The Things That Remain

On Waiting Between What Was and What May Never Be

“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

— Job 1:21

There are days when I do not feel like holding onto any identity at all.

I have spent much of my life straining toward things that seemed beautiful and holy. Priesthood, religious life, study, prayer, ascetic labor, teaching, writing, spiritual friendship. There was always the sense that one could become something more faithful, more worthy, more capable, more fully alive.

I do not regret these things. Yet there are moments when I feel profoundly tired by them.

Perhaps it is age. Perhaps it is loss. Perhaps it is simply that after many years one begins to see how much of life has been spent reaching beyond oneself.

I sometimes wonder if I spent forty years trying to become someone.

The strange thing is that many of the things that have shaped my life remain. The groups continue. The retreats continue. The writing continues. The relationship with the monastery remains precious and alive. They have not disappeared. In many ways, they are richer and more meaningful than ever.

And yet I cannot fully inhabit them as I once did.

This is what makes the waiting difficult.

It would almost have been easier if everything had ended. One would grieve, mourn, and eventually accept another path.

Instead, these things remain before me like lights burning in the distance.

I sit with people each week and witness grace. I write and still feel my heart stirred. I speak with monks and something within me becomes quiet and strangely at home.

They are not memories.

They are realities.

Yet I cannot possess them.

I cannot say where they lead. I cannot make them resolve into a clear future. I cannot even say with certainty who I am in relation to them.

So I wait.

I suspect many people know this country. Parents whose children no longer need them. Widows and widowers who still love what has been lost. Men and women who have retired from work that once defined them. Those whose illness has altered the course of their lives. Those who find themselves standing at the edge of an unexpected solitude.

There are seasons when God does not take away the beloved things. He simply prevents us from possessing them as we once did.

Perhaps this is one of the last and hardest lessons of the spiritual life: learning to love deeply what one cannot hold.

I do not know where this waiting leads.

I do not know whether I am being prepared for something or simply being taught to remain.

I know only this: there are things that still call to me with great tenderness and power. They are gifts. They are dear to me. And for now they must remain in God’s hands.

Perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps the prayer of old age is not, “Lord, show me where I am going,” but rather:

“Lord, teach me how to sit quietly among the things that remain.”

*******

Lord, I do not know who I am becoming.

I do not know where I am going.

I do not know what remains of the identities I have carried.

But I am here.

I place myself before You as I am.

Teach me how to wait.