Sanctuaries and Sunflowers (Part Two)

On the sacred nature of solidarity.

In the conclusion of PART ONE of this tale, we had just left our dear Daniel crying into the arms of a coworker on the stoop outside of the staff room.

I never quite know what to do when I see someone really, truly weeping. My instinct is to swoop right in and “help”, but I sometimes wonder if my presence might shine a spotlight on an overwhelming moment they would prefer to navigate in the dark, on their own.

In this case, Daniel already had someone holding him, so I simply put my hand on his back in acknowledgement as I passed him en route to the door. Much to my surprise he turned to see who it was and then immediately collapsed into me. My coworker nodded and slipped into the staff dining area, leaving us alone on small porch.

His were racking sobs, full body convulsions. My heart hurt as I hugged him tight, as I shushed him and rocked him back and forth.

I didn’t ask what had happened. I knew better.

This is a gift that our own experience of grief gives us- it wisely teaches us that in moments of incomprehensible pain, silence prevails. We must not demand a single thing of those navigating the depths of despair. We need only take their hand and let them know that they are not alone in the darkness.

Once he had cried himself dry, he weakly thanked me and walked away, the physical weight of this sadness evident on his slight frame.

I found out during breakfast that his mother had died.

I felt the crush of that knowledge in my chest. I wondered if it had been sudden. I wondered when Daniel had last spoken to her- had it been the day when she had told him to leave? They day she had demanded that he choose whether to remain faithful to himself- to his identity as a gay man- or to them, with their misplaced religious devotion? How tragic it would be to leave home under the cloud of such furious heartbreak, and then lose all hope of reconciliation.

I am incredibly fortunate to have a mother who loves me unconditionally, it is my bedrock in life. But I know so many people (my own mother included) who have been denied this foundational love. And there seems to be nothing that takes away the ache of having a mother who is so burdened by her own pain and woundedness that she becomes blind to the beauty of her children.

Maybe we were all thinking about our own mothers, both present and absent, loving and distant, as we ate breakfast together that morning, thigh to thigh on the benches that only just held us all. The mood was pensive, and heavy.

And then we logistically worked out, as a team, how to support Daniel. Cleaning, serving and dishwashing shifts were doled out for the next couple of weeks. Some of us would end up working ten hour shifts, twelve days in a row, to give him the time he needed to grieve. We did this without hesitation or any expectation of recompense. We had been there, after all. This was a community that excelled at “stepping up,” regardless of whether we were on the clock. If it was the right thing to do, we did it. (Most of the time, anyway.)

Our amazing, huge-hearted boss ended up flying Daniel back to the east end of the park that day in his single-engine Cessna (a short, stunning plane ride that made you feel as though you could press your lips to the glass and kiss Denali’s glaciers as opposed to an equally lovely but harrowing six hour drive over the curvy, cliff lined single-lane dirt road that was the only other way out of the park). He then gifted Daniel his own frequent flyer miles to get back home for the funeral. (This wasn’t widely known, as he would have been embarrassed to have his generosity acknowledged in any way, but it moved me deeply. He had done the same thing for me, the year before, when I was dealing with an unexpected cancer diagnosis and had to high-tail it to Seattle in the middle of the season.)

The fastest way out of the park. @denalipilot

In the days that followed, we tried to suss out how he was doing and whether he would be coming back, but no one knew anything. His partner was conspicuously absent as well- he wasn’t coming to staff meals or our nightly porch gatherings, and we assumed he just needed space.

Then something strange happened. Just four days after his departure, Daniel was back. Someone spotted him walking towards his cabin, and suddenly the community was aflutter with questions. Did he decide not to attend the funeral? Was he only back to pack up his belongings so he could leave for good? Where had he been these last few days?

When you live in a community of fifty people, it’s very difficult to tell what is hearsay and what is fact when these sorts of things happen, even when the people are good and not keen on spreading ill-informed rumors. Knowing this, we were told that morning by one of our bosses that Daniel would explain everything during our staff lunch, and to just let him have some space until then.

Alas, when we filed in to the beautiful Potlatch dining room that afternoon, we were keenly aware of the fact that Daniel and Jeremy were at the end of a long table, holding hands, looking quite subdued. A few people squeezed Daniel’s shoulder before finding a seat, and I remember thinking that his face was strangely unreadable.

