For both of my children, this fall represents a new beginning. Oscar will go to kindergarten, and Genevieve will start her first year of preschool. This will be a transition, a change from what was to a new way of being. My spouse and I, likewise, will experience a transition as we become the first-time parents of both a kindergartener and a preschooler.

New beginnings involve excitement, sometimes nervous anticipation, and always freshness. They are the first strawberry out of the garden in June, the first snowfall in December. And yet they are also a goodbye. Strawberries mean that the spring flowers are dying, and snow means that the brilliant leaves of autumn have disappeared. And in these goodbyes we are met with grief.

Grief is an emotion that often comes up in sessions of spiritual direction. When this happens, I sometimes ask my clients to tell me a little bit about their relationship with grief. How do you greet grief when it comes knocking at your door?

_____

In the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic, I drove to my son Oscar’s preschool in order to pick up a packet of supplies for an at-home art project the teachers had prepared. I rummaged through a storage closet for the ziploc bag with his name on it and, turning to leave, was suddenly brought to a standstill by the sight of the abandoned outdoor play area where just weeks before children had been running and laughing. Now they were all at home, unsure of what was happening in the world around them. And then, unexpectedly, yet ever so gently, grief came knocking. I cracked open the interior door, eventually inviting it in and letting it spill up into tears that came rolling down my cheeks. I welcomed its waves, watching them ebb and flow in and through me there on that eerie spring day. I soon grew aware that the grief was not just about the empty playground or about the pandemic. It was about something much bigger, something inside of me that needed my attention and tender care. The new world that the global pandemic unexpectedly ushered us into had shaken loose not only the grief of saying goodbye to restaurant dining and in-person preschool classes, but also the repressed grief of a lifetime.

_____

How do we move through transitions and into new beginnings in a way that is reflective, in a way that is conscious of all that is moving within and without us? How do we make space for the repressed grief of a lifetime? How do we welcome, hold, and honor the grief of what we are losing while at the same time welcome, savor, and become fully aware of what we are presently experiencing?

Often, along with the martini-drinking character Grace from the Netflix comedy Grace and Frankie, we declare, “I don’t want to feel!” (season 2, episode 11), choosing to numb our uncomfortable emotions. We surround ourselves with possessions and entertainment and substances that distract us, that keep us from paying attention.

And yet, as Richard Rohr writes so beautifully, “[a]s we begin to pay attention, we notice that grief is never far from our awareness. We become aware of the many ways it arrives in our daily lives. It is the blue mood that greets us upon waking. It is the melancholy that shades the day in muted tones. It is the recognition of time’s passing, the slow emptying of our days. It is the searing pain that erupts when someone close to us dies…. It is the confounding grief when our life circumstances are shattered by the unexpected…. Grief enfolds our lives, drops us close to the earth, reminding us of our inevitable return to the dark soil…” (“An Accumulation of Losses,” August 5, 2021, https://cac.org/an-accumulation-of-losses-2021-08-05/).

In contrast to this awareness, I have heard it said that when we fail to feel our grief fully, we also cut ourselves off from feeling joy. And while this resonates with my experience, I wonder if there is a more expansive way of understanding joy. Is it simply the feeling that lives on the opposite end of the spectrum from grief or sadness? Or might it actually encompass the entire spectrum of human emotion? What if grief and happiness, pain and pleasure, and the full awareness of them, lived within the wider umbrella of something called joy? What if joy is the experience of our full awareness of each and every aspect of our lives?

Maybe new beginnings are an invitation to this kind of joy. And not because they are exciting or fresh or unfamiliar, but because they usher us, if we are willing, into the experience of the full spectrum of human emotion. New beginnings are an invitation to remember that we are alive and to embrace the fullness of that life. They are an invitation to wake up, to notice, to be aware.

And so as I enter into this new beginning of becoming the parent of a kindergartener and of a preschooler, I choose to notice and to welcome everything that comes up for me. As hot days spent swimming and eating watermelon turn into cooler days spent learning letters and making new friends, I will think of my time at the abandoned playground and will hold gently the grief of all that is passing. And simultaneously, I will savor the freshness of the new beginning. A new beginning that is grief. A new beginning that is happiness. A new beginning that is awareness. A new beginning that is all of these: joy.

The word I used in my head to describe my throbbing knee while reading this prayer with my children was slightly more colorful than “scuffed-up.” I was not feeling the least bit thankful for my injury, and in fact, I found the prayer downright irritating.

The following Wednesday — Ash Wednesday — I learned that I would most likely need a type of surgery that would leave me at high risk for early onset osteoarthritis. I didn’t need to go to church for this real-life reminder: I am dust and to dust I shall return.

I hate brushing up against my mortality, and yet here I am post-surgery becoming friendly with it. It’s inviting me to admit that I will never be like the glittering gods of Instagram and instead to sink into the ocean of acceptance that is within me. To allow its waters to soothe and cleanse the tired wounds I bear from constantly striving for the impossible. To attend with awe this birth of tenderness within me.

— — —

And as it emerges,
swells,
blossoms,
I,
astonished,
trembling,
loosen my grip
just a bit.

