I’m writing this on the last day of my fifties. In fact, by the time most of you read it, the clock will have turned, and I will have turned sixty. My last decade launched with the demise of my nearly twenty-eight-year marriage, which did not portend well for the years to come. Not too much longer after my divorce, I lost my job in a round of downsizing and upheaval.

The decade also gave rise to the president of Donald Trump and the ascendency of the MAGA cult. The phenomenon of a group of people committed to bringing about a theocratic autocracy in my home country exposed family and friends – some of whom I have known my entire life – as strangers. I still grieve both the metaphorical and, in some cases, the literal loss of those relationships.

The last year or so of my fifties also brought about two sudden, unexpected deaths: that of my father, whose name I bear, and my best friend, Michael. The latter’s passing was especially profound because, as an only child, he was the sibling I always wanted.

Just a few months ago, I also experienced the end of my first post-divorce relationship, which, if I am honest, was tumultuous and dysfunctional. But, despite all of the challenges the last ten years threw at me, it wasn’t all a bust. My fifties gave birth to more than a few redemptive moments.

Not long before I was laid off by the last church for which I worked, I began the spiritual deconstruction process, resulting in a more expansive view of what faith and spirituality mean to me. This also led to a drastic change in my political views. As I now consider who I want to lead my city, county, state, and national governments, I no longer ask how policies impact “me” but how those policies impact “we.” By that, I mean to say that I advocate for initiatives that include and benefit the most marginalized, forgotten, and oppressed.

Over the last ten years, I’ve come to understand that the United States of America is not as much of a thing that is completed as it is an idea, a philosophy, and an offer of hope that is ever-progressing. A tow truck driver named Sean, who hails from Kyrgyzstan, told me that there is something magnetic about my country that draws people from all over the world. That’s when I realized that the United States is not something to be protected from a posture of fear of others. Instead, it is an ideal to be protected from a place of hope offered to the world. It is not for a homogenous class of people with a singular worldview. It is for everyone.

The other redemptive event of the last ten years was the connections I made. I mentioned before my friend Michael, who left far too soon. He was one of a group of people I met, all trying to make sense of our spiritual backgrounds and experiences. In our effort to reconcile the spiritual trauma of our past, we forged an eclectic community of what our faith leaders would call heathens and heretics. And that’s just fine with us.

My friendships with Michael, his wife Kayla, Daniel and Taryn, Alex, Rachel, Holli, Edmund, Barbara, Carmen, Megan, David, Amanda, and others breathed new life into my soul. While we have all arrived at different conclusions about our beliefs, we found a love for and acceptance of each other that gives me hope for the next decade and beyond.

Yes, my fifties were hard. But amid the challenges were sparks of encouragement. That’s what I’m holding on to.