The writing below is from a journal I kept while living in Ukraine about 5 years ago. I happened upon this entry the other day and had completely forgotten the insight it recorded. It is just a relevant to me today, in my current transitions, as it was for me then in that in-between space.
I’ve been in a very melancholy mood the past few days. Last night, after finishing the first chapter of The Return of the King, I set down the book and felt a way of melancholy take me. No, less like a wave and more like the 2005 tsunami. First a receding, an emptiness, and then, somehow both quickly enough that there’s nothing I can do about it and slowly enough that I don’t see it coming, I am surrounded by it all. And then I am engulfed. […]
So I turned on Samuel Barber’s Serenade for Strings and sat in my doorway, its paneling along the wide wall big enough to hold me like a box. When Barber was finished, I listened to Sigur Ros. The whole time I let the unsettled feeling sit in my gut, not trying to soothe it away nor trying to ferment it into something more. I emoted, I guess. […]
I sat with my back against one wide doorpost and, knees bend, with my feet against the other. I thought about being here in Ukraine and not knowing where home is anymore and not knowing much of anything. I though about how my physical location aptly expressed my whole Being’s location – a threshold.
I can’t remember when I haven’t felt like I was sitting in a doorway, in a threshold, in between, not an inhabitant of either side.
I don’t remember how, exactly, but at that point, another thought came to me.
In his parable of the Good Shepherd, Jesus says he is the way. The gate. The doorway. The threshold.
I don’t even know exactly what that means for me, other than I have the opportunity to sit – or stand or wail or wait or breathe or exist – within Christ Himself. I hope to be learning to do that anyway, but I have found myself in the midst of what Jesus very clearly declared himself to be.