Soon the room was filled with familiar lunchtime chitchat and laughter, the clanking of silverware on plates, the sound of toolbelts dropping to the floor as our resident handy-folk arrived, the swishing of coats being hung on the backs of chairs.

When Daniel stood up as the meal was nearing an end and tapped his fork on his glass, the soundscape stilled to that of near silence as we all shifted in our seats to see him.

He looked like he was going to be sick. I wanted so badly to comfort him, to tell him whatever it was, it was going to be okay, but his eyes were downcast. Jeremy reached out and grabbed his hand, and David swallowed heavily.

“I have something I need to tell you guys,” he said, his voice cracking, “and I just want you to know how sorry I am.”

Now you could hear a pin drop.

“My mom didn’t die.” He said, raising his eyes. “I lied to you. I lied to all of you.”

He started crying then as the story poured out of him, haltingly. He told us that the night before he was crying on the porch, he and Jeremy had been in a terrible fight. He was convinced that Jeremy was going to break up with him, and he didn’t know what to do. Could he stay in the community afterwards, having to see Jeremy daily and work closely with him? He said he just wanted to run away, because that’s what he did, he ran away when things got hard. But how do you run away when you are literally in the middle of nowhere? There was no car to hop into, no road that he could walk to a nearby town.

He was lamenting the loss of his first great love, the loss of so many things, when a concerned community member had asked what had happened, and he’d blurted out that his mom had died. He told us, as tears streamed down his face, that he didn’t know why he had said that. He couldn’t figure it out. He just didn’t want to tell the truth. He didn’t want to throw Jeremy under the bus. He was at a total loss.

He hadn’t been clear-headed enough to know what would happen next- the community support, the plane ride, the tickets home. And he told us that it had felt so good to be so cared for- he’d never experienced anything like it. Soon, he was too deep into the lie to gracefully extract himself. He thought about just flying home after all, and staying there indefinitely, and never telling a soul that he had make the whole thing up. He would get his escape, in the end. Isn’t that what he wanted?

But Jeremy had called him once he got to the east end of the park, and they had talked and talked and he realized that running wasn’t the answer. He realized, to his utter amazement, that not all conflict ends in total banishment.

As I sat there bearing witness to this young man’s confession, to his total vulnerability, I began to weep. I knew his story, I knew how huge this realization must have been to him. I recognized the immerse courage it took for him to be standing there, telling the truth, come what may. He had been in that confessional seat before, and it had not gone well at all.

It is a truly humbling thing to watch someone strip down like that, after having been so badly scourged before. To bear all, fully knowing that you’re exposing your least beautiful parts, and that people can be cruel and unrelenting.

After he finished, he apologized again. He thanked us for picking up his shifts, for being so kind, even though he didn’t deserve it. His head was down again. He was still crying silently.

We were collectively holding our breath at that point. It was so quiet in the room, in that makeshift sanctuary. We let the details of this revelation percolate, this unlikely congregation sitting in our shared humanity.

And then the sound of chair legs being pushed back pierced the silence as one of our elders, a whip-smart carpenter and mechanic named Theo, stood to his full height and began to clap. David’s head shot up as he looked his way, dumbfounded.

And then more chairs scraping, and more clapping.

The room erupted into applause. People whopped and cheered. Those standing closest to Daniel encircled him, drawing him into a huge embrace, clapping him on the back and kissing his cheeks.

Photo by Guillermo Latorre on Unsplash

My heart felt like it was going to burst.

This, dear readers, this was what I had always wanted in a church community. That was the thought that arose in my mind as I stood there freely weeping, reveling in the miracle of mercy.

What is the point of life, if not this?

Community can be a sterile word, a concept that is hard to put skin on if you’ve never lived in a group of people who truly rely on one another, who really love one another.

It wasn’t until this sacred moment in our timber-fame tabernacle in the tundra that I understood how much we need one another. How being shown grace, true, no-strings-attached-grace can transform not just the recipient but also the benefactor. Because when we gave Daniel a standing ovation for his bravery, we were also healing ourselves from all the times we had needed forgiveness and hadn’t been given it. Perhaps, most of all, from our own selves. I thought about the mercy we needed to give ourselves when we, too, had been steeped in shame for a decision we had made and instantly regretted. For a lie we had tangled ourselves up in and had believed we’d never be free of.

What is church, if not a gathering of people animated by love? What is church, if not a place where vulnerability is met with unflinching grace?