2018 was probably one of the most important – and utterly surprising – years in my life.
Finding love again
In January, I bumped into a former crush on Twitter, someone I knew from my Theology student days. My frivolous tweet had somehow gone semi-viral, and she had both seen it and commented on it. That evening we spent several hours messaging back and forth. As we said goodbye, I knew that this was a very, very special person, and that I wanted to get to know her more.’
I know a number of altos who would take issue with this. pic.twitter.com/VJxyRenIhl
— Victoria Elliott (@vce_elliott) January 9, 2018
Several messages, phone calls and a few crossed-wires later, we became an item in March. The following months saw numerous journeys up and down the country, meeting in each other’s towns, as well as trips away to various cities including Manchester, Leeds and York. Despite the distance, our lives, and who we are, seemed to effortlessly weave together.
Being with her was the easiest and simplest thing in the world. I was with a kind, gentle, patient, perceptive and thoughtful person who understood me, respected me, and loved me for who I am as much as I loved them. And this has brought so much joy and happiness in my life – something which I thought was beyond my independent and (quietly) strong-willed nature.
It therefore became very obvious very quickly that this remarkable person was to become a permanent fixture in my life. And so by the Autumn not only had we moved in together, but we were also engaged.
Amidst this delightful (and sometimes giddy) period of falling in love so unexpectedly, there were also darker moments of intense sorrow and sadness.’
Love in grief and loss
Only weeks before I was in touch with my now fiancée, one of my closest friends died suddenly. He had been a constant companion, and out of the blue was no longer with us. I keenly felt the vast void that he left, and like others was in a period of deep shock and grief. It wasn’t until he died that I realised how much I had loved him.
In February, I was at a selection conference for ordained ministry in the Scottish Episcopal Church. Preparing for this involved much prayer, many soul-searching conversations, and some hefty piles of paperwork. Out of obedience to what I felt the Church and God was calling me to do, I put myself forward, albeit with some measure of reluctance. I was settled in my life in Edinburgh and at Old Saint Paul’s and was sad at the prospect of leaving – this had been the place where I had really come into my own and learnt to thrive in being me.
I didn’t get through. My logical mind didn’t take it personally, as I was able to rationalise intellectually what had happened. But on a deeper, more profound level, it felt intensely personal. I was angry and hurt, and felt so utterly exasperated and frustrated. I was not able to be in the type of ministry which I felt called to by both the Church, and ultimately, God.
Shortly after I found out that I had not got through selection for ordained ministry, I learnt that I could return again the following year. But I realised that I needed time to come to terms with what had happened. Once again I was grieving and hurting, and needed to make peace with it and God.
As my relationship with my now fiancée deepened, I also increasingly felt that my priorities were shifting. This complementary emerging vocation – our relationship – needed space to flourish and grow.
Reasons for suffering
When we look back over time, it is tempting to come up with a narrative that neatly ties up the catalogue of events that have occurred. Most obvious for me is the temptation to think that good things have a way of following the bad. We see so often stories where a downtrodden protagonist is beset with many difficulties, but miraculously emerges stronger and wiser, victorious in showing that suffering can be overcome.
We see this story within understandings of Christian faith. Jesus was persecuted, so much so that he was killed, but fought against death to come back to life. Likewise, there is the widely held belief that we endure suffering in this life, to be rewarded in heaven.
I couldn’t have predicted how last year would have turned out. But I do know that what happened was not the result of some kind of enforced spiritual assault course, put in place for me to learn important lessons, with the result that I would somehow be a ‘better person’.
Rather, what this year has highlighted to me is love. Love that causes pain when you lose someone dear to you. Love when your heart expands more than you ever thought possible. Love when you realise you can’t respond to God’s love in the way you felt called to.
This love isn’t remote or far away, but love which is visceral and tangled up in every cell and atom of our bodies. Love which compels us to love even more, and love which enables us to become our fullest selves.
We can’t predict our futures, nor can we engineer our lives to avoid suffering and pain. But we can love, and allow ourselves to be loved. In doing this we model and experience something of God’s perfect love. God who is with us in all of our lives, who rejoices with us, and cries with us.