I have struggled with self-identity for many years...Who Am I?
In no particular order...
I am a child of G*d, one of my favourite ways to describe myself.
I am a follower of Jesus,
I am a fiancé,
I am a sibling,
I am Nana,
I am Queer,
I am Enbie (non-binary), this is my "newest" descriptor and took many years to realise. I have legally changed my gender marker from F to X and the honourific that corresponds is Mx (pronounded Mix). Mostly though, the honourific I prefer is Rev'd, for Reverend.
I am a cancer survivor, and will also live with cancer for the rest of my life. Lucky, eh?
I am an Anglican Priest and for the past several years have been "on loan" to the United Church as a minister in Shared Ministry.
Labels aside, this is a question that has kept me awake for many nights since I went on medical leave. As I navigated the waters of long term disability, retirement, etc., I was kept wondering...who am I?
In May of 2025 I went on retreat to Redstreak Campground near Radium Hot Springs, BC. My sole purposes were resting, hiking and daring to dream of retirement and what that might mean, once I got there (end of 2027). I arrived on a Monday, unpacked and went for a walk. Met some neighbours and started talking about retirement, religion, all the "super safe subjects" to discuss with strangers...lol.
A few minutes later a lady was walking by with a cute little peach coloured fluffy dog. I immediately sprinted over and asked if I could say hello to the dog. Her name was Flora and SO soft and SO cute. I crouched down and pet her for a few minutes, asking her owner how long she'd had her, how old she was, etc. In short order her owner was sobbing and I stopped petting Flora and asked if I could give her a hug. She agreed and I held her close to me. At the risk of bragging, at one time I was famous for my hugs. Now I can only use one arm.
Anyway, she shared with me that her son had died and she was struggling with the events that led up to that. She shared those secrets with me and I asked if I could pray for her. She seemed a bit surprised, but nodded. I told her I was an Anglican priest and she was under no obligation to pray with me. She said she wanted to, so, with her permission, I held her in a hug and whispered the prayer in hear ear. I asked for her son's name, which she shared with me and I prayed as she cried. Her sobs got stronger and I held her tighter. When I finished praying, I continued to hold her while she cried. Eventually she stopped and then she let go, which is when I let go. I try to stop hugging last, I'm not always successful, especially these days, but I try.
She continued on her walk, I said goodbye to my new friends at the campground and went to get firewood.
I saw Flora and her mum a couple of times through the week. I was there from Monday to Friday. They were staying until Sunday. Whenever I would see Flora, I'd ask for a cuddle and then I'd ask her mum if she'd like a hug. She always said yes, and twice asked if she could have a prayer as well, for which I was happy to oblige.
I spent a lot of time in silence that week. I'd make meals, or a cup of tea, go for a walk, a hike, or a drive. One afternoon I went to the Continental Divide, and I'll leave that story for another time. It was amazing to drive with no radio, no map, no sounds except the wheels of my truck on the highway and the sounds of traffic as they blew by.
I dared to imagine my future, when I would live full-time in my truck. How that would be set up. Where I would go to find safe places to sleep for the night. How I would spend my days and nights. Who would I be without a pulpit and an altar? Little did I know what the next year would hold for me.
The last morning I was packing up camp, when I man walked by with Flora. I spotted her and asked to say hello. He said, "Are you Andrea?" I nodded that I was. He said "Flora wanted to say goodbye so he brought her for a walk". We chatted about off-season camping, lovely little dogs and then he said "I really just came by to say thank you. You met my wife on Monday evening. She came back from her conversation with you completely different. I can't explain it. Our son died, which I know she shared with you. She was so bereft after his death that I was worried she was going to take her life as well. I've been worried sick to leave her alone, which is part of why we adopted Flora. And Flora brings her great joy, yet there's a deep sadness in her that I can't fix. And I really want to fix it. It kills me seeing her so upset. But then she met you, and I don't know what you said, I don't WANT to know what you said, but she's so much better. She started humming again. She read her book and wrote in her journal without sobbing uncontrollably. Anyway, whatever you said to her has healed her and I wanted to say thank you for giving me back my wife."
I was momentarily speechless. I asked if I could give him a hug and he said "Yes, please." I hugged him until he let go, then I thanked him for his kind words and told him that G*d gets the glory for healing, I am simply a messenger and a helper. He and Flora went on their way and I realised the time. My careful packing up became a hurried hucking in of all the things, as I took down the truck tent and reassembled the tonneau cover, as I needed to check out by 11:00 and the time was now 10:45 am.
I drove home in silence, stopping for a roadside hike along the way. I spent the rest of the day in prayers of awe and thanksgiving.
I began the week concerned with what G*d would do with me once I was no longer in active ministry. I learned that week that G*d has marvellous plans that are none of my business. I realised that I would always be a priest in the Church. I would always connect with people, especially when I didn't expect it, and I would be given the best words to say. More than once I had to stop to shed tears of gratitude and humility. Even without a congregation, a pupit or an altar, I would continue to be a servant of G*d.
And even given all that has unfolded since then, I have been able, in the darkness of the early morning, to hear the still small voice of G*d telling me that I belong. There is room for me. And I have purpose.
Thanks be to G*d.