— — —

Though I’m not quite up to thanking God for my “scuffed-up” knee, I do find that I am a little less irritated.

Maybe this is the work of spring, of resurrection.

One of my earliest memories is from my time in preschool. Three or four years old, I was watching two other boys play with Matchbox cars, imitating the sound of the engines as they raced them across the floor. I remember feeling totally disinterested in what they were doing and even thinking that I would never want or be able to make such a sound come out of my throat. Without prompting, one of them turned to me and asked contemptuously, “So, how many My Little Ponies do you have at home?” Apparently, I had a lot.

In kindergarten I preferred to play in the toy kitchen rather than with trucks and balls. I have a clear memory of one of my classmates, as she handed me a plastic plate, saying, “It’s okay. I won’t make fun of you.”

In elementary school I often sat alone in the cafeteria because I didn’t feel like I fit in with either the boys or the girls. This lunch-time isolation introduced me to my gnawing hunger for a place to belong.

In high school someone sent me an anonymous e-mail asking me if I was gay. I responded by saying that no, I was not, and that God did not approve of homosexuality anyway. As a good evangelical, I included bible verses that supported this point of view.

In college I consciously admitted to myself for the first time that I was attracted to men and soon after joined an ex-gay support group that addressed the causes of my unwanted same-sex attraction so that I could be delivered from it. I also noticed that I was at the same time attracted to women, and thought, At least I don’t have it as bad as the other guys in my support group.

In graduate school I often fantasized about flipping my car over on my commute home on I-65 in Nashville. The frustration of not being able to be the person I thought I was supposed to be had sent me into the deepest depression I’d ever known.

The following year I found myself in the small Eastern European country of Moldova teaching English to children living on the margins of society at a state-run institution. The faith tradition in which I had been raised said that these children and their families would spend eternity in conscious torment if they did not accept Jesus in the way this specific faith tradition prescribed. As I got to know these children and their families, I came to realize that many of them were already living in hell. Their lives had been ravaged by alcoholism, abuse, violence, and hunger. One night, in tears, I lay prostrate on the floor of my room and told God that if these children and their families were going to hell forever, then I would be going there with them. I wanted nothing to do with a God or a faith tradition that would allow me to live in eternal bliss while they were in unending torment.

And then I descended into unknowing.

Nothingness.

A blank slate.

….

As I brought my questions and my unbelief and my nothingness month after month to my spiritual director, I eventually discovered, albeit reluctantly, in the eyes and smiles and voices of children, that love was the only thing in the universe that I could know to be true. In the darkness and in the emptiness I stumbled upon love softly pulsating, radiating, wooing. I surrendered.

….

Ten years later, in the fall of 2016, I found myself employed at a church in Columbus, Ohio, happily married to Rachel and the new father of Oscar. And I was ready to come out. At church. At an event called “Come Out, Come Out” that celebrated the lives and coming out stories of LGBTQIA+ individuals. I came out publicly that evening as bisexual because I wanted to be free. I wanted to accept and embrace the fullness of who I am exactly as I am. I wanted to step more deeply into authentic and whole and holy living. I came out.

Why did I choose to come out at church, and what happened to my relationship with Christianity after the descent into unknowing? That is a different story for another time, but suffice it to say for now that I do not understand or practice Christianity today in the same way I understood or practiced Christianity 10 or 20 years ago. I do find the way and teachings of Jesus to be deeply inspiring and comforting, challenging and troubling, and I believe that they have the potential to transform human beings and even the world. This is why I still pay great attention to them (as well as to teachings from other spiritual traditions!).

And it is precisely because of my devotion to the way and teachings of Jesus and because of my love for Jesus that I am coming out.

It is because of Oscar and Genevieve, my children, that I am coming out. I am coming out so that they may know that they are loved and embraced exactly as they are, forever and always, no matter what.

It is because of the children in Moldova who invited me into authenticity that I am coming out.

It is because of Margaret Koon, my late aunt who had Down syndrome, who taught me more about love and joy and simplicity and presence and delight than anyone, that I am coming out.

It is because of the late Rachel Held Evans, whose commitment to faithful living and speaking truth to power deeply inspires me, that I am coming out.

It is because of LuSter Singleton and Sharon Udoh and Caleb Mikayla Robinson, who live as their beautiful, authentic selves more than anyone I have ever met, that I am coming out.

It is because of Monty Turner, a young, gay, black man from my community who recently killed himself, that I am coming out, and it is for all queer people who have ever thought of committing suicide that I am coming out.

It is because of my family of misfits at Summit on 16th United Methodist Church, whose accepting presence has brought deep healing and comfort, that I am coming out.

It is because of my Wellstreams classmates, instructors, current peer supervision group, and all of my spiritual directors, who have held space and born witness to the birth of my authentic self over and over, that I am coming out.

It is because of my teachers and peers in the Ashtanga Yoga morning class at Yoga on High, who have provided a space in which I am learning to be still and to pay attention in the presence of both very difficult and very beautiful emotions, that I am coming out.

