Beautiful City
A Lenten Meditation - Part 4
Day thirteen.
This meditation will not let go of me.
I did not set out to braid Lent and Godspell together. I had not thought about the musical in years. Then a video of Hunter Parrish singing “Beautiful City” drifted across my feed.
I do not believe in coincidence.
He was not performing hope. He was inhabiting it. The lyric did not feel naïve. It felt measured.
“We can build a beautiful city…
Not a city of angels…”
It found me in a season when building feels theoretical and rubble feels tangible.
I currently have no position in the career I once assumed would define me. No clear assignment. No title to attach to new introductions. There is a strange humiliation in that.
The ego dislikes blank spaces. The mind prefers trajectory.
LinkedIn prefers verbs. And it does not know what to do with waiting. It cannot quantify formation. It does not have a field for “being prepared.”
Instead, I have a litany.
It would surprise most to know this. In fact, I find it interesting myself to say the least, considering the history of hostilities and canonized abuse received, along with the years of my own dissuasion, defense, and literal defiance I offered up weekly to either stay in bed or choose an alternative option. But the truth is…
…each Sunday I go to church.
Not because I feel spiritually impressive. Not because I am certain of everything I kneel before. But because I want to be at the table.
The litany table.
To kneel.
To hear the prayers repeated.
To receive bread without having to justify myself.
There is something steady about showing up weekly when nothing outwardly is resolving. Faith that depends on momentum does not last. Presence that is practiced might.
Am I in my own wilderness?
It feels that way.
It feels wild enough.
Not dramatically. Not cinematically. Just the quiet stretch between assignment and arrival.
Jesus did not perform miracles in the wilderness. He clarified identity before beginning. The desert was not the work; it prepared him for the work.
If this is preparation, then lack of a position is not disqualification. It may be refinement.
I am not unemployed; I am unassigned.
Is that not different?
Some days the desert feels harsher than I want to admit.
It feels as though I am being told I am too old to contribute anything new and too young to hang up the shingle and disappear into the ether of the old and forgotten. The
Experienced. Which sometimes translates to: inconvenient.
I think of Tom Smykowski in Office Space, defending his role to “the Bobs”:
“I deal with the god damn customers so the engineers don’t have to.”
It’s funny because it’s desperate. It’s desperate because invisible work is always being asked to justify itself.
I have dealt with the customers.
I have translated complexity.
I have bridged rooms.
I have absorbed tension so others could build.
Glue work.
Glue is never celebrated.
And in my more irreverent moments during this fast, I imagine Jesus standing before the crowd as they shout “Barabbas!” and thinking, with exhausted clarity, “I have people skills; I am good at dealing with people. Can't you understand that? What the hell is wrong with you people?”
It’s absurd. It’s also human.
He healed. He taught. He translated law into mercy. And still the crowd misunderstood the offering.
I am not equating myself with Christ. I am admitting the ache of being unseen in your usefulness.
This desert sharpens that ache.
Early career proves; midlife integrates. And Integration is harder to measure.
The world prefers fresh energy and final exits. It does not know what to do with seasoned hunger.
But I am not finished. I can feel that. I refuse to join the next rejection letter in the burn pile.
If meaningful work were placed in my hands tomorrow, I would step into it with a hunger.
Not ego; but a hunger. I always have. Which tells me this is not resignation. It is something else.
And yet I am not idle.
The weekly showing up at the litany table mirrors the daily showing up to the page.
I study.
I learn new skills.
I write.
I edit.
I turn an old conversation I once had with myself into a song.
I review another’s book.
I sketch.
I send another résumé.
I muse while lighting the match.
At the gym, I fold another stack of towels; only to see them gathered once used, laundered, and folded again.
Repetition.
Brick by brick.
Heart by heart.
Towel by towel.
None of it photographs well.
But it is not useless.
The song arrived when I was beginning to feel useless.
Something in the tempo steadied me. Something in the lyric refused despair.
Out of the rubble.
Out of the smoke.
Not instantly redeemed. Just slowly mended.
The song admits, we may not reach the ending.
But we can start.
And perhaps that is what this season is doing.
Not resolving, but rather starting.
Five years from now, I do not want to call this period, an interruption, but rather, foundation.
If it is foundation, I will know by what stands on it later.
For now, I will show up.
I will…
Kneel.
Listen.
Learn.
Apply again.
Wait again.
And continue to hunger.
And when the next brick is placed in my hand, I will take it.
Whether I recognize it or not.
TW
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