Tribe

Today and yesterday (for reference, Sunday and Saturday) were surprisingly easy days for me. I woke up happy or at least neutral. The cloud of pain that has surrounded me - at times making it difficult to see - has been gone. I suppose that an honest conversation with people who love you (but who have still broken your heart) will do that for you. I suppose also that finally releasing the pain dammed up inside will do that for you too. After the torrential outpouring, my emotions are slowly subsiding. I don't think we humans are made to carry the pressure of that much pain. And when we dam up our emotions we damn ourselves. (No, I don't mean in a sort of heaven-hell sort of way. I mean that we destroy ourselves.) Again, this points to the necessity of being surrounded by loving community with whom we can be honest.
(I know also that grieving comes in waves [or cycles] so I may end up wading through pain again, but I've accepted these past two days as a gift. My appetite has slowly returned and I've been able to sleep better. Now I primarily feel physically exhausted - as opposed to physically and emotionally exhausted. For that, I am thankful and simply await what the next day will bring.)

It's hard to be honest. Especially about grief. I think it's because being honest about grief is dangerous. Going back to our society not knowing how to grieve, I think that society also does not know what to do with people who are in pain. "Feel better!" is an easy response. Instead of grieving with those who grieve, we try to throw band-aids on deep emotional lacerations, or we offer distractions and words of advice to "Don't think about it." We don't want to sit with those who hurt because we don't want to feel uncomfortable. We want life to be happy. So, we want others to be happy - especially if we do not understand why they are hurting. So, we further wound them by taking away their right to feel or by discrediting the validity of their emotions.

Because when we are faced with the real pain of others, we must be real about our own quiet despair. We must be honest about the paradise that we do not live in. The hurting person before us serves as a mirror for our inability to be perfect - especially if that person before us is hurting as a result of our actions.
The person who publicly grieves is not weak. The honesty of showing the broken and vulnerable places is an act of absolute bravery.



I didn't want to go to church tonight. I avoided it this morning, telling myself that I would go this evening. But as the hour approached, I felt my resistance deepening. I had spent the day reading about what it means to be the community of God and absolutely knew that I did not want to go to church tonight because I did not want to have to be real with people. But, I ate too many jellybeans while sitting on the couch and thinking over my desire to stay home and feel exhausted. I gave myself a stomach ache and thought, "Well, church has a free dinner. I guess I'll go and eat...I really should go anyway."
I know it sounds like less than "Citizenship of the Month" quality character, but I think God takes and uses what we give Him in order to get us to where we need to be. And tonight, I needed to be at Tribe.

Here's what Tribe was for me tonight:
A meal of fellowship. Eucharist. A warm welcome after I'd been gone for a long time. Worship sung in harmony and wild abandon. Hugs. Smiles and joking with kind eyes and gentle touch. Dogs running around. Stomping feet. Clapping Hands. A wine glass knocked over and broken. A drum circle. A violin. Quiet listening. A kiss on the cheek. Holding hands with fingers interlocked. Prayer. Honest hearts. Conversation over washing dishes. Blessing.

A dear but recent friend approached me after the service and asked how I was doing. I told him, "Tired."
"Tired?"
"Yeah, weary."
"Tired from not enough sleep, or tired from a week of shit?" asked the saint.
I told him, "Both."
And then we really talked.


I went back to Tribe last week after a year of being gone because I knew it was the place that was safe for me to go and be shattered - and have that be okay. I went back to Tribe tonight, because I knew I needed to be there, because I ate too many jellybeans and gave myself a tummy ache, and because last week another saint asked if I'd be returning. I told him, "Yeah...I mean, maybe."

Tribe lets me be a stray cat that wanders in and out of the warehouse where they meet. Tribe welcomes me with open arms, open hearts, and plates of food. Tribe never asks me of anything other that I come and simply be - knowing that when I get to a point where I am able to contribute, I will.
I've been asked if I'll be coming more regularly, and I say that I'm not sure. And I'm accepted.

Tonight, as I walked to my car, a man chased after me in the parking lot. "Hey!" He said, "I didn't get to introduce myself to you." We exchanged names and he asked, "Will you be back next week?" "Yeah!" I replied, "Well - wait - no. I'll be in Memphis." He rocked back, "Say whaaaat!?" We laughed and I asked him, "Are you a regular attender?" "I'm working on it," he answered. "Oh, how long have you been coming here?" (With the exception of last week, I haven't been to Tribe in about a year, so I figured it was a fair question.)
"Tonight is my first night."
And those are the kind of people who make up Tribe.

And somehow, I am one of them.