The leap after loss

A different kind of vulnerable

The leap after loss is a different kind of vulnerable.

I wrote this a couple months ago, a few days before the ground shifted under my feet. A few days before a new chapter started to unfold. A chapter I had not yet written in my table of contents.

Am I scared to want again?

It might get taken away. It’s vulnerable to dream again after you crash. It’s vulnerable to dream again after the last one ended.

Fear will keep me stuck on a terrible chapter of my story because it’s afraid I’ll get hurt again.

Truly — I’ve been unmoored this past year. A boat without a captain. A ship without an anchor. A plane without a pilot.

And what did I learn? I always have me. She never lets me down.

I met myself in ways I don’t have language for yet. And that is what’s enabling me to offer a whole-hearted yes to a surprising new chapter…

It is the intention of Bishop Bridgeforth to appoint me to serve the Open Door Churches of Salem-Keizer in Oregon, effective July 1, 2023. I’ve been approved to come off personal leave and join the Pastoral Team of Open Door Churches, a unique collaborative partnership in which the clergy serve all the congregations in Salem-Keizer together. Each pastor has an assignment to serve as primary pastor for one of the congregations, and I’m honored to serve as Campus Pastor for Morningside UMC in Salem.

Photo by Christian Bass on Unsplash

The leap after loss is a different kind of vulnerable.

It’s one thing to say a big yes to a new adventure when the last one is wrapping up nicely and there’s a decent transition and it’s all mostly positive.

The leap after the train wreck feels different.

It feels like jumping into a haze of fog, unable to see solid ground.
It feels like jumping without a parachute, unable to see the safety net.
It feels like taking a deep breath, trusting your gut, and nodding yes, knowing you’ll create this path one step at a time.

I told the new friends I’ll work with about the parts of me I’m just beginning to discover. The unfinished work I bring with me. I named my surprise that I could pastor again, even with a limp in my spirit. I told them everything, maybe in an attempt to get them to say what part of me believes — who would want me after all this mess?

Like a young child peeking out from a mess they made, waiting for harsh words and disdain, I held my breath to see how they’d respond.

Grace.
Grace.
Grace.

My body released a deep sigh. Even with the complex grief, burnout recovery, and bruised hearts, we are still wanted.

My heart healed a little bit more.

Photo by Isabela Kronemberger on Unsplash

What happens next?

In the United Methodist Church, most pastors start their new appointments on July 1. So we’ve got a few months to pack up our house, get it ready to rent, and decide where we’ll live in our new town.

Some have asked if I’ll get to keep writing The Thread. Yes! I will. I’ll leave lots of room to reimagine new rhythms, but writing in this space continues to feel joyful and important to me. So we’ll continue our journey together.

In the meantime, I get to hang out with some great faith communities in the next few months as I wrap up this chapter of life. I’m prioritizing my family as we make another transition together. We moved in 2020, 2022 and now 2023. It’s a lot. The kids are eagerly designing their new bedrooms and looking at their new schools on Google Earth.

I feel deeply called to the work that’s emerging in Oregon. I’ll get to serve alongside a wonderful group of people who are dreaming of new ways to be the church. We’ll walk together through life, death, and everything in between. We’ll ask new questions and name wild dreams. We’ll experiment with collaboration in profound ways, curious to see what happens when five churches realize their unique gifts are stronger together. We’re going to rest and play together. We’re going to lament, protest, advocate, and co-create Beloved Community.

And still.

The leap after loss is a different kind of vulnerable.

My incredible readers — what about you?

Where is Love inviting you to a new chapter? Does it follow a loss of some kind? How might you offer yourself deep grace as you discern? Just because something feels risky and tough doesn’t mean it’s not an incredible next step. May grace be yours as you untangle a few knots in your path.

We’re with you.

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Let’s Hang Out!

March 26
1:00 pm PST
Everett, WA | Everett Unity Church

This book is a gift to anyone wading through the uncertainty and despair that comes with the sudden loss of a beloved.  Jenny Smith’s tremendous and tender love for her brother shines through on every page; this memoir is a beautiful tribute to his life. In “Still Here,” Jenny looks grief straight in the eye and invites her reader to do the same. She gives us permission to cry, laugh, question, regret, cherish, mourn, and dance with our memories of our beloved. This book helped me find a way forward through loss of a friend and put words to my profound grief. Thank you, Jenny, for inviting us to walk this road with you. — Marie Sweezey

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