The Sacred Gifts of Hard Times

Boxes of Darkness, Gifts of Grace

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.” — Mary Oliver

I’ve received more than a few boxes of darkness in my life.

A father with a violent nature who still loved us dearly — a contradiction that taught me early that love can be fierce, flawed, and complicated.

Years spent rehearsing the truth that I was gay, only to be rejected by my family when I finally found the courage to share it. That rejection nearly broke me. But through struggle, time, and grace, we found our way back to each other. That journey taught me about forgiveness, resilience, and the kind of love that must be rebuilt, not assumed.

The deep sense of loss when I retired after 35 years as an educator — a role that had defined me. I fell into depression, unsure of who I was without the schoolhouse. But I fought my way back, reinventing myself in health care, and later as a lead trainer for several cruise lines. Reinvention became its own kind of resurrection.

The death of my mother shook me to the core. She was my touchstone, my rock, the one who learned to love me unconditionally. Losing her felt like losing the ground beneath me. But her love didn’t end — it became part of me. That grief taught me that some anchors live inside us forever.

The turn of events in our country — watching Trump lead us into dangerous territory — has been its own kind of heartbreak. It’s forced me to confront what I value, what I believe, and what I’m willing to stand up for.

And yes, I’m getting older. That box is marked with creaky joints, deeper reflections, and the realization that life is short. But inside it is urgency, clarity, and joy. A fierce determination to squeeze every drop out of the time I have left.

But here’s the truth: I never opened these boxes alone.

I’ve been fueled by mentors who believed in me before I believed in myself. Friends who showed up with laughter, honesty, and grace. A chosen family who held me when the biological one couldn’t. And Michael — my partner, my witness, my joy — who has walked beside me through every reinvention, every heartbreak, every celebration.

And above all of them, through every season, was Divine Love — steady, sustaining, patient. Not the punishing God of my childhood, but the Loving Presence that whispered, “Keep going. You are held. You are becoming.”

So yes — I’ve been handed boxes full of darkness. But inside each one was a gift: clarity, courage, compassion, purpose, love.

You don’t get to choose the wrapping. But you do get to choose what you make of it — and who you let help you open it.