Face to Faith: From Rubble to Renewal - Rising from the Ruins

I was awakened by a stirring — though I’d

heard no noise. Last night, I’d skipped setting an alarm, and still, something was buzzing. I had slept deeply — I could already predict my Oura ring would affirm as much.

I surveyed more intimately: I recalled dreaming about my grandmother. In the dream, she wasn’t just my grandmother and I her grandchild — we were best friends. She was sad, though, that I hadn’t told her something. I remembered feeling sad about this as I stumbled to the washroom around 2 a.m., loosely thinking to myself that perhaps the dream reflected the kind of relationship my grandma had wanted for us — one where I shared the woes of my dating life instead of shying away from that conversation.

Each holiday season she would say, “D.J., you can bring your ‘little friend’ to dinner.” “Ahhh, grandmaaaaa,” I would roll my eyes — irritated by her consistent holiday pestering.

As I slipped back beneath my still-warm blanket, I thought to myself: what I would give to have her ask me again... how my response would be so different now — more open, more vulnerable.

The sun hadn’t yet fully penetrated the one-room cabin. Hues of light hung closely around the windows, as if out of respect. Soon, though, the white-linen curtains would buckle before the full morning glory of the sun. But not yet. The room was still dark enough for me to be asleep. So why was I up?

I rolled to my side and gently lifted out of bed. The floor beneath creaked in a way that was soothing — a welcomed melody. When I drew the curtains back, it was evident what had awakened me.

—

This year is appearing before me as broken pieces. I didn’t see the tower fall or the glass break, but I’m standing before the evidence. Do I dispose of what seems to be a mess, or do I attempt to collect the pieces?

I reach down, neglecting the safe precautions of grabbing a broom or putting on gloves — something about this moment knows that only my bare hands can accomplish this task. Something in me knows that, even in the face of consequences, I must.

The first piece I reach for cuts me — not deeply, but enough to draw blood. It begins to trickle down my finger, drops hitting the floor like waves crashing on the shore. This feeling washes over me, offering the release — the flow — that I needed.

I can see Kevin McCallister in Home Alone, proclaiming to the ones he once feared, after finding courage born only from his circumstances:
“Hey! I’m not afraid anymore. I said I’m not afraid anymore. Do you hear me? I’m not afraid anymore.”

I’m not. So I reach down again.

—

As I peer out the cabin windows, I see the rescue donkeys, Marley and Archer, gently grazing the grounds. Birds interrupt my line of vision, singing their hymns as they crisscross through the unbound sky. The leaves are changing color and beginning to dress the ground more heavily with each passing day.

I watch closely as the wind stirs the trees. A leaf begins to fall, and that’s when I see more than just the peaceful landscape before me. I see the events of this year — the moments that have evoked profound sadness, fear, and at times, anger. I see the things I wish I didn’t have to see or know in my lifetime. I see parts of the world standing firmly in contradiction to the dream Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had.

And somehow, there — in the middle — I see myself. Looking to him as he stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963. And when I turn to my right, I see where the United States stands today.

If I linger too long, caught in the frigid realities of this moment, I know my heart will harden. So I look ahead — not denying either reality, but knowing it’s this moment that matters most. I allow it to draw me close.

I step out of the cabin. I let my bare feet kiss the earth, and I let it kiss me back. I let the leaves entangle my feet. And I call the rescue donkeys to me. I rub their noses, offering them love — and receiving their purity in return.

Perhaps sensing my reflection, the wind presses harder against the trees, evoking a flurry of leaves. Tears begin to trickle down my face, mirroring their fall, as I face the reality of how I — and the world — have changed this year.

As I grieve, I see myself caught in the grips of memories and moments — each staring at me. The face of my past appears: I see myself standing over the rubble of the darkest, lowest moments of my life — moments when fear told me I would never recover, never survive. I see myself down on my knees, humbled by circumstance — praying to God, or whatever power would hear me.

And then, the memory disappears.

I breathe in deeply, and with my exhale I see where there was once rubble and fear, now beauty, hope, and strength stand in their place. I see a tower slowly rebuilding itself — so high I can no longer see where it ends. Slowly, it fades away. And there, in its place — I see myself.

I lean against the fence to rub both donkeys one last time. The sun now shines fully on them — on me — on us.

And as each leaf continues to fall to my feet, I see clearly the face of faith looking back at me: for these donkeys are no longer rescues. They are home. Love has taken them in. Hope has found them. Peace now surrounds them.

—

If it’s grief you feel, let it be grief.
If it’s anger, sadness, hate, hope, joy — or a combination of them all — be open to what you must feel. Ask for the courage and strength to be vulnerable and honest with yourself and where you are today, because only you can feel your way through this moment. Trust the aftermath of your feelings.

We cannot live through moments like this and expect to leave unchanged. Life — the world as we know it — has changed. Towers have fallen. Systems are crumbling. The mirror of our collective identity has shattered.

Now is the time to be as invested in the promise that lies after the fall as we have been in the chaos, fear, and anxiety surrounding the wreckage.

You will rebuild. We will rebuild. But we must have faith in the change.
We must honor what has changed, what has fallen — and the version of you, the version of us, that will rise in its place.

We must stand face to faith.

—

FaithFully,

Dr. Darrien