Spoken at countless graduations across the United States, the poem Oh, the Places You’ll Go! is the quintessential exhortation to an optimistic class to work towards their dreams, to extend beyond their current moment and context. But, what about the places we find really difficult to go? What do we do with those? The places deep in our hearts and minds that recall memories too painful for journeying.

A childhood friend of mine recently died, at age 43, of brain cancer. Beth and I first met at church camp and I was drawn to her gentle, yet surprisingly feisty spirit. One moment she would point to a beautiful butterfly and speak poetically about how it would fly and the next she would lead a mighty stick-sword fight with the other campers.

When I received word that Beth was dying, my sister and I journeyed to her home to say our goodbyes and tell her we loved her. My sister had remained in close contact over the years and their relationship had grown and flourished. I had not. Rather, keeping in contact with many of my childhood relationships revealed a painful wound for me. There were places I did not go, although they would creep sneakily back in my dreams. In this way, I felt haunted.

Occasionally, when asked where I was from or if I shared a memory from school years, I could feel myself tiptoeing to the boundary areas where the pain lay waiting. The places I did not go never left me. Feeling those places waiting for me to return, I would rush back behind the walls of the safe lands and give thanks for the present. For years I compartmentalized areas of my life, seeking to heal without engaging with versions of the little me who were still stick fighting and chasing butterflies with Beth.

I could certainly follow individuals on social media or even exchange pleasantries. However, flying back to join Beth in this important moment meant retracing our relationships, remembering the contours of our life together, and how my own pain from childhood thread itself through each memory. 

I was not only saying goodbye to one who I loved, but saying hello again to parts of myself that I hadn’t loved for years. Driving up to her house, I felt my reluctance to get out of the car.

In saying goodbye to this important childhood friend, I was going to places that I don’t go. 

The time will come 

when, with elation 

you will greet yourself arriving 

at your own door, in your own mirror 

and each will smile at the other's welcome, 

and say, sit here. Eat. 

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you ignored 

for another, who knows you by heart. 

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 

the photographs, the desperate notes, 

peel your own image from the mirror. 

Sit. Feast on your life.

Love after Love by Derek Walcott

I view my work in stewardship and fundraising ministries as a holistic practice. Each of us brings our whole selves to the act of giving. Our earliest memories inform how we care for ourselves, each other, and the world around us. Psychologists tell us that we translate new information to align with our existing narratives. Fear, concern, anger, joy, nostalgia—we bring all of this to our work of care and giving. 

Regularly, I ask individuals what needs to be released in them to adopt a new way of thinking about stewardship, a new way of caring. Individuals will often share stories from childhood and disclose concerns about not having enough, fear of the unknown, and a desire to return back to the joy they felt when giving as a child. As we name these things out loud, we excavate the narratives that continue into their current lives. Finally, we pray a prayer of release, asking God to take our burdens and draw us back into life.

When Stewardship is a holistic ministry, we are called back into life, a full life. And, in this full life we work for the collective good for healing and repair of the world, through the giving of tangible and intangible gifts. Stewardship calls us back to wholeness.

The calling to stay, sit and eat. At the Communion table, we are invited back to the stranger that is ourselves. As the poet describes, we are reconnected, we are whole, we are loved.

Thanking God for the gifts of wine and bread, we feed those areas of our lives that long have been ignored. That needs to be cared for and nurtured. 

We feast.

In preparing quickly for our trip, I had hoped to remain compartmentalized. Thankfully, my sister had no such desires or illusions. Beautifully assembling a photo album of stories and images, we laughed and cried and slowly I found myself journeying carefully back.

For me, this Communion feast meant diet coke, jello, and recalling our memories of childhood. Praying for release while meeting myself again as a child, back at camp, watching Beth’s beautiful butterflies. Asking God to help me love what we had and who I was. Treasuring the poet's “photographs and desperate notes”. 

I journeyed through the places I do not go, but didn’t go alone. Together with all of me and the communion set before us. Brought back into wholeness again.