It is because of Rachel, my life partner, who loves me and knows me better and accepts me more fully than anyone on earth, that I am coming out.

It is for all of the queer people who have come out that I am coming out.

It is for all of the queer people who have not come out that I am coming out.

It is for all people who have spoken their truth that I am coming out.

It is for all people who have not spoken their truth that I am coming out.

It is for authenticity and for love and for wholeness and for holiness and for joy that I am coming out.

It is for freedom that I am coming out.

John Koon
Columbus, Ohio
October 2019

—

For a New Beginning
by John O’Donohue

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

— from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, by John O’Donohue

My house sits under a nuisance of a sweetgum tree. Its spiny seed pods clog the gutters and make a walk in the backyard treacherous for toddlers. The lawn mower catapults the spiky balls perilously in all directions, threatening to nail a squirrel or my neighbor’s cat in the eye. They must be cleared from the outdoor table and chairs each time we gather on the patio.

Some have suggested that this incommodious tree should be removed. Uprooted and taken away.

And yet, for now, it is the tree that is there.

My affection for this sweetgum began to sprout, timidly, as I sat in its autumn shade, drinking in the ruby leaves and running my fingers along its furrowed bark. I learned that its sap has been used for centuries to treat common ailments and can be used as an ingredient in incense, soap, and cosmetics. Other extracts have shown potential as antioxidants and anti-inflammatory agents. My appreciation for what this tree could offer grew, and I began to hold with curiosity both my irritation and newfound fondness at the same time.

The more time I’ve spent sitting under the sweetgum, noticing my responses to both its bothersome and healing properties, the more I’ve begun to wonder how I am present to the other things in my life that are there.

The family who is there.

The job that is there.

The joy that is there.

The sadness that is there.

The anger that is there.

The fear that is there.

The disgust that is there.

How do I pay attention to what is really real, to what is there, in my life?

Pastor Kim’s sermon series [at Summit on 16th UMC] on the Disney Pixar film Inside Out has caused me to ponder this more deeply. In particular, her thoughts on the role of anger reminded me of my own perplexing relationship with this difficult emotion. For most of my life, I didn’t even realize that anger was there. I denied and repressed any feelings of anger toward people who had hurt me, and yet I was silent and resentful, allowing curt comments to escape when they wouldn’t be heard. Sometimes I said that I was frustrated. Even irritated. But never angry.

Recently, through a certification program I am completing in the art of spiritual direction, I have come to realize that as uncomfortable as our painful emotions can be, and as damaging as our behavior can be when we give them unbridled reign, they also come to us bearing gifts.

Like the sweetgum tree with both its pesky seed pods and healing resin, my anger is both unpleasant and beneficial. As I have begun to learn to not only recognize and relate to my anger, but to also sit down with it for a cup of tea and to listen, I have begun to hear its message about my own pain as well as about the pain of the whole world. And in fact, through this practicing of listening, it has become an invaluable resource for me as the energy that fuels my passion for justice and liberation.

When I repress my anger, resentment forms. When I allow my anger to dictate my actions, I do hurtful things. Yet when I pay attention and listen to my anger, it is the very voice of God to me.

In his well-known poem “The Guest House,” Sufi mystic Jellaludin Rumi communicates a similar idea, inviting us to welcome into our being each and every emotion we feel — regardless of any accompanying discomfort — with gratitude. For, as the poem concludes, “each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”

I will continue to sit under the sweetgum tree, pondering both my annoyance and affection, knowing that it is the particular and real tree that is there. Now. I cannot deny its existence. And, as I clean the gutters one more time, I will invite my dear sweetgum to lead me into deeper levels of awareness and presence to the particular and real things in my life that are there.

But in Moldova, each time I crossed the curte outside of our apartment to refill a plastic jug with drinking water or to see if our linens had dried, I knew that I would encounter others. And they would inevitably be different from me. Would look different. Would be wearing a different style of clothing. Would speak a different heart language. Would understand and view the world through a different lens. And yet there we were, picking over the same bin of peaches and fussing over our children playing in the same sandbox. Despite our differences, there was an unconscious acknowledgement of our shared humanity. In the water and in the laundry. In the peaches and in the sand.

What is most interesting to me is not our differences but the things we hold in common. The ocean that divides the United States from Moldova is made trivial by a shared clothesline. A toast over plastic cups of homemade wine in the afternoon sun could wash away my sense of foreignness and elicit a profound sense of belonging. Regardless of where I was from, I was welcome, and we were able to connect through our shared human experiences.

In contrast, the isolation I experience in my current life in Columbus serves only to dehumanize. The more time I spend in my fenced-in backyard or eating takeout alone in front of my computer at work, the less I encounter other people and the less I experience connection. If connection is not a common part of my daily life now, then how can I seek it? How can I wake up to the shared humanity I was so aware of in the curte? Where is that clothesline and where are those peaches now?

I seek connection because my humanity craves it.

I cannot thrive in the bleakness of my personal space.

I must seek connection because I am unaware.

The benches.

The wine.

The hanging linens.

They call to me.

The curte calls to me.

The curte awakens me.