#6: Definitions (Or: The Lent That Broke The Camel's Back)

“Let’s go to the dictionary,” my therapist said. “Find the definition of honor and read it out to me.”

“High respect, as for worth, merit, or rank” I said.

“Great. Now let’s find the definition of obedience.” She continued.

“The act or practice of obeying; dutiful or submissive compliance” I read.

“So, are honor and obedience the same thing?” She asked me.

I paused. I had never quite contemplated this distinction.

***

Knowing things aren’t quite right in your life is one thing, knowing what to do with that information is another. And even when you know what to do, the gulf between knowing and doing can be the hardest to cross.

Amid the chaos of my life on both the home and work fronts, I started regularly attending an Episcopalian church in Manhattan. There was something steadying about the quietness, the rituals, and the repetitions there. My very first season of lent, I shut out the noise of the world, broke my entire life into pieces, held each part against the light, and asked God what to keep and what to surrender. I wanted to fast away fear.

I started to sense I would need to face the hardest thing first: my marriage. One of my greatest fears on this front was disappointing my mother. As a pastor’s daughter, I had lived most of my life conscious of the fact that my actions could impact my parents. Growing up, whether at school, with friends, or at church—every mishap of mine was accompanied by a rebuke from elders and peers alike that reminded me I was expected to know and do better… “as a Pastor’s daughter.”

When my father died, what had once been a pressure the world put on me, became a pressure I put on myself. I watched what my mother had to navigate—the sacrifices she made— to be respected as a female Pastor, and made it a personal mission to avoid doing anything that would tarnish her reputation. It’s a responsibility I carried with me into adulthood.

Months prior, I had attempted to leave my marriage, but my mother and family told me to yi hakuri one more time. So, I stayed. Even though I knew my family meant well, staying when I knew it was time to leave was an act of self-betrayal. That self-betrayal sunk me into an even deeper pit of depression I didn’t know was possible. As I tried to climb my way out of that pit in therapy, I clung to the idea that staying was a sacrifice I had to make because honoring one’s parents is a Biblical command; a Biblical command linked to a promise; the only Biblical command with a promise.

Duty can be a mask—a way we hide from doing the hard things taking responsibility for our lives require.

I do not remember the exact thing that rid me of the fear of disappointing my mother. It might have been a big fight or a playful comment. What I do remember clearly, is the feeling: an epiphany that being true to myself would always carry the risk of disappointing her and others; that the cost of my full compliance would be my full self-realization.

With the fear of disappointment eroded, there was still one more thing that held me back: an iota of hope.

Hope /hoʊp/
the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best.

Many times, the final straw is a small thing—a small thing that bookends the culmination of a million things. It was one day—a day with a series of small arguments with my husband—that made me realize for the final time that what each of us wanted would never be found in each other.

With clarity, came overwhelming grief.

Grief /greef/
keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.

In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus knew the cross he had to face but still asked God to take the cup of suffering away. I knew leaving, after over a decade together, would come with suffering. There was no way around it. I asked God to take the cup away. I bargained, hard. The cross remained.

With knowing what I had to do, came another question—when?
I mentioned to a Counselor I consulted that I was praying to God for signs about both my job and my marriage.

“Sometimes you need to take the first step before God gives you a sign,” he replied.

I began to flirt with faith—with the idea that I could cross the gulf between knowing and doing without crumbling. I was certain pain would meet me on the other side. Faith asked me to believe resurrection was possible there, too.

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).

As an act of faith, I wrote down a list of things I would want in an apartment, if I were to leave. Some of the things on my list seemed like asking for a lot in New York City, but I wrote them down anyway. I told God in prayer that if I found an apartment that matched my list and critically, my budget, I would consider it a sign.

On Good Friday, I went to a concert in Brooklyn and really liked the neighborhood the concert was in. The next day I walked into a few buildings in that neighborhood without an appointment and asked if they had any vacant apartments. The third apartment I saw met all my requirements.

I took the first step: I put an application in.

I was sitting in church on Easter Sunday when an email alert notification popped up on my phone: my apartment application was approved.

It was time to walk out of my tomb.

Courage/ kur-ij, kuhr-/
the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain., etc without fear; bravery.