About a month ago I paced around my parents’ kitchen and told my instagram story, “I wish I had someone in my bunker.”
Standing in front of the fridge, I squatted down and angled my arms above my head, as if I was Atlas or a stupid weightlifter, with the weight of the world on my shoulders.
This feeling mostly stems from functioning on my own in work and at home. Between my roles as a sister, employee and friend, I am often caught in a solitary function of trying to hold everything together while showing up with all of my heart. In that kitchen, I felt isolated and I wanted someone in the trenches with me; someone whose toes looked the same.
I took this to prayer. I convinced myself that the Lord is preparing my heart for a life of celibacy. I thought about what it would mean to take a leave of absence from work and focus on “rest” and didn’t tell a soul.
Then, Rosh Hashanah came.
Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year and begins the “Ten Days of Awe”, a period of introspection and repentance in preparation of Yom Kippur, the most solemn day in the Hebrew calendar. I learned that the Hebrew word for repentance literally means “turning away” or a “change of heart”. Judaism's rhetoric of “turning away” harmonizes beautifully with the emergence of autumn, as the trees change and I with them. “Turning away” is a promise of hope; light in my bunker.
Enriched by this language, I wrote a list of intentions and promised myself and God that I would try to “be still”. Stillness implies surrender, surrender calls for trust, trust requires grace, and for grace, we need to recognize the Presence of God.
I write to you now from that certain patch of light, from the spaces where I have most recently and certainly encountered Spirit.
I. Church
I’ve been thinking about what it means to truly “rest” and what one might seek for true restoration. Identifying the physical and relational spaces that allow us to “reset” is evermore urgent as our young bodies live through cultural burnout. For me, rest is interlaced with nourishment, an action that I can tether to objects and experiences. For example, I am nourished by the 60+ miles I walk each week, taking my prayers to the pavement. I am nourished as the sparrows sing their songs and I, mine.
Nourishment is as corporeal, as it is spiritual, as it is ritual. I know in my heart that I would not have the strength to rise and speak and praise each day if it weren’t for the sacramental fellowship I enter into each week, at St. Ignatius Loyola. It is a place to encounter God ceremoniously, and holy ground that has continually fed the seeds of my heart.
St. Ignatius is a Catholic church adjacent to Boston College. The first time I attended Mass there about ten months ago, I wept. I wept for reasons that elude language of the physical body. I didn’t know it at the time but that very place would become my spiritual lifeline. This small, wooden Jesuit parish contrasted the fussy, marbled cathedral in Cambridge I had been going to regularly. After one service, something eternal in me knew I was home.
While at St. Ignatius earlier this month, I felt Jesus sitting next to me. It was the most simple and loving feeling, and something I had never really experienced before in my lifetime of Catholicism. It was Presence and nothing more. Jesus stayed and I cried for most of Mass. Here God was, showing up in my thrashing heart, to remind me that I am not alone in my bunker.
Then, I went to Maine.
II. Work
At the beginning of October, I visited Maine to attend my first medical conference in support of a clinical trial I poured my heart and soul into. If you know me, you know I care a lot about my work. My heart gleamed with gratitude to enter a space where my responsibilities made a tangible contribution to scientific literature.
And yet, the night before I left, a scornful devil burrowed its head into my anticipation. It was 11pm and I had yet to pack a thing. I sat at my desk in silence and dread, brooding over how NO ONE at this conference is in my BUNKER. I questioned my “place” in such a setting: to whom would I speak? How would I introduce myself? I’m not even presenting the research, the resident is - what is my purpose there?
These feelings lingered as I went. I filed into the opening seminars silently, telling myself to speak only when spoken to, and even then, keep it to two sentences at a time. While I prepared to continue the supportive role I hold during my 9-5, I was shocked by what actually happened. I was called upon by name, intentionally included, and given words of praise for my work. The residents, who I thought only dealt with me out of professional necessity, invited me out on their after-hour escapades. I drank and danced and laughed and cried. I cried at a seminar when my mentor spoke about womanhood as a surgeon and she flashed pictures of her children reaching milestones in her absence. I cried at dinner when my employer said I am an “unsung hero”, and I cried IN a medical school interview when the faculty interviewer paused and said, “Your success will be the success of humanity” (more on this, another time).
My tears were an outpouring of immense gratitude. It was the first time I didn’t feel so alone in my professional life. The Spirit had spoken truth through my colleagues and I returned home with consolation.
And finally,…
III. Play
I don’t have many friends in Boston, but I have the people I need. Reconnecting with Charles is one of the greatest blessings I’ve been given since moving. Charles and I met in kindergarten and were inseparable until 3rd grade, when I transferred to a different school. We saw each other incidentally once or twice in high school, but a mutual following on instagram was really our only connection.
Providentially, we both moved to the same neighborhood after graduating college. We fell back into our childlike friendship almost immediately, and he has been there for my darkest, silliest, most tangential moments. My spiritual director recently said we choose friends who reflect our idea of God, and with Charles, I know that is true.
This past weekend, my most wonderful friend prepared us a thoughtful spread with fish, salad, bread, and wine. It was, in our own reverent way, a special observation for the beginning of a “New Year”. In the silent breath between sitting at the table and picking up our forks, Charles began, “Bless us O Lord, for these thy gifts…”
In that moment, God was showing me again: I have the most beautiful people in the world in my bunker. I have a friend who has journeyed with me for nearly 20 years, and who continues to hold a space to nourish our body and our souls. A friend who is praying with me now.
—
In reflection, I see how God never removes His hands from His work. It is simple to find rest here, in the mystery of divine action.
And when the devil inevitably creeps in, I pray that we keep our gaze fixed on this truth.
Wherever you are, you are guided.
Our people are on the ground with us.
Wherever you are, you are surrounded.
Thank you all for being here.
Blessings,
Abby