S OMETIMES A SINGLE QUESTION LANDS HARD and shakes my mind and heart for days. A visiting friend and I were talking deeply one evening. We named real dangers facing our children — the targeting of trans people, difficulty getting jobs, hazards of being a new driver—all in the context of the disintegration of American social and governmental ideals.

“How do you hold it all?” my friend asked. She meant the fear and constant anxiety of knowing that bad things really do happen. All the time. We realized that worry can’t stop them from happening. What, then?

“Yeah, that’s the question. How do we hold it all?” I responded, nodding sagely. It seemed like a topic for a lifetime, not for 10pm as my brain wound down to sleep.

She came back with, “No, really. How do you hold it all?” Gulp. Inwardly, I heard myself say, “I don’t.” That seemed pretty weak, like burying my head in the sand and letting other people and God handle things.

I fumbled ahead anyway, speaking what came: “I don’t. I don’t hold them. I let them go—the worries, the recognition of true danger and possible horrific loss.” There’s a real surrender needed to honestly face the possibility of harm and loss of people we love without spiraling into despair. I talked awkwardly about “trust” and “Good coming even through even the worst things.”

That much was true, as far as it went. But the question stayed with me through the night. In the morning, a 900-word email poured out, to greet my friend when she returned home. I articulated how I “get there,” the choices and ways I shift my awareness toward the freedom to let go. That freedom is a gift of equanimity. I don’t make it happen; it is given. I am more likely to receive the gift of equanimity, the capacity to stay steady in a maelstrom, if I practice a few things religiously. So, the thoughts below are about faith and collaboration with a Divine Giver in “holding it all.”

Now

I choose to focus on the present instead of fear-mongering about the future. I only need respond to what’s happening right now with whatever resources are available, within me and around me. To be present now, I take a deep breath and center in the Spirit. That calms and steadies me. It also helps to pay attention to my feet and the actual space I inhabit, the ground that’s holding me here. I’m always learning to trust the sufficiency of the moment, like wild geese trust the wind in a Wendell Berry poem that ends with, “What we need is here.”

Lament

When I’m solid in here and now, I open to the Holy with the realities of potential disaster and how I really feel about them. I practice spiritual lament with the prophets of ancient Israel: “How long, O God, how long?” (more reflection on lament here). It’s not useful to shame myself for being afraid for my life or the lives of people I care about. My prayer acknowledges and turns toward the Spirit with, “This is who I am, except Thou aid me,” from 20th century Quaker, Thomas Kelly (1) . Through lament, I honor my limited capacity to contain the pain and horrors of the world. I recognize my futile attempts to control or seek approval or protect myself. I don’t want to be hurt or vulnerable—a core driver of my personality patterns. Lament can be both honest confession and surrender into the Holy.

Radical Acceptance

But there’s more to “holding it all.” I practice a radical acceptance of Reality as it is, the gifts and the suffering, the mess of the human condition and what we do to each other and the earth. Accepting Reality feels like stepping into a different river of possibilities; it’s an inner current that I can join if I choose. I may even call my “stepping” a “forgiveness of Reality.” Forgiveness in this sense is a simple release into the Holy, into a wider awareness of the Life that is already Holding us. I let go of my expectations. I let go of what I wanted for my loved ones. “Release into the Spirit,” doesn’t have strings attached, doesn’t have “outcomes” that I can predict. It’s an inner gesture of confidence, trust or reliance on a Greater Love than mine.

New Eyes

When I get that far, if and when my sense of self is right-sized (neither making myself small nor puffing myself up), and my soul is aligned with the Holy, I can look around with new eyes in a situation. My one liner for that pivot is, “This is not what I wanted, but what else is here?” If I have eyes to see, or ears to hear like Jesus said, then I might notice what the Spirit is actually doing in the midst of a mess. I can see what is happening NOW that is Good or life-giving. I want to be grateful for any unexpected gifts around me, like mana in the desert.

Follow the Life

When I “see” the Life, I can choose to be part of it. I can contribute to the good, encourage the hurting, bridge divisions, help heal wounds. When I can’t see the Life, blinded by future-fears or present-grief, I’m not able to join the Goodness that the Holy One is always trying to bring into the world, maybe through me and my response right then. So, I reach a final, hopeful threshold when I answer the question: “What is mine to do here?” and then I do it. Instead of avoiding, reacting, or being crushed under the burden, my spiritual “holding” unfolds into a faithful response.

Daily Practice

I can’t imagine being able to live out what I’ve written without a regular time of quiet, contemplative surrender. Centering Prayer and Welcoming Prayer are the spiritual disciplines through which the God Beyond All Names has formed any wobbling capacity for equanimity in me (more on those practices here). It’s humbling. Any wisdom I’ve gained has come from many moons of trial and error. Why do I keep going with daily practice? Because without it, I am easily overcome with despair about the future. I see some who drip it from their pores as they shuffle along, others who explode with angry ranting and blame. That’s not Jesus’ Way, and I belong to that path, inching along as best I can.

Why?

If all this is so hard, what’s the point? I’ll let my answer be a prayer interpretation of a couple lines in Paul’s letter to the Romans, Chapter 12 verse 2 (2):

May I resist all cultural pressure
to shape me in its image—
seeing only scarcity and urgency,
blaming,
fearful, despairing.

I am willing to be changed from the inside out,
through the mysterious capacity
of Your presence
in the eye of my heart.

Guide me toward Your best hopes for me,
Show me how to collaborate
with Your goodness and healing
no matter the circumstances.

Notes

1 Kelly, Thomas, and Douglas Steere. A testament of devotion. 13th ed., New York, Harper, 1945, 13.

2 New International Version, Romans 12:2 —“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Image credit: August Rodin (French sculptor, 1840-1917) “Fallen Caryatid Carrying her Stone,” designed as part of a monumental piece, “The Gates of Hell,” which includes Rodin’s famous “Thinker.” Photo and banner layout by Christine Hall.