I did say I would write about this one. It's about the tiredness that comes from stress - and from living on the edge of burnout and flirting with PTSD. I have this hospital chaplain friend in Wellington. Before we left the capital (Wellington is in New Zealand - I am sure you've figured that out by now especially those about to invade these islands for the Rugby World Cup), I went to visit my friend to say goodbye. It was he who told me about the three year sleep. His friend, a Roman Catholic priest who had been a school chaplain for about the same length of time as me, also went back into church (parish) work. My friend (the hospital chaplain) mentioned this to me as he wondered how I would cope with the move. His friend (the catholic priest) informed him that in his recovery process from school chaplaincy he had slept for the first three years of his parish "job".
No sleeping on the job, they say. I have to say that my plan was to hit the ground "praying" rather than "running". I read a book with that title before coming here. I ended up reading another book on arrival on grief and clergy. Clergy grief - that rare privilege of being able to grieve when you are regularly conduct funerals, for example, of people who are close to you, and you're the one who can not publicly express your emotions. One can understand why - watch the more than unhelpful pastor in the movie 'Eulogy' who falls apart at the grandfather's funeral. It's more than hilarious but also close to the bone.
An astute leader in the church here has mentioned more than once her concern about our grief. When you move you experience grief - the death of an old lifestyle and the loss of relationships that once energised you and brought you joy. She's right of course. We are grieving many losses - through immigration, relocation, and the death of many aspects of innocence - and of course the loss of the exhilarating southerly winds of Wellywood. I jest of course.
The post traumatic stress has eased. A siren today fired up the process again as a reminder that it hasn't totally gone. The things that I have left behind in Wellington which caused deep pain have been a good farewell. My five years at Scots did much to contribute to profound levels of stress. At the same time there were so many highlights and reasons to celebrate along the road. The grief of loss of the energy of the inspiring young men and boys of the College is offset by the occasional call or on-line conversation I have where they tell me how life is going and share some pleasant memory. I will always celebrate their successes.
What does one do about the tiredness? Sleep, mainly. I know I have to pace myself and not be the author of my own demise.
The simple joys - a six month old puppy who shares our journey and happily chews too many things for our good. The coming spring - the sound of the doves in the garden in the morning and the warmth of the sun. Having all my children at home with us - and watching them find their direction and energy again. The discipline of weekly prayer and preaching - trying to open God's word in a community of faithful people. There are many joys as our new life unfolds on this North Shore. And sleep - such a blessing which we are reminded of by the Psalmist: It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives sleep to his beloved. (127:2)
I can't sleep while speaking in public. I can leave the things too hard for me in the hands of my gracious Father. I tend to leave many things to others now - knowing that I am long past a futile belief that I have some messianic role in the world. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, but not everything is my responsibility.
So I will be sleeping for the first three years. And beyond. Our keeper neither slumbers not sleeps (Psalm 121:4). We can afford to let go and rest each night - for even if we never wake up in this life again, we are still His.
Monday, 29 August 2011
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Stress
I've been back in this line of work for five months. Work is a strange word for it. We are called to a vocation, we are in service - and ordained to preach and baptise and break bread (Holy Communion in our tradition). I left a very rewarding but highly stressful job to come here.
Naively I thought I could leave stress behind. I was wrong. It's a funny old life. Without any stress we would get nothing done. No expectations - and no results. They say we need good stress. Like deadlines, assignment dates, exams, and goals. Good stress. I was told that going back "into the church" would bring enough pressure to bear that I would be driven to my knees. People stress!
It seems to me (not that I have great expertise here) that we should be on our knees anyway. And I am sure that people in war zones or attacked daily by the shakings of earthquakes or other threats have much more stress than we could imagine - and are more prayerful as well. I am sure that God by his grace gives them strength to cope.
I like the Bible's prayers because they are more honest than many of ours. The beauty of these prayers is not just in their poetry or wisdom, but in the way in which the writers spit it out. They are quite direct with God as they wrestle with their enemies, their doubts and their impatience. It's quite refreshing.
So how will I deal with my stress? The good old "balanced life" philosophy demands exercise and rest, proper diet and boundaries around my work - so that I can manage to juggle the balls and spin the plates.
God's way seems to be to rest in Him. Wait on Him. Depend on Him. Cuddle up to him, sheltered by the shadow of his wings, as one old song goes. I think that I should be a little child again - happy to ask Him and trust Him fully.
That sounds more restful than stressful to me. I think the three year sleep sounds quite attractive after all. (That story for another day!)
Naively I thought I could leave stress behind. I was wrong. It's a funny old life. Without any stress we would get nothing done. No expectations - and no results. They say we need good stress. Like deadlines, assignment dates, exams, and goals. Good stress. I was told that going back "into the church" would bring enough pressure to bear that I would be driven to my knees. People stress!
It seems to me (not that I have great expertise here) that we should be on our knees anyway. And I am sure that people in war zones or attacked daily by the shakings of earthquakes or other threats have much more stress than we could imagine - and are more prayerful as well. I am sure that God by his grace gives them strength to cope.
