symptoms making me ache with utter intensity. Pinches felt like punches. A coworker’s throw-away comment felt like an assault The darkness drained me of life. And I was disappearing.
The difficult decision to transition off of antidepressants painted Christmas in all new colors this year. With my feelings fully felt, I was able to really empathize with the pain in my relatives’ lives. I felt my heart rip open in the best way as my nephew Wyatt tore the wrapping off his new baby drum set. I wrote a post last month that really touched my grandpa and he placed his hands on my shoulders and told me so with a smile. When he asked my old pastor (the pastor of my childhood) if he would read it, the pastor surprised my grandpa by telling him he had been reading me all along! My antidepressants typically turned the volume on these moments way down. Now I hear them ringing loud, lingering inside my soul.
After a few rough experiences at the gay “bars” (okay let’s just call them “bars”) I went with my straight friend Micah and after explaining my own fear of dancing, anywhere, ever, at all- he hopped to his feet and told me to follow him out to the floor where I danced, and it was awkward. I was all elbows and clapping hands and one-two-steps. But I did it. And it was fun. And if you knew me, you’d remember this night as historic.
The beginning of the end of my church cynicism came about this year when I was asked, perhaps by accident, to serve the elements. I spoke these words to hundreds of people: “The blood of Christ shed for you” and in that exchange something happened. As I lifted up and out the cup, my faith became embodied. My broken hands were giving people life. People that were broken were coming to me. And we were blessed by the moment of it. Consecrated as one body, as one people: the Blood of Christ shed for each and every one of us thirsty for it.
There’s no denying that my year has had its’ stretches of blandness, but even in them, I was learning vital lessons. I was learning to snap out of apathy and take better care of myself. I was learning to listen to the needs of others. I was learning to live loved and lived contentedly, to dance whenever the floor presented itself.
I was learning to rebuild, and it might be the greatest lesson of all.