I looked at my Substack dashboard this week, which prompted me to write an anniversary post. Has it really been a year of writing here?
Thank you for being part of the journey, from day one on my Squarespace days to the few who subscribed last week. I cherish each of my readers. Thank you.
I have often enjoyed various anniversaries and milestones. I often make more out of something than others might, but I also think that is what makes me uniquely me. It was also one of the reasons I enjoyed marking time with the liturgical calendar (as I am writing on Easter Monday). Regimented seasons for spiritual formation were something this Southern California boy craved because every day was either hot and sunny or warm and cloudy. There is something special about dedicating space to different aspects of reflection.
This past week, I went fishing twice, which feels like a unique joy. Isn't it odd to struggle to peel away from the mundane, let alone twice?
The winters here are long, and things take a bit too long to warm up. The longer days are precious to me, and I feel eager to be outside more. It's a place where I become more of myself, the person I get to be, as I uniquely image the Creator. It's a slow process, both the rivers warming up and becoming human.
Similar to the liturgical calendar, being in a place with seasons has begun to shape my thinking in unexpected and slower ways. Lessons I learned in my 20s now have a deeper meaning, so I'll share a few of those here.
The first is learning to claim our agency. One of the core ingredients of dignity is agency, which is our ability to not only choose but to co-create the changes we want to see. At a point in my spirituality, I thought I would miraculously practice piety instead of taking charge of my character formation. While it may have to do more with the Pentecostal tradition I was involved with, I thought if I did more for God, somehow that would be returned to me in maturity. To an extent, that is true, but I also believe that we have the means to shape our character through the spiritual disciplines, spiritual direction, therapy, and time with the Creator in creation. We are made to image the Creator, a creative embedded within us.
I wish I had learned the difference between tenure and loyalty. I have found myself holding a spot at a job or denomination far beyond my welcome. I thought I would be recognized, seen, and helped if I stayed there long enough. I realize now that I had only shared a space there, but there was no appreciation for what I bring to the table. I was loyal to the status quo, but ultimately, it didn't care that I left. When I was searching for a new job in the denomination, I wasn't called back after submitting all the materials they requested. This wasn't home, but I resided there. The same goes with being in Southern California - I took up residence, but it wasn't until Montana that I learned what home could feel like.
I recently had a phone call with an old friend who recounted that I am living the life I wanted to some four or five years ago. I asked him how so, and he reminded me I often talked about living in slower rhythms, with just enough to live deeply and with a deeply resolved purpose. The words from one of my earliest Doctor of Ministry classes came to mind, and I hope this doesn't land as insensitive. The lecturer said, "Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of a cancer cell." I have bounced around a lot. When I took a job at my alma mater, my new boss invited me to consider staying in a role longer than two years. Something in the water there made me believe I was made and meant for more. Higher education was the dream, followed by denominational leadership, perhaps joining the military as a chaplain and then a mega-church ministry school. Each opportunity or dream had a long arch of imagined success of what I could vocationally achieve. But those visions of more never included the fundamental aspect of who I could become.
I have long believed that kindness is our superpower. In 2015, I was preparing to graduate with my master's degree when Dr. Hartley told me he would write me an open letter of recommendation for a PhD program of my choosing. He was battling cancer and knew his days were limited. Along with a letter of recommendation, he left me with a mantle of advice that I have tried to carry with me every day. In the context of attending annual biblical society meetings, he said, "When you go, it will be easy to try to be the smartest person in the room, but there is always someone smarter. The way to stand out is to be the kindest person in the room."
I don't regret the time it took to get to Montana. Each twist and turn brought something to the journey, making it what it is today. Reflecting on this past year of writing, fishing, and fly tying, I am grateful for the slow and sacred work of becoming. Here's to the spring and summer ahead. May we continue to become more fully human.