Beginnings always hide themselves in ends.

 

You guys, for the first time in a long time, I’m excited to live. 

At the Thanksgiving table this year, my family and I went around sharing what we’re grateful for. When it came to me, I shared that I’m grateful to be here. Like literally to be here. Because I know how much pain I’ve been in, I know how much fear I’ve experienced, and I know how devastating the losses have been. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I thank God that he exists because if I had to walk this last year out without that hope, I’m not sure that I’d be writing to you today. At least not coherently. 

I went back recently to check out some old journal entries and see what I was writing about at the beginning of this year. I expected it to be all doom and gloom because that’s what I know I was feeling. But as I looked back, I was surprised to find how many wonderful things happened. Under any other circumstances, these out-of-this-world occurrences would’ve constituted one of the best years. I spent countless hours on the roads and beaches of my home state. I took a last-minute road trip to Utah with one of my best friends just to see my favorite musician perform at a lantern festival. I got within six feet of the Jonas Brothers because my sister and her friend snuck me and my best friend into the friends & family section of their concert. I cried in the lap of one of my favorite humans because I felt so safe being back in her and her husband’s home. I saw the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree live and in person with my mom by my side. I traveled to see my family, chosen and otherwise, and reconnected with those of us who had long since fallen away. I saw more live music than any year prior. And, in the simplest but most delightful of pleasures, I got to stand completely mesmerized in front of my new favorite animal, a near impossibility ordinarily because of how deep it lives beneath our shores. These are only a few of the stories I could tell.

In looking back, I realize that each of these moments, whether I was as mentally present as I wanted to be for them or not, kept me alive. They were God’s gifts to me to keep me going, keep me moving forward, and keep me believing that my dreams were not out of reach. I needed these moments, so desperately, to keep taking steps toward that unknown horizon.  

I was chatting with my mom about this recently because I felt guilty for not being as attentive or aware of the gravity of some of these moments as they were happening. She shared with me that biblically you can’t always feel God’s presence until he’s passed by but that doesn’t make any of the moments less impactful. As I look back on his movements this year, I’m grateful. In the cloud of hurt and suffering, fear and self-condemnation, he blessed me. What a friend I have.

In my desire to live, and live abundantly, I’ve been reflecting a lot on the idea of death. Despite these deeply held moments of life, most of this year has felt like death. In fact, most of this year has been death – it’s been filled with the death of humans that I wholeheartedly love, the death of relationships, the death of trying to keep up appearances, the death of acquiescing to everyone else, the death of white-knuckled independence, the death of expectations, and, in many ways, the death of my own spirit. I’ve gotten quite used to being hugged by the coffin walls around me, but what a hollow feeling it is to feel dead even when you’re still alive. 

But in my reflection, I’ve been thinking about what death means for God’s people. In the Bible, the answer is pretty clear. In fact, I’m pretty sure the whole Biblical story hinges on what happens after death. If you look to any example of death in the Bible, whether it be physical death, the death of a way of life, or the death of something cherished, you will find that new life rushes in like the tide to fill and expand that empty space every. single. time. 

This, my friends, is good news.  

As I look back on this year of death, I am eager for all the life that is to come. As this blog post was swirling around in my mind a few days ago, I was struck by the idea that at this point in my life, I’m maybe living into 20% of all that I believe I’m capable of. And that’s if I’m being quite generous. I’ve held back. This is primarily because the one thing that hasn’t died for me yet is fear. 

I spend most of my waking hours afraid. I’m afraid of failing. I’m afraid of discomfort. I’m afraid of rejection. I’m afraid of being embarrassed. I’m afraid of disappointing others. I’m afraid that I am irrevocably wrong or damaged. I’m afraid that I don’t belong. I’m afraid of wasting time. I’m afraid of illness or getting hurt or sustaining any life-altering physical or mental impairment. I’m afraid of inconveniencing others. I’m also afraid of hurting them. I’m afraid of betrayal. I’m afraid of my parents getting sick, or anyone in my family for that matter. I’m afraid that I make other people’s lives worse. I’m afraid of men. I’m also deeply, tragically afraid of spiders. But what’s funny about all of these things, especially given what I’ve written so far, is that they all point back to a fundamental fear of death, in one form or another.

I don’t know why I’m so afraid of death, especially as someone who believes that life comes after it. But I hate the way this fear holds me back from living right now. To avoid the obvious death, I’ve chosen the slow, veiled one. 

What’s frustrating about all of this is that it’s so counter to the me that I know myself to be. The me that drums loudly in the pit of my soul whenever I choose safety over stretching myself. This version of me is fearless, curious, and ready to backflip off a cliff just to see where I land. But this version of me is quieted in the face of my fear. 

I know I’ve shared with you all the impression that I’m supposed to be a bird. Not literally, of course, but in the way that I conduct my life. The funny thing is birds are not the symbol of fear. Quite the opposite, actually. Birds are the symbol of freedom. In true freedom, fear can’t get in the way.

I wish I could logically talk myself out of fear, but I can’t. What I can do, however, is take a step of faith and start building the trust that big things are possible. That when life happens and it sucks, it’s not the end of the story. 

I remember visiting my grandparents at their house in Napa when I was a kid. There was one summer where I was just old enough to swim without floaties and my dad wanted to teach me how to dive. I was terrified. I had barely ever been in the deep end, I did not like the idea of flinging myself off of a diving board, and I was convinced that nobody would be near enough to save me if I drowned. So, like any good dad, he gave me the talk about how I was safe, and that he was going to be right there. That did nothing for me. But what did work was pushing through my fear and shakily jumping off the board. It wasn’t my favorite thing ever. I didn’t do it much after that. But I knew that I could. And I knew that if I took that risk, I was going to be ok. 

That’s the energy I want to carry forth into this next year. I have plans this year, big ones, but they all revolve around the idea of committing to God and what he has for me. I read a quote just now that really resonated with me. I’m not sure where it’s from, but it read, “You can’t ask God to heal you and stay loyal to what’s killing you.” I’ve had one foot in and one foot out which has left me lukewarm at best. But I don’t want that world anymore. I want the one where I’m cliff-diving through life and trusting that he will meet me as I fall. Change is coming. And change can feel like death. But in truth, it brings the best life.

I was reminded recently of how God has created each of us for his purpose, in this moment. We belong on this earth right now because he has things to do with us. We were created for such a time as this. I don’t want to squander that. 

In the last couple of years, I’ve realized something about myself that should’ve been obvious all along. I am a creative. My whole life, I thought I had more of an academic/logical mentality, but I don’t. At least, not exclusively. I find the most joy in creative endeavors, whether it be through music or dance or design or production or... you name it. I love it. I guess that makes sense when you grow up in a community surrounded by artists, musicians, writers, dancers, singers, and photographers. So, I’m believing that this is the year where I let my rigid boxes die and where I start to creatively live outside of them. I’m also believing that this is the year to fly to wherever God wants me to fly to. The only thing I know is that one of those places will be London in the Fall of 2024. More to come on that front, if you’re lucky :)

I guess I can sum all of this up like this: This year has been the death of the dream I thought I had for myself and the labor pains of dreams yet unrealized. I have to believe that it’s not too late for me. And, if I believe that for myself, then I believe it for you too. 

I am thankful for each of you. Happy New Year!

Xo, 

Abbey

Titular Song: Move On by Mike Posner

Other recommended listening: Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard, Markéta Irglová; Story of My Life by Ant Clemons; and I Thank God by Maverick City Music.