A Liminal Space

“…how do we stay present to that reality without numbing or retreating into fixing fantasies…without trying to solve it, but to stay in that threshold that has the potentiality. Yes. Of something else coming through.” Bayo Akomolafe Between Collapse & Chrysalis: Tending the Threshold (The Eternal Song Collection)

I’ve been trying to understand what I’m feeling when I look at social media these days. Confusion, fear, anger, and so much grief over where we are as a country right now. There seem to be large cracks everywhere in our understanding of so many things.

It feels like walking across a frozen pond with cracks, wondering when we might fall through. Each step requires careful attention—listening for that telltale creak beneath your feet, watching for the spider web of fractures spreading outward. You know the ice won’t hold forever, but you also can’t turn back. The only way forward is to distribute your weight carefully, to move with intention rather than panic. Because we know we can’t keep going like this.

I’m doing my best to observe what’s happening without getting overwhelmed to the point that all I do is fear the world ending. It’s hard to look away because there are still things in my life that need to be done.

I don’t want to pretend it’s not happening, but I also don’t want it to consume all my energy. But it’s like trying to let go of a fish hook caught in my hand when fear grabs hold.

We didn’t get this way overnight, and it’s safe to say we won’t repair things overnight either. Whatever I say here, I recognize it’s just another understanding of what’s happening—an attempt to get others’ attention.

But will anyone read it at this point? It feels like a thousand voices all in pain, looking for understanding. And I understand because I feel that pain. I don’t want to live this way.

Why can’t we find common ground when we share so many of the same concerns? We all worry about our children’s safety. We all want to feel secure in our communities. We all fear losing the people we love. We all struggle with feeling powerless in the face of forces bigger than ourselves. Yet somehow we’ve been convinced that our fears are fundamentally different, that our grief is incompatible.

The innocent children whose names most people didn’t know until their lives ended when another person decided they didn’t deserve to take up space? Or the person most of us had heard about because of his opinions on how to make the world great? 

I deactivated my Facebook for a day but didn’t take long to log back in. Because not knowing sometimes feels worse than whatever else might happen that hits closer to home.

I think the common ground we all stand on is that none of us want to feel this out of control. But the things we think will give us control are opposite. Forced control or freedom to choose—it depends on what we’re talking about.

Sexual orientation or speech. Guns or no guns. Change the Cracker Barrel sign or not. I do have opinions about all three, and I want to express outrage. But I’m not here for that.

I’m realizing that beneath the cracks we see on social media, there are bigger problems deep beneath the surface that need addressing. An ocean of grief demanding our attention. Like that frozen pond—what we see on the surface are just the visible fractures. But underneath lies the depth of cold water, the currents we can’t see, the thickness of ice that varies from place to place.

There was a time when I grabbed hold of one viewpoint that offered all the solutions to the world’s problems. Even though it wasn’t a perfect system, our agreements gave us enough common ground for community and meaning.

My understanding was that individuals outside that system who didn’t believe as I did were the problem. It was our job to live in such a way that we helped them find their way to our solution.

I didn’t question it until I realized I had compromised the very morals I had fought so hard to defend. Why? Because superficial connections didn’t meet the deep need in my soul for belonging.

When my need for belonging caused me to compromise people I had promised to always be there for, I began questioning everything I believed.

The consequences of my choices from over a decade ago still haven’t gone away. The system I sold my soul to and sacrificed the most important people in my life for didn’t deliver on its promises of eternal peace and belonging.

No matter how much people try to tell me it was just a fallen man, I know it was so much more. A system that bases belonging on everyone believing the same things will never meet our needs to be seen and loved for who we are.

I don’t have answers to the problem. But I’m learning to hold space for what I don’t know. To observe the cracks and walk carefully to avoid falling into the depths and drowning in sorrow.

Sometimes the safest path across unstable ground is to pause, to test each step, to accept that the journey will be slow and uncertain.

Hate indeed begets more hate. Those who live by the sword will die by the sword. These are natural and logical consequences—there’s no way around them.

I’m glad I’m no longer in a system that justifies hate. But I can say with honesty that I once thought it was justified. I was also a hypocrite.

But I didn’t find the peace and meaning I was looking for. I grew tired of trying to convince myself and everyone else that I had cornered the market on truth. I’m learning to live with not having the answers.

I confess it’s been lonely without the belonging that comes from everyone agreeing. The future can feel meaningless and scary without a system that tells me who to blame.

How many faces of Jesus are there exactly? Who deserves blessing? Who receives judgment? Who is the scapegoat?

Maybe I’m weak for not calling out the solution and the problem. It’s safe to say that no matter what I say, someone will judge me. That never feels good.

But the people in my life who have shown up time and time again will listen and love me even if they don’t understand. Because our connection is about more than what we agree on. It’s about tears shed together over the things we’ve lost.

I’ve learned that whenever there’s a crack, there’s an opportunity to see what’s beneath. Sometimes I miss these opportunities by focusing too much on the cracks and who’s to blame for things that feel outside my control.

What I can say is I feel deep remorse when I’ve caused cracks. I’m still working diligently to repair what was almost lost.

What is there to grab hold of when so much feels out of control? There’s a line in the show Three Pines that resonates: “Grief is love with nowhere to go.”

Some of us will find our way to each other in our grief. Some will sadly continue to blame and bring further division. We’re all in this together no matter what we decide.

It feels like our world is in a liminal space right now. Liminal spaces are where we learn to sit with our pain and wait for what will come. Sometimes it feels like “something wicked this way comes.”

But then I notice the beauty of a sunset. The innocent eyes of a deer in my backyard. The mockingbirds darting around our overgrown fruit orchard. The hummingbirds fighting over who gets the next drink of sugar water.

Life. Beauty all around. It communicates so many possibilities for goodness. We’re part of it all.

Maybe the question isn’t whether the ice will hold, but whether we’re willing to help each other across. Maybe the cracks aren’t just warnings of danger, but openings that let the light through.

Don’t forget to notice.

Questions for reflection:

What does your own “frozen pond” look like right now? Where do you feel the ground shifting beneath your feet?
When have you found yourself clinging to a system or belief that promised belonging but demanded you compromise your values?
How do you distinguish between the visible cracks on the surface and the deeper currents flowing underneath?
What would it look like to extend a hand to someone else walking carefully across their own unstable ground?
Where do you notice beauty and life persisting even in the midst of uncertainty?