It’s okay to just cry
Last week my wife and I had a lovely vacation in the Great Smoky Mountains. Incredible views, nice hikes, board games, a hot tub, plenty of reading time, and a very chill vibe. The exception to that vibe, as I’ve been regaling to anyone who will listen, was the presence of 19 black bears we saw—including one who almost attacked us on our final morning there.
But there was another departure from the immaculate vibes, and it was when we were blissfully relaxing in the hot tub, looking out over a majestic sunset, and I burst into tears. Just wept and wept.
I’ve been telling this story a lot less often than the one about Murder Bear. (But shoutout to the Sunday morning Going Deeper discussion group that helped me process this.)
Why did the beautiful blues, reds, and oranges across the sky cause me to weep? I guess I’m still sorting that out. But I think the short version of the answer is this: faith deconstruction is hard.
It’s hard because things don’t hit the same way they used to. That’s often a good thing (so much less toxicity!), but sometimes it’s lonely, or frightening, or depressing.
Looking at that breath-stopping sky, I think my soul remembered how I used to respond to sights like that. Gratitude for a God who is a Person, a Painter who made that sky, perhaps just for me, okay not just for me but STILL, the same care and planning and direction that God put into that sky was also right there for me to access in my own life. God the Artist was also painting the minute details of my identity and journey!
I no longer view God this way, and I don’t think I have yet really mourned the death of Jon’s lovingly micro-managing all-powerful artist God. (RIP J.l.m-m.a-p.a.G.) So some of my tears were tears of mourning. I saw the death of God in that sky.
There was more, I think. Most days I still believe in most of the stuff. I just believe it a bit differently. Seriously, I pretty much believe (so to speak) it all: God, Jesus, Spirit, resurrection, the whole 9 yards. I’m game. But even my evolving versions of belief sometimes falter; something inside me reacted to the sunset with a fearful question. “What a beautiful sky. But is that all there is?”
In trying to explain my copious tears to my wife, whose shared hot tub experience just took a turn for the weepy, I said something to the effect of, “If this earthly life is all we have, I’m glad there is so much beauty in the sky, and that I get to spend it with you.”
It was a somewhat comforting thought. But most days, I’m still hoping for resurrection.
If you’d like to process the difficult aspects of evolving or deconstructing faith, you can schedule a call with Dottie, with Jon, or with Dawn.
