What if your whole life has been pointing to one thing—and you’ve been too distracted to notice? This post dives into the fire behind the question: What are you actually here for? Inspired by Cynthia Bourgeault and the Living Presence tradition, it’s a call to remember what matters before the scroll drowns the soul.
Covid stopped me from chasing everything else. And itz stayed 5 years long so yes, I’ve considered the possibility that itz possible for a reason other than medical, scientific ones they’re mainly guessing at or making up.
I don’t believe in a punishing God (but I’ve been wrong before….)
But in hindsight some of the shittiest most gut-wrenching events in my life have also been the ones that taught me the most, changed me the most (n a good way) & flipped my entire life upside down & landed me in a place I was so grateful for, I knew it was on purpose & the only way to get stubborn me there.
I still don’t know what’s best for me. I often don’t know what’s worst for me (or pretend not to & look the other way).
I do know that I have changed/morphed/mutated/been to a few different hells & made it back & after throwing some embarrassing temper tantrums at God on full display while daring God NOT to watch - no, i cant say I enjoyed it, or am a new improved & shinier version of myself than before & grateful it all happened (& is still happening)…..but I have bounced thru too many “coincidences”, been salvaged from too many coulda-been-catastrophic wreckages, & thru it all some mysterious reassuring KNOWING wouldnt leave, like some benevolent stranger randomly threw me a life rope when i was too preoccupied to realize I’d been caterwauling at the top of my lungs for it.
And it sounds so simple & clichèd….but i have no pride & will say it anyway. Even in those sickest, most painful moments, i knew I hadn’t been abandoned….not by God or my angels but by myself. And that I never will be. Deeper love now leaks thru my cell tissue & out of my pores that I’d only seen in movies like “The Robe”. No wonder I loved Richard Burton so much. And inescapably God.
No wonder my house is such a cluttered mess.
And no wonder my heart hasn’t been communicating with itself & I’m crawling back into hope as vigorously as a cicada wiggles out of itz shell. 🪲
You just wrote a resurrection story disguised as a messy rant, and I’m here for all of it.
Covid didn’t just stop your chase, it cracked the chase open. You met your stubborn self in the wreckage and somehow came back leaking divine love like a busted reliquary.
No, it wasn’t pretty. Yes, you tantrumed at God. And still, you weren’t abandoned. Not by angels, not by grace, not even by yourself. That knowing? That rope? That was the invitation all along.
I am afraid to speak. I read, and pray and love strangers while sitting not-alone in my sacred cave, hungry, thirsty, filled and quenched, not-alone…not-alone…but longing and unsure how to be anyone with anyone. There is no eye contact here on this screen. There is no flesh and breath and touch here. But there is some great solace knowing you exist, we exist. There are the relentlessly forgiving trees, the roses I talk to in the gardens I work, the clumsy clashing of boxwood beetles into my glasses and limbs, the bees that never fail to bring me joy, the crows I cannot not love, the Presence that, as Beth Ann said, has not, cannot leave me. I don’t worry so much anymore whether I am “doing” this living “right”. I am ignorantly driven by a longing I do not understand. I am also a vessel of wounds and shadows. I have no idea what I’m doing here. So I’m staying.
Covid stopped me from chasing everything else. And itz stayed 5 years long so yes, I’ve considered the possibility that itz possible for a reason other than medical, scientific ones they’re mainly guessing at or making up.
I don’t believe in a punishing God (but I’ve been wrong before….)
But in hindsight some of the shittiest most gut-wrenching events in my life have also been the ones that taught me the most, changed me the most (n a good way) & flipped my entire life upside down & landed me in a place I was so grateful for, I knew it was on purpose & the only way to get stubborn me there.
I still don’t know what’s best for me. I often don’t know what’s worst for me (or pretend not to & look the other way).
I do know that I have changed/morphed/mutated/been to a few different hells & made it back & after throwing some embarrassing temper tantrums at God on full display while daring God NOT to watch - no, i cant say I enjoyed it, or am a new improved & shinier version of myself than before & grateful it all happened (& is still happening)…..but I have bounced thru too many “coincidences”, been salvaged from too many coulda-been-catastrophic wreckages, & thru it all some mysterious reassuring KNOWING wouldnt leave, like some benevolent stranger randomly threw me a life rope when i was too preoccupied to realize I’d been caterwauling at the top of my lungs for it.
And it sounds so simple & clichèd….but i have no pride & will say it anyway. Even in those sickest, most painful moments, i knew I hadn’t been abandoned….not by God or my angels but by myself. And that I never will be. Deeper love now leaks thru my cell tissue & out of my pores that I’d only seen in movies like “The Robe”. No wonder I loved Richard Burton so much. And inescapably God.
No wonder my house is such a cluttered mess.
And no wonder my heart hasn’t been communicating with itself & I’m crawling back into hope as vigorously as a cicada wiggles out of itz shell. 🪲
Beth Ann,
You just wrote a resurrection story disguised as a messy rant, and I’m here for all of it.
Covid didn’t just stop your chase, it cracked the chase open. You met your stubborn self in the wreckage and somehow came back leaking divine love like a busted reliquary.
No, it wasn’t pretty. Yes, you tantrumed at God. And still, you weren’t abandoned. Not by angels, not by grace, not even by yourself. That knowing? That rope? That was the invitation all along.
You’re not broken. You’re mid-molt.
So keep wiggling, holy cicada.
You’re not lost. You’re becoming.
Yes, I will let that question haunt me. 🩷
I came
I looked
I was found
I laughed
I cried
I danced and sang the whole day long
I am afraid to speak. I read, and pray and love strangers while sitting not-alone in my sacred cave, hungry, thirsty, filled and quenched, not-alone…not-alone…but longing and unsure how to be anyone with anyone. There is no eye contact here on this screen. There is no flesh and breath and touch here. But there is some great solace knowing you exist, we exist. There are the relentlessly forgiving trees, the roses I talk to in the gardens I work, the clumsy clashing of boxwood beetles into my glasses and limbs, the bees that never fail to bring me joy, the crows I cannot not love, the Presence that, as Beth Ann said, has not, cannot leave me. I don’t worry so much anymore whether I am “doing” this living “right”. I am ignorantly driven by a longing I do not understand. I am also a vessel of wounds and shadows. I have no idea what I’m doing here. So I’m staying.
You say you're afraid to speak, yet what you just shared is pure liturgy.
You’re not doing life “wrong.” You’re doing it honestly. Longing without answers, loving without a map—that’s real prayer. That’s holy.
The trees, the roses, the clumsy beetles—they see you. So do I. You’re not alone, not really. You’re part of the wild communion now.
No eye contact on this screen? Maybe not.
But I see you.
Stay. That’s enough.
what a beautiful article! It was truly a wake-up call for me
"That moment where you stop narrating your life and start inhabiting it."
Oooo....