Learning to Hug My Cactus, Again

“I come to spirituality not out of virtue but out of necessity.”
–Julia Cameron

No quote has rung truer to my soul than this one over the last few months. I have come to God on skinned and battered knees, seeking a deeper spiritual connection to Him out of desperation, not out of anything resembling virtue or pure intentions. My spiritual walk has been more like survival than spiritual bliss. It’s felt more like a desert than a garden oasis.

So, we have to address the elephant in the room. Where have Chris and Will been these last few months? Why have we gone so long without any blog articles or YouTube posts.

The short answer: Will has been hugging his cactus. Again.

The longer answer is, well, a long story. A story I’d like to start sharing right now.

Over the last few months, I (Will) have been wrestling with the painfully question of identity.

I have been stumbling over the following questions: “Who am I without being a pastor? Who am I without serving at Tangible Grace Fellowship, a place where I have called home and family for the last six years? Who am I without a job, without a church, without a calling (or so it seemed)?” For a long time, I either didn’t want to or simply couldn’t answer those questions.’

De-nial (n)
Not just a river in Egypt.

It wasn’t merely denial. It was also a lack of words, creativity, or anything resembling enthusiasm. I was numb. I was tired, lost, and confused.

I didn’t see this opportunity to “hug my cactus,” coming. I could never have predicted something as simple as my church shutting down for a lack of finances to prompt such an existential crisis. I didn’t go looking for this season “wandering in the wilderness.”

The wilderness found me. And I was stuck in the land of cacti and snakes for months—it seemed like longer.

I write this summary of my experience on (hopefully) the other side of the wilderness. No, I’m not cured. No, I’m not naïve enough to think this will be my last time to stumble in the sand and rocky terrain of the desert. But, I think I am slowly—too slowly for my taste—but steadily reorienting myself to the reality that I have to embrace and hug my cactus, not deny that it even exists.

The one benefit to trying seasons like this is that you really learn a lot about yourself and a lot about your closest friends and family. I learned that I had hidden places of pride that ooze out of every nook and cranny of my soul, like acid from a battery, toxic and burning. I learned that I still have such a long, long way to go in being a recovering people-pleaser. I learned that I’m not alone—even when it feels like I’m walking through the “valley of the shadow of death.” I learned that my closest friends weren’t terrified by my mess and struggles—even when they terrified me. I learned that my best friends just let me be quiet and weird. They never gave up calling and texting. I can never thank them enough.

That season of being quiet and awkward really kept me from being able to write like I was used to. So, I had to take a break from Hug Your Cactus the blog and figure out how to actually live out the truths we talk about all the time. After lots of counseling and enough time, I think I have enough perspective to share my experiences to hopefully help you through similar seasons of life.

So, I will continue to share what I’ve learned from the deeply painful and personally challenging season over the coming weeks and months. I have a feeling you will connect with some of it; I have a feeling some of it will really help you help others in similar “wilderness wandering” seasons to mine. I’d like to close with another quote that’s really helped orient each day and enabled me to follow the old simple AA mantra to “take it one day at a time.” Mary Oliver gives the following instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Poets really are the most amazing of artists. A string of pearls—seven simple words— containing infinite wisdom.

First, pay attention.

I suppose hugging your cactus and wandering in the wilderness is what happens when you don’t pay attention, especially to your own soul, to your deep spiritual hunger that can only be satisfied by God. Jesus once warned that we don’t live on bread (or money) alone, but on the word that proceeds from the breath of God. Our vitality is always and ultimately derived from Him. Whenever we forget or neglect this truth our soul shrivels like a raisin from thirst—

O God, you are my God;
I earnestly search for you.
My soul thirsts for you;
My whole body longs for you
In this parched and weary land
Where there is no water.
–Psalm 63:1

In short, tend your soul like a careful gardener, pruning and weeding the excesses of our modern culture—discarding our sinister entanglements with materialism, consumerism, and instant gratification.

Second, be astonished.

Enjoy the simple beauties of life.
A sunset. The giggle of a child.
The smell of cookies. The taste of queso.
A long and patient hug.

Here we invite child-like wonder into our lives. Here we allow each of our senses to be pathways of supernatural peace and divine pleasure. We treasure. We breathe deeply. We slow down.

Finally, we tell about it.

We share what we learned from paying attention and from being astonished. We share our stories and our delight. We use our strength, our experience, and our hope in service of others. For, like a rose, we must bud and blossom outward, never holding our beauty and secrets forever within.

If I could summarize my experience over the last few months, it’s that I think I am simply a bud in the vinedresser’s hands. He’s pruned me, painfully and precisely. He’s allowed me to start again and learn simple truths anew. I can’t wait to “tell about it” some more!