Dancing In The Minefields
“It’s not the news that any of us hoped that we would hear. It's not the road that we would have chosen, no. The only thing that we can see is darkness up ahead”.
Those are the opening three lines to the song “Find You Here” by Ellie Holcomb. The song tells the story of a time in her life when her family got unexpected medical news about a loved one. At its core, the song is about finding and clinging to hope in the midst of heartbreak. This song has been the most played song every year in my music library since its release in 2017. For that first year of its release, I was going through some emotional heartbreak. My Roommate John even learned how to figure out what mood I was in based on how many times in a day I played that song.
The thing is, my physical heart is currently quite literally breaking. What I am going through now makes me hear that song in a completely new light. While I have experience in what going through emotional heartbreak feels like, I have zero background in how to go about processing the physical breaking of my heart. Each beat carries a weight of uncertainty. It is a peculiar feeling to be so acutely (and sometimes painfully) aware of the functions of your heart every waking moment. Every weird or unexpected sensation can almost unravel me. I have to fight to stay grounded. I sometimes feel like my body has betrayed me, even though it has actually done so much incredible work to support me.
Most days, my thoughts are all over the place. I cry still, but the time spent crying gets a little shorter each day. While I am still having extreme difficulty accepting the full weight of what has happened (and the long road ahead), my brain hasn’t spent too much time mulling over thoughts of “why me?” Bad things happen all the time, and I’m just the person this has happened to. I logically and emotionally can accept that. Connecting to my new reality is a challenge though. Every day, I’ll get out of the shower and just stare at myself in the mirror. I alternate between the mirror and staring at the surgery scar and device in my chest, just looking for answers that won’t come. What I find is that in the same ways we as humans have a difficult time connecting our emotional hearts to our minds, I am struggling to connect the reality of my physical heart to my brain. I even got a stethoscope this week so I can listen to my heart, as if I actually know what the hell I'm listening for. I keep waiting for this news to change, for this road to be easy, and for me to see nothing but glimmering lights up ahead. As my mind works through those thoughts, I hear the words of Ben Rector in my head from his song When A Heart Breaks. “I don’t have answers, and neither do you, I know the pain of a heartbreak.”
All of that usually leads my brain right back to what I said moments ago about the song Find You Here. What does “here” look like for me? It looks like dancing in a minefield. Dancing is usually seen as an expressive form of joy, happiness, and celebration. Minefields on the other hand, are very dangerous. They are uncertain, uncharted, and most usually fatal. Each visit to the doctor can feel like waiting for my world to completely crumble. Each new sensation in my chest feels like a literal ticking time bomb. Each form I fill out feels like I'm trying to understand the map of a battleground. Despite all of that, I did say that I'm dancing in the minefield. Why? I describe it as dancing because through all of this, or rather BECAUSE of all of this, I get to look at life differently.
The pace of my life has not been this slow since my early teen years. While this is a forced slow down, it has given me an opportunity to reflect in ways that my previous pace of life didn’t allow for. A few weeks ago, I was able to attend my nephew’s first birthday party. When I hold him and get a hug from him, it feels like I'm dancing. Each moment I get with my sister and her daughter fills my heart like a good dance session. I could cry out of joy at the sound of my Friend Rani’s laugh. Scheming and plotting with my cousin Brenda brings me the fondest memories. I have always maintained a wide network of relationships so while talking to people daily isn’t a new feeling, the frequency of communication I'm getting with friends and the intentionality in my conversations are mini celebrations of my life each time. I was telling John recently that I can feel sad after hanging out with or talking to someone because a scared part of me wonders if it will be the last interaction I have with that person. If those are my last ones, I am making them count. I have talked to my family members (both biological and chosen) more times in the past month than I have in ages. It’s honestly overwhelming, but in the best possible way. Those are reasons to dance in a minefield.
The truth is, I don’t know what the future holds. We will all die at some point, so I am not unique in thinking through that. I am just more hyper aware of my mortality compared to most 32 year old’s. If I get the outcome we are all praying and hoping for, I will have many more years ahead of me filled with dancing. There is a hope found in looking forward, and scripture tells us that hope does not put us to shame!
I want to say two words that I feel like I could say every minute and it wouldn’t be enough. THANK YOU. As I have been saying lately, I thank you from the bottom of my broken but very much still beating heart. For every single prayer, kind word, meal, visit, check in, donation, text, email, and phone call, I thank you. Even though this road feels lonely, I know that I am not alone. I have so many people walking alongside me.
It is no secret that I am a man of faith. I do not know where I would be right now without it. I have found myself thinking of a sermon I heard years ago about the apostle Paul and a shipwreck. When you are going through a storm is not the time to try and figure out what to do. Live your life in such a way that though the winds and waves of life toss you about, you confidently know where your hope is found and who your anchor is. I have worn an anchor necklace for five years as a reminder of this. I even got it tattooed on my arm last year. In this storm I am going through, I am able to persevere because Christ is my anchor.
I’ll leave yall with the Ellie Holcomb song I started with. As she was processing the news they received and how to go forward, she too found her hope in God. in each “here” they faced, she found God. “Here in the middle of the lonely night, here in the middle of the losing fight. You’re here in the middle of the deep regret, you’re here when the healing hasn’t happened yet. Here in the middle of the desert place, here in the middle when I cannot see your face. Here in the middle with your outstretched arms, you can see my pain and it breaks your heart. And I didn't know I'd find You here, in the middle of my deepest fear but you were drawing near, you were overwhelming me with peace. So I lift my voice and sing: "You're gonna carry me through everything! "And You were drawing near, You're overwhelming all my fears with peace.
Friends, that’s where I am. Here I find hope. Here I seek for peace in the middle of uncertainty. and most importantly, in the midst of this chaotic minefield that has become my life, here I dance.
Henry Wasonga Abuto
Soundtrack for your listening pleasure: Find You Here by Ellie Holcomb, Dancing In The Minefields by Andrew Peterson, When A Heart Breaks by Ben Rector, and You Came by Jonathan David & Melissa Helser.