I like the Bible's prayers because they are more honest than many of ours. The beauty of these prayers is not just in their poetry or wisdom, but in the way in which the writers spit it out. They are quite direct with God as they wrestle with their enemies, their doubts and their impatience. It's quite refreshing.
So how will I deal with my stress? The good old "balanced life" philosophy demands exercise and rest, proper diet and boundaries around my work - so that I can manage to juggle the balls and spin the plates.
God's way seems to be to rest in Him. Wait on Him. Depend on Him. Cuddle up to him, sheltered by the shadow of his wings, as one old song goes. I think that I should be a little child again - happy to ask Him and trust Him fully.
That sounds more restful than stressful to me. I think the three year sleep sounds quite attractive after all. (That story for another day!)
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Memories
Mum would have been 86 today. She's been dead for 14 years. It seems just the other day that we were at her bedside for those final moments as she breathed her last. I shared a profound anniversary of someone's death this weekend and felt the pain of those who lost their dad just a year ago. Words, poetry and music all helped to carve out a memory and paint a fresh canvass of sorrow. It was a measure of progress for that family, a hurdle which when clambered over at least brought a step forward.
The idea that grief is a process was a step forward too in understanding how people muddle along that path. Attempts to make the process linear and neat were useful in the sense that people could try to see where they were along the track, but of course deceptive as it's neither neat nor linear. A heart torn by loss remains wounded and dismembered really.
Jean Palmer was a brave woman. Her aristocratic mother was probably too dominant in the worst possible Victorian sense. Her father died when she was very young, thus depriving her of that special anchor. Her husband, my father Ernie, was only with her through fourteen years of marriage when she was robbed of her man by his inevitable death. And as a widow she did a pretty impressive job raising my sister and I through the tumultuous teens and the pains of our school years.
She took no nonsense from us, and always told us not to cross the proverbial bridge before we got there. She believed in us when we didn't, and managed to navigate us through a fairly simple and frugal course which was grounded in a secure and welcoming home. When mother arrived, we were always forewarned by that raspy cough. Her humour was infectious, and our friends enjoyed her cheerful disposition. She would yell for us on the sideline (not that I had too many of those) and support our activities and organizations with zeal. She was prolific in her catering, producing all manner of goodies for various events, and a bit to liberal with the salt pot.
Over many years of living away from her because my work and vocation took me to other cities, a morning phone call to her would always be an inspiration and give warmth and courage. She would quip at times that it was just as well the phone didn't have a camera if we called too early. She never did get the chance to skype us. But she wrote long and newsy letters, and kept us up to date with all kinds of clippings from the local papers.
At the end of her life the poster that I found with signatures of her buddies at the back summed it up quite succinctly. φίλος πιστὸς σκέπη κραταιά, ὁ δὲ εὑρὼν αὐτὸν εὗρεν θησαυρόν. From Sirach 6:14 it reads: A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter: whoever finds one has found a treasure.
Such wisdom indeed from the sage. What a treasure she was.I mourn her still, and give thanks for her life and all she invested in her children and grandchildren.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
The idea that grief is a process was a step forward too in understanding how people muddle along that path. Attempts to make the process linear and neat were useful in the sense that people could try to see where they were along the track, but of course deceptive as it's neither neat nor linear. A heart torn by loss remains wounded and dismembered really.
Jean Palmer was a brave woman. Her aristocratic mother was probably too dominant in the worst possible Victorian sense. Her father died when she was very young, thus depriving her of that special anchor. Her husband, my father Ernie, was only with her through fourteen years of marriage when she was robbed of her man by his inevitable death. And as a widow she did a pretty impressive job raising my sister and I through the tumultuous teens and the pains of our school years.
She took no nonsense from us, and always told us not to cross the proverbial bridge before we got there. She believed in us when we didn't, and managed to navigate us through a fairly simple and frugal course which was grounded in a secure and welcoming home. When mother arrived, we were always forewarned by that raspy cough. Her humour was infectious, and our friends enjoyed her cheerful disposition. She would yell for us on the sideline (not that I had too many of those) and support our activities and organizations with zeal. She was prolific in her catering, producing all manner of goodies for various events, and a bit to liberal with the salt pot.
Over many years of living away from her because my work and vocation took me to other cities, a morning phone call to her would always be an inspiration and give warmth and courage. She would quip at times that it was just as well the phone didn't have a camera if we called too early. She never did get the chance to skype us. But she wrote long and newsy letters, and kept us up to date with all kinds of clippings from the local papers.
At the end of her life the poster that I found with signatures of her buddies at the back summed it up quite succinctly. φίλος πιστὸς σκέπη κραταιά, ὁ δὲ εὑρὼν αὐτὸν εὗρεν θησαυρόν. From Sirach 6:14 it reads: A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter: whoever finds one has found a treasure.
Such wisdom indeed from the sage. What a treasure she was.I mourn her still, and give thanks for her life and all she invested in her children and grandchildren.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
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