I don’t want to blog today. I don’t want to look back on this year. Who would? This year was awful. This year made no sense. Much like its evil stepsister year before, this year isn’t one I want to relive. Like, ever.
And yet we are doomed to repeat history if we do not learn from it. It’s true of societies, and it’s true of individuals. As much as I want to forget most of 2021, I also want to learn from 2021 — desperately.
The missteps. The failures. The doom. The gloom.
What a tragedy for me — for you, for all of us — to enter 2022 or 2023 or 2087 and not learn a thing from 2021. I hope you look back with what’s left of this year, too.
I received this 2021 prompt from today’s “Enneathought,” a daily email for Fours (you can sign up for daily emails from the Enneagram Institute which generally correspond to your type):
How have you grown? What issues still block your way to a deeper transformation? Is there a theme? Do you see a pattern for your future challenges?
More than any other year, 2021 forced me to take an arduous look in the mirror and face some demons. I’m a control freak. I need things done my way. Often to the detriment of others. This shows up in work, and this shows up in relationships. Shows up everywhere I look and go and act and think.
But being a control freak only works for so long. Leads to a ton of exhaustion, brokenness, loneliness. I want to lean on others more. I need to.
I’m learning that the art of letting go is a powerful one to master. It initially feels like weakness. Like paralysis. Like death.
But letting go is not giving up. Letting go when everything screams to fight back is such strength. I look at Jesus in the Gospels and all the times He let go despite all kinds of reactions to His way — letting go all the way to death on a cross.
Jesus had unyielding strength in His identity. It didn’t matter what others said or did, whispered or shouted. He was immovable, a rock.
He constantly withdrew, kept silent, and restrained himself, again and again and again — despite the power to do literally anything.
I want to grow in such spiritual confidence of who I am. To operate from my already fullness, not my lack, legitimate or perceived.
I’ve done much seizing in this life. I want to let go. Even when everything around me makes me feel like I’m “losing” . . . I want to rest ever assured in my identity.
On a recent Zoom call with my YOB community, one of our faithful patrons posed this year-ending reflection that I’ve also been pondering today:
What are you holding against God? What are you holding against others? What are you holding against yourself?
It’s an awesome reflection for the year, but a brutal one.
Starting with what I hold against God, I think there’s more there than I often allow myself to admit — certainly with other people around, watching me, even looking up to me.
Who wants to hear Thomas Mark Zuniga say he has something against God??
But as I’ve watched numerous people walk away from faith in the last few years, including this year, people unbelievably dear to me, I must admit having a grudge against God. I do.
God, how can you let it happen? Let people just walk away from you? Run away, even? Why do you speak or move or otherwise make yourself obvious to some and not others? Why do you reveal yourself to Moses in a fiery bush and withhold yourself from countless others? Why do you redeem the ashes from elements of my broken story but none from other people’s?
Why am I here, and why are they there?
When I consider what I’ve held against others this year, I can’t help looking back on two years of a pandemic combined with this “Christian” Tr*mpian culture, and feeling a growing ire. I’m embarrassed to be called a Christian in America in 2021 if that now means voting only one way, the way of Christian nationalism, embracing tyrannical idiocy, claiming “fake news” on climate change and systemic racism and gun reform and a host of issues affecting real people beyond their bubble.
With regard to this pandemic, fellow Christians’ actions have eaten me alive. Their unwillingness to wear masks in public places and not get the vaccine, threatening their communities, cities, churches, families, and friends, young and especially old — I don’t understand. I do not understand their mindset. This obsession for “freedom” and “life” above all else — even as a literal million people die from their incessant passing along of this hell.
I’ve held so much against others this year. Other believers. My brothers and sisters. I’ve hated them for their selfishness and their horrible witness to your name, God; forgive me. I need to be better.
And finally, when I consider what I’ve held against myself . . .
I’ve written before about feeling five years behind the rest of humanity, and that number seems to grow with each passing year. After the perils of 2020 and now 2021, I feel like I’m at least fifteen years behind the rest of humanity now, if I’m honest.
And yet I’ve undergone the same pandemic that eight billion other humans have had to endure for nearly two years now. We’ve all been on this struggle bus together for so long. It’s been the greatest (i.e. worst) equalizer of our lifetimes.
Of course I’ve struggled this year. Of course I’ve “fallen behind.” Why wouldn’t I have? Why would I be so special not to get goals accomplished or not to face demons like everyone else? Learning to struggle well and show myself grace when I fail is another masterful art in which I long to grow more skilled.
I’ve had a hellish year. After another hellish year. After another hellish two years.
If I’m honest, this stretch of 2018-2021 has wrought my four hardest years since middle school. Part of me wonders if I’d trade these four for the bullying and isolation and awkward puberty-ness at my Christian school.
It’s been one blow after another. Relational conflicts, confusion, and upheaval. Physical decay with my disease and new bodily maintenance. Financial brinks toed from medical bills to a totaled vehicle. All amidst a socially and emotionally crippling pandemic, to boot.
And yet.
How often there is that pesky and yet.
The last four years — and in particular 2021 — have shown me undeniable beauty beneath the torrent. Friends who stick closer than brothers. Supporters who, indeed, support me beyond finances. And a faithful God who heals me physically, provides next month’s rent and groceries and oodles of therapy, and whispers to me in these waning hours of 2021:
Keep going.
Keep learning.
You’re doing great, Tom.
Let go.
Show yourself grace.
Others, too.
And just take another step.
I’ll meet you there.
