The smell of the place washed over me with the same force as the memories themselves, baptizing me in their unique but bittersweet aroma.
I had long awaited this moment.
Pausing, I reflected on how it felt to be back in this space again.
This was ground zero for one of the most pivotal moments in my pastoral journey, a place where I had drawn a line in the sand and said: No more; this ends here.
It felt good, surprisingly good.
As any pilgrimage should, there was a deep-seated feeling that I was in holy place, or as I like to call it: “Thin space,” where the boundary between the present and the divine is exceptionally thin.
I breathed in the smell of joy and released the final bit of pain that remained.
Catharsis.
I was thankful that the years since I had last been here had done their work, replacing the bitter with the sweet.
It was seven years to the day since I had last been in Seattle’s Starbucks Reserve Roastery and Tasting Room.
Seven years to the day since I had last sat in this coffee roastery and cried my eyes out.
It’s still there.
I looked over at the chair where I had sat, for hours, seven years before, penning a resignation to the church where I first Senior Pastored.
I loved that church, but that church had brutalized me.
Bitter.Sweet.
To this day, that is one of the most difficult letters I have ever written.
It needed to hit all the right notes, and the writing was gut-wrenching.
Personal.
Deep.
Loving.
Painful.
The best and worst goodbyes always are. This was both.
I shifted on my feet; I wanted to give that young boy a hug.
I wanted to wrap him in my arms and say: It’s gonna be okay.
Through the tears of that seat overlooking Pike Street, I could not have imagined the road that awaited me.
The twists.
The turns.
The ups and downs.
The switchbacks.
A seven-year roller coaster of barely-managed chaos would make me the man that I am today, the one standing here, in this damnable Starbucks, about to cry again for no good reason and every good reason.
Looking into the now empty chair, I imagined the boy who once sat there.
There he was, the pain self-evident to anyone who could glimpse it that day. A young man, sitting alone, and oddly overtaken in this simple chair.
There he sat,
uncertain,
so very beaten down from a brutal run,
but determined.
A knowing smile.
I could see the future that he could not.
The reel of seven years of images rolled. Slowly, the boy who sat stunned in that sun-bathed chair shifted and grew into the man—me—standing before it.
Aging.
The process of bringing out the best notes within something through the maddeningly slow—though effective—process of waiting.
I was the man that he dared not dream he could be.
If the broken boy who sat in the blinding Seattle sunlight of those roastery windows could have seen the man who walked back in 7 years hence, he would be proud.
He had done the hard work to heal himself.
He had built himself into a force to be reckoned with.
He had tempered the inner but kept the edge.
He stayed true to himself.
He grew and learned.
He kept his childlike faith.
He held on to his humor.
He maintained his integrity.
He cared for his soul.
He’s older, but he is stronger.
Far stronger.
And then, the young man looked up at me, as if staring into my soul.
Ugh.
I know what he is thinking… I know for what he is looking.
The eyes.
That young version of myself has long thought the eyes of a pastor tell no lies. It is how he judges the heart.
If a pastor’s eyes are hollow …distant… then he has lost himself in ministry.
Too many pastors lose their first love.
Fatigue grows.
Cynicism sets in.
Compassion wanes.
Dishonesty creeps into the details.
The spark fades. The fire dies.
The wounds become unmanageable.
Dead man walking.
I can see the young man in the chair trying to assess the mess that is me, that will one day be he.
I see his countenance release; he breathes deeply, exhailing seven years of worry into the ether.
He found eyes that were not empty but filled with life… and knowing.
Deep wells.
He finds far deeper wells than he wishes to plunge or probably learn how they were dug.
Those eyes have seen things, things the creases in the face betray.
He is satisfied with what he sees, it seems.
And he looks away, content to return to the task at hand, blissfully unaware of the more challenging road that awaits.
But it is a road this older man counts as all joy.
Looking around, I’m alone again.
The chair is empty, but I am not.
There is a latent sense of the divine that lingers, sparkles in the air around me.
This now feels like sacred space, holy ground, a place where a theophany of sorts took place.
It will be a long time before I pilgrim this way again, which makes me a bit sad.
But also, I am quite confident that both versions of myself—the me of the then and the me of now—will be proud of whoever walks in next.
It doesn't surprise me that this is so well written. Your self-awareness of your mental, physical and spiritual growth is refreshing. We are so lucky to be part of your journey.
This is quite beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.