This week's essay was written by
and is part 1 of a four part advent series.Lately, when I look in the mirror, I see the reflection of an unfamiliar face. A face that is mine, but that I do not recognize. Sometimes, I stop and stare back.
What is it about you? I wonder. What is it that looks different?
I weigh twenty pounds more than I did two sons, two diagnoses, and six years ago. I’ve changed my hair countless times to countless colors—first red, then black, then blue, then blonde. Then lavender, and lilac, back to black, and now some shimmering shade of brown and blue.
There are a few more wrinkles. Not many, but more. Undoubtedly, my teeth have shifted, have crowded closer together, turned crooked and, God, will I ever make it to the dentist again?
But these minor details in the mirror are not what shroud the familiarity I once found in my face. Just the other day, I was in a fitting room and trying on clothes for my ever-expanding body, when, finally, I realized it:
I’m not just carrying extra weight, as in my body;
I’m carrying extra weight, as in my burdens.
There, right there, standing beneath the bad lighting that cast shadows under my tired eyes and doubling chin. I saw it in my heavy, half-smile. I saw it in the sadness glazed over my eyes, my whole face hardened over with hurt and hardship and hopelessness.
A few weeks ago, a friend stopped by to pick up a meal I’d made for her family. I told her about all the glasses of wild ivy, propagating on my dinner table, and the persimmon tree seeds (among others . . .) stratifying in my refrigerator.
She asked me what I’d do with all these seeds if they sprouted. Where would I put them all? How would I find space for them? What if a tree really does come up from out of all this? Then she asked me how and why she would do the same.
I don’t know, I said. It’s an act of hope, and it’s all I have, I said.
Because, isn’t that the holy work of seeds? To sustain life, even when all looks dark and dead. Isn’t that the sacred way of seeds? To wake with life, even when buried beneath the heavy weight of earth?
In this present season of peppermint and presents, I am heavy with grief, heavy with longing. I have no songs to sing, no gifts to bring. I have grief, upon grief, upon grief, upon grief.
I am heavy with fragmented versions of myself, all the stories that I am, lost and looking for a safe place to land. I’m not just carrying extra weight, as in my body.
I’m wearing sadness,
like a winter coat.
And, of course, I want to take it off. Want to shed these layers. Want the weight of winter to thaw off my body, to melt away . . . and it will. In due time.
For now, though, I am buried beneath the thickest layers of dirt and darkness.
I am a seed, sunken, and straining to see the sun shine through all those layers of soil. Even if it takes all season. Even if it takes all seasons.
If only to catch a glimpse of the brightest light. If only to turn towards it, shedding my shell and pining for a place, a person, that is higher, brighter, lighter than I.
Amen.
RACHEL MARIE KANG is a New York native, born and raised just outside New York City. A mixed woman of African American, Native American (Ramapough Lenape Nation), Irish, and Dutch descent, she holds a degree in English with Creative Writing, and a minor in Bible. She is founder of The Fallow House and her writing has been featured in Christianity Today, Ekstasis magazine, Proverbs 31 Ministries, She Reads Truth, and (in)courage. Rachel is the author of Let There Be Art and The Matter of Little Losses.
Follow Rachel on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, subscribe to her Substack and check out her website here.
Coming up this month: A four-part Advent series
Beginning today (the first Sunday of Advent), this collaborative series includes four essays centered around wonder, written by four beautiful, thoughtful, tender writers. These essays are free for all subscribers, so please be sure to subscribe and check out Rachel, Liz, and Sara if you haven’t already!
12/3: Hope by
(The Black Letter)12/10: Peace by Liz Charlotte Grant(The Empathy List)
12/17: Love by Sara Billups (Bitter Scroll)
12/24: Joy by Sarah Southern (Wild + Waste)
Sarah, thank you for inviting me in and welcoming these words. We all strain towards hope . . . together. So much ♡ for you.
This is beautiful. I love to see you and Rachel (and Liz and Sarah!) collaborating in this way. Looking forward to reading these each week!