I’m writing the morning after a loss.
Over the past four years, I’ve mastered the art of losing. I’ve lost car keys, arguments, debit cards at crowded bars, time spent clicking meaninglessly through my Facebook feed. I’ve lost a game of odds over a Luke Bryan tattoo, lost a fear of public speaking, lost a dance-off to a Justin Bieber song.
I’ve seen my friends perfect this art too — class rings, FIFA matches, pages of lecture notes. Bigger losses accumulate, like family pets, a trust in political candidates, close friendships, roommates, grandparents.
A friend recently told me, “What I think I’m going to remember about U.Va. is how much I loved it. But also, how much I feel like I’ve lost here.”
If I look at this University, at this town, at states across time-zones and at countries across wide oceans, I see vulnerable bodies — bodies that are vulnerable to addictions, to eating disorders and mass shootings, to bombings at school playgrounds. I scroll through headlines on my phone and read statistics of inestimable evil, of brokenness, of loss, of shame.
I’m writing now, the day after Easter Sunday.
At 5:30 yesterday morning, I drove with a group of close friends to the base of Humpback Rocks. Chatting for the first few minutes as we approached the top with tendrils of dawn beginning to touch the grey sky, I spent the last minutes in silence. The sunrise wasn’t eventful. The deep gray of the sky gradually lightened under thick clouds, until our faces were illuminated within the fog.
A spotty chorus of “Amazing Grace” began from another group of morning hikers behind us. Looking out over the hazy Blue Ridge, we too started to sing softly. In that moment we celebrated a punctuated rebirth in a world filled with loss — our voices raised to enter into the suffering of God’s death transformed into a profound, unaccountable joy.
My morning opened with the rising of the Son. The hopelessness of a world which crucified God, transformed into a broken world filled with hope.
By 6:08 p.m., however, I was drinking a beer, anxiously listening to commentators on ESPN — watching the game. By 8:14 p.m., GroupMe messages flooded in — “How did this happen,” “Omg crying at the airport,” “I’m so upset.” I sat stunned, heartbroken, in a stiff leather chair. “I can’t even watch anymore,” someone says to me. Our morning celebrations were forgotten.
I kept the channel on, barely hearing the buzzing of commentators and analysts. Then, Tony Bennett appeared on the screen and said a few brief words. His words were not simple phrases of consolation. His words were not words of victory. His words were those of courage, grace and faith — “Weeping may endure in the night, but joy comes in the morning.”
Faith, however difficult, enters into our ambiguities, into our places of brokenness and disappointment. Avoiding a comparison between the suffering of Christ and a basketball loss, I only wish to reflect on the ability for faith — a bit of the divine — to break into our ordinary, often disappointing lives. Humility, servanthood, and thankfulness are pillars of the team and of Tony Bennett’s faith and provided him grace in the face of loss.
He spoke of a kind of hope which does not rely on transitory happiness or even the pride of a Final Four victory. Our basketball team is more than a collection of jerseys, more than the number of titles or field-goal percentages. The humility displayed by our players and our coach offers a hope — not in simply the future of the basketball program — but in the ideals and better angels of a community which can often seem passé or anachronistic.
A grace that sees through faith, past the losses of our bodies — past the piercing heartbreaks of breakups, of stretch marks, basketball games and poor paper grades. Tony Bennett demonstrated that these very ordinary shames, losses, failures may cause weeping — but not for long.
I’m now writing the morning after a loss. I write this morning also to convey a little of the pride and gratitude I feel to wear the U.Va. basketball colors as my own. I write this morning, to thank those who illuminated a path of walking humbly, of seeking joy in the midst of loss.
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