I stepped away from my church a few months ago. I know, I know. It was a surprise to me, too. I love my church. I love those people. But all that love coupled with my lack of boundaries created a toxic sense of obligation. I was trying to minister to the young people and take care of the older people and there was always something that needed to be done. I watched as people left, or died, or quietly stopped showing up, and I kept trying to fill the void.
Being part of this aging congregation felt a little like watching your elderly neighbor shovel snow. Except your whole neighborhood is elderly and the snow just keeps coming down. I felt like I was shoveling as fast as I could, making a little progress, and then someone came by with their snowplow and blocked my driveway again. I know the plow driver wasn’t trying to make things harder for me, and we had a shared mission to clear the neighborhood, but in that moment, I felt totally and utterly defeated. For my own sanity, I had to step away.
I’ve had a few months to recover, and I’m starting to feel a little more whole. For years, I’ve divided my to-do list into three categories; home, work, and church. With an entire category gone, I feel like a better teacher, a better parent, a better human. My mother is cancer-free and back in Florida, my kids are less dependent on me, and for the first time in decades, I understand what it means to have leisure time. Not just time for fun (I’ve always tried to prioritize that), but time that is unclaimed, unscheduled, and entirely my own.
There’s something beautiful… and terrifying… about this change of pace.
*****
I was eleven years old the first time a boss told me, “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.” That boss was my grandfather and I had been taking orders and clearing tables at his hot dog stand; I had just handed him an order and I rested my elbows against the countertop. “Rookie mistake,” my mom told me later. “You’ll learn.” I washed all the windows in the restaurant that day.
As a GenX-er, I was raised in a culture that revered the story of the retiree who never took a vacation in his 20 year career. We admired the mother who never spent a day away from her children. We were trained to jump up and ‘look busy’ whenever a parent or grandparent walked into the room; heaven forbid someone find you relaxing, for they would certainly find a task for you to complete.
And while that environment has instilled in me an admirable work ethic, it has totally destroyed my relationship with rest.
I cannot rest in a dirty house.
I cannot nap in the middle of the day.
I cannot sleep past 8am.
I cannot rest when my husband is working.
I cannot sit while someone else makes a meal.
I cannot ‘just’ watch television. I need to be simultaneously making a list, or crocheting a blanket, or grading some papers.
I cannot be in the house when my cleaners are here… unless I am cleaning something bigger or dirtier (like my garage). Even admitting that I have cleaners carries a layer of internalized shame; what kind of person can’t even keep her own bathroom clean?
I could dig into the complex roots of all this. Generation. Gender. Anxiety. But regardless of the source, it is my job to un-learn the things that keep me in a constant state of feeling like I’m not doing enough.
*****
I spent my children’s childhood trying to achieve balance. I was told I could do it. I scheduled playdates and game nights and camping trips. I worked. I cooked. I cleaned. I played. I slept… fitfully.
But maybe that’s the GenX curse; to think that I have to achieve something as important as balance.
Maybe it’s not achievable. In the same way that I can’t achieve a thunderstorm or a sunny day, I can’t work hard enough to achieve balance. I can observe it. I can appreciate it. I can look for it. I can even invite it. But I can’t achieve it.
Maybe that’s the lesson I’m supposed to learn today.
*****
I’m sitting near my big, bay windows, sipping coffee and admiring the fire in the fireplace. From my seat near the window, I can see the undersides of the leaves as the wind whips through the trees.
A memory; my big, burly dad squatting down next to me, pointing out the window. I had asked, “How do you always know when a storm is coming?” “Look at the leaves,” he said. “If you can see the bottoms of the leaves, a storm is on its way.” The rain is falling gently and the sky is gray.
I’m waiting for the storm. I can feel it coming.
*****
I may have walked away from my church, but I haven’t walked away from my God. I pray and I listen and I beg, and I am seeking always, just to hear her voice.
On my bedroom wall hangs a painted quote. “Be still and know…”
Psalm 46:10. Be still and know that I am God.
I only hear her when I’m still.
*****
What if that’s the whole point? What if this phase is the balance I need? I couldn’t achieve it. I couldn’t create it. I just need to accept it and be grateful for it. I need to trust and have faith and stop trying to control things that are beyond my control.
I need to make space. To rest. To listen. Be still…
*****
The rain is heavier now. The leaves are showing their bottoms.
I exhale. I pray. For my family. For my church. For my community, my country, the state of the world. Inhale.
A storm is coming.
I will be rested and ready.
Thanks be to God.