I am the old.

The word is “new”, but it’s not a new word.  I hear it everywhere, now.  New beginnings, new opportunities, new life.  And who wouldn’t think of “new” and feel renewed.  See?  Told you it was everywhere, it’s even in that word.

But if there is something new, then there is something old.  And I grieve the loss of the old.  New beginnings form at the end of a now old beginning.  New opportunities arise as old opportunities die.

Life begins and life ends and life begins and life ends.  And I’m so tired of life ending.  I’m so tired of grieving.

I’ve been thinking about this pretty regularly for a couple of years now, and with increasing frequency in the last couple of months.  In the safety of confidence with a close friend, I confessed how much death bothers me, even death of insects.  He asked why I thought that was.  Because it is so… permanent.

When new things come, the old things will never be the same.  As a Christian, I should have a completely different outlook on all of this.  I have a new life in Christ, God’s mercies are new every morning.  But my joy for new is overshadowed by the inner torture of the death of old.

One of my best friends packed up a car today and moved to Portland, Oregon with her new husband.  And I couldn’t be happier for them.  And I couldn’t be sadder for me.

A friend of mine and I had a long stretch of miscommunication which led to no communication and, in many ways, strangled what was once a life-giving friendship.  In that time,  new opportunities rose up for him.  In that time, I wallowed in grief alone.  And I couldn’t be happier for him.  And I couldn’t be sadder for me.

In my hyper-critical, cynical heart, I feel overlooked.  For newness happens for everyone, but I am the old.  Maybe this wouldn’t feel so lonely, helpless, and hopeless if the death of something old meant I would find something new.  But I don’t.   And it feels as if my days are numbered.  The days draw nearer to when I will be replaced one last time by someone new until I am alone.  Or so it seems.

Not so deep down, I know the root of all of this misperception.  I invest in so few, and even then only to the persistent and most safe, for fear of the death I know will happen eventually.  My fear of abandonment is so skewed and exaggerated that even the most basic and normal and natural patterns of ebb and flow within relationships seems to be less like coming and going and more like hesitation and death.  The only “comfort” is in choosing not to be invested at all.

But that is not the life I was supposed to lead.  I am not the person  I grew up to be.

And so I offer this plea:

When I retract, please draw near.

When I hide, please come find me.

When I get up to go, please ask me to stay.

It’s certainly not your responsibility, but if only you understood that the reason I push and run away was to cause a premature death that I can control, then maybe you would not be so disappointed in me.  Maybe you would be spurred to pursue me more, and I would feel safe to stay.  And, one day, maybe the grace you bestow to me will be the grace of God.  This part of me would heal and neither one of us would have to try so hard.

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