Some of them were angry
At the way the earth was abused
By the men who learned how to forge her beauty into power
And they struggled to protect her from them
Only to be confused
By the magnitude of her fury in the final hour
And when the sand was gone and the time arrived
In the naked dawn only a few survived
And in attempts to understand a thing so simple and so huge
Believed that they were meant to live after the deluge– Jackson Browne
I got home to Western North Carolina on September 19, 2024. On September 27, Hurricane Helene deposited between 25 and 30 inches of rain on an already sodden region. The saturated ground slid out from under us while massive trees lost their grip and were blown over by winds that were gusting up to 75 miles an hour. On the morning of September 28, I went to church. I stayed there until October 4 because, with roadways, traffic lights, power, water, and cell phones out, it made more sense to be where there was food, natural gas, and some generator power.
Abigail went to Europe on October 2. I reached out to the attorney who handled my separation agreement. She was unresponsive. After consulting with another attorney, I sent Abigail a strongly worded email. She did not reply. When Abigail asked for some documents to facilitate transferring the house to her name, I delayed and reached out to the second attorney. She was also unresponsive. I consulted yet a third attorney, who (after I asked him fairly directly) gave me the gift of saying that it was unlikely that my separation agreement would be changed as long as Abigail was unwilling to participate in changing it. He also asked me if I had any familiarity with contemplative spirituality. I laughed and told him about Thomas Merton’s words when he entered Gethsemane: “Then the gates closed behind me, and I entered into the four walls of my freedom.” I could stop fighting. I had done all I could. Surrender meant freedom.
I woke up on the Monday after the storm feeling unsure that I could walk through yet another unprecedented time with the people I had come to love so much at Calvary. It was, and is, a heartbreaking sentiment. I am a priest because they have taught me how to be one. And yet, it may be time for them and for me to choose our own ways. I am still not sure.
I also look around at this place where I have lived for thirty years. My relationship to this place is fundamentally different because of the storm. I do not know if I can trust the land anymore. I do not know if I can let go of a community that has raised me from my youth. How could I leave? How can I stay? The only way to answer this question, it seems to me, is to try some things on. Portland, for instance, and maybe Chattanooga or Sewanee.
The one thing I do believe, in my attempts to understand things so simple and so huge, is that I am meant to live. We are meant to live. The soul-piercing beauty of creation calls us. The enduring bonds of brotherhood, sisterhood, siblinghood call us. The inescapable mystery of our personal and collective history calls us. The windswept places call us. The terrible grace of a God we can hardly perceive, much less understand, calls us. We are called to love, embrace, endure, and wrestle with all of it. And we should not let go unless we are blessed.
“The fuck, Teej?”