Wish me luck.
I’m going back in.
I’m taking deep breaths, steadying my nerves, steeling my resolve. Like a firefighter re-entering the burning building to rescue the family dog. Like the point guard with four fouls checking in with the score tied and three minutes to play. Like the peace-talks negotiator returning to the table, hoping to bring resolution to the conflict with one final offer…
I’m standing at the door. I’m going to take a deep breath, then turn and face whatever comes next with all the courage I can muster.
I’m going back in.
To work. After nine weeks off.
Okay, so maybe I’m being a little dramatic. I’m just going back to the church office tomorrow after a nine-week sabbatical. I’m not going into a war zone; I’m going in to my pleasant office with my family’s pictures on the wall and my name the door. I’ll probably spend most of the day responding to emails and answering the question, “How was your sabbatical?”
The answer to that question is “awesome.” The sabbatical has been a gift. For the past nine weeks, I have been free of responsibility, and my thoughts and my time have been my own. I’ve traveled, spent time with family, met with friends, read a bunch of books, enjoyed slow mornings in my backyard, manicured that yard into perfection, golfed a shameless number of rounds, and most importantly, enjoyed extra, indulgent and uninterrupted time every day with my recently-retired wife. Karen and I couldn’t have asked for anything more than the reconnection these past weeks have afforded us.
My sabbatical has been wonderful. I have enjoyed this summer immensely. Nobody bothered me. I was never bored. And I didn’t have any problem filling my time or my thoughts with good things that bring joy to my heart.
But it’s over. Starting tomorrow, the mornings will now take on a mild sense of daily urgency, and the thoughts in my head will begin to spin around ministry, meetings, and messages, just as they have for the past 26 years. There will be to-do lists, people to meet with, and church business to attend to. There are a lot of students whose names I need to remember. The first retreat is only 13 days away. And it’s fall — the busiest time for any youth pastor. It’s okay. It will feel familiar. This having been my third sabbatical, you might say this will be my fourth rodeo.
At the same time, I’m anxious. I probably won’t sleep well. I have that “first day of school” feeling in my gut. This will be my 27th year in that school. I’m a 61-year-old perpetual student. I can’t seem to graduate from it. This time, my anxiety is magnified by the big, existential thoughts I’ve been wrestling with. Am I too old for this? Do I still have what it takes? Do I still have the passion to be effective? Am I still needed? What’s next for the church? How fast will these next few years go by, and when they do, how will I deal with the eventual end of this wonderful pastoral run?
Yeah, those thoughts, which I didn’t have during the first two sabbaticals, are the ones triggering my nervous system today. I don’t know what the future holds, and I am not sure I’m up for it. What happens if I’m not? I guess I would have to fold. I don’t have any sabbatical cards left to play.
I will have to take it as it comes, and trust in the Lord to give me my daily bread and whatever else I need to do my best work and honor my calling.
Of all the books I read this summer, the ones I enjoyed most were a biography of Eugene Peterson (A Burning in My Bones) and An American Childhood by Annie Dillard. In Peterson and Dillard, I find soulmates, writers who transcend the anxiety of their times by being acutely attuned to the beauty of the moment. This quote from Dillard, which was quoted in the book about Peterson, is the one that might help me sleep tonight, if I can take it to heart.
“We are asleep at the switch if we think we control any switches at all.”
Here I am Lord. Send me. I’m going back in.