It's been a tough week, as one more within my congregation has shared with me the news of unspeakable hurt and grief. No... in reality it has been a tough year. It seems that more and more people that I come into contact with as pastor, are in the midst of pain. Deep hurting. Not the type of physical pain that comes with illness or accident (although they too have been present for many this year), but the type of deep pain that comes from broken relationships, and the struggle for self worth that comes out of abusive situations.
As a pastor, it is at times overwhelming to me, as I hear the stories of people I have come to love and care deeply about. There are even times when if I am honest I must admit, that I wished I could just forget about it for a while, or at least leave it behind when I went home for the night. And yet there is no more sacred and humbling part of my ministry, then when people share with me their pain, and invite me to enter into it with them. It is an awesome responsibility.
As one called by God to shepherd a portion of his flock, it is impossible for me to leave this pain "at the office". It occupies my thoughts and prayers. At times this year, during times of prayer, it has reduced me to tears, when words failed me. I wrote previously in a blog entry on "love" that I have come to the conclusion that it is my feeble attempts at love that reveal to me just how far are my ways from God's ways. I have also come to discover that it is in my tears that I come closest to being Christ-like.
One of the most powerful verses in the gospels is also one of the shortest in the entire scriptures. And yet it reveals so much to us about Christ and his care for those he loves, which, thanks be to God, includes me and you. In John 11:35, as Jesus hears of the death of Lazarus and sees the grief of those in pain due to his death, we are simply told, "Jesus wept." The Son of God, weeps for those in pain. Truly, he enters into our lives and our deepest hurts.
As a pastor, it is comforting and reassuring to know that my tears, put me into good company.
Add Tobi to the list of those who now know how to ride a two-wheeler. On Wednesday evening, without prompting, she jumped on the bike, put feet to the peddles, and took off. She's spent the last day tooling around the church parking lot and challenging me to races.
How good is that?
Yet what I am most proud of, is how Tobi, before she gathered up enough courage to overcome her final fears and actually peddle the bike, spent the previous two days telling everyone and anyone that her little sister now knew how to ride a bike. She told her friends at school, her teacher, folks at church, people in line at the grocery store...you name it. Even though she's older, and didn't know how to do it yet, she was proud of her little sister, and rejoiced along side her.
That's family (before years pass and it all gets tainted) the way family should be.
Yesterday I received an early Father's Day gift. My 5-year old daughter Lucy learned to ride a bicycle. No training wheels, no running behind holding onto the seat. Just her and the bike.
She's been at it hard for a week or so, as has her older sister Tobi (age 7 - who will also learn within the next week or so, once she gets a bit more reckless courage). With helmet on tight, and often times, elbow and knee pads secured with velcro, she has been working on gaining her balance as she's wheeled down the gentle slope of the parking lot, feet skidding across the ground occassionally to prevent a topple. For the last 2 days, she's added the part about putting her feet onto the pedals. And yesterday, she started peddling. On about her fourth attempt, it all clicked somewhere in her brain. Just like your body suddenly "gets" how to swim, and never forgets it, her body suddenly "got" how to balance on a bike. By the time she came to a stop, we were cheering like mad. But the best part of all, and the early Father's Day present for me, was her reaction. She raised an arm into the air, shouting at the top of her lungs to the entire family (and the heavens), "I did it!", over and over again, with real tears of joy and pride streaming down her face. I ran over to her, and as I hugged her (with tears of my own), she wrapped herself around me and said, through her tears, "I love you, Papa! I love you, Papa!" Sure beats getting a new neck tie.
For a good portion of my close to 40 years of life, I have found myself wondering when I would become a man, in my own mind's eyes. Mind you, I have had events in my life that are traditionally associated with rites of passage, that lead a boy into manhood. I was confirmed and joined my church, with all the rights and privileges and responsibilities that accompany such events. I graduated from high school, and went off to college, a half a country a way, in one of the biggest cities the US has to offer. I fell in love, fell out of love, and back into love again (some would argue more than once). I graduated college, got a job, then entered seminary after hearing God's call for my life. I began serving a church. I married. I followed God's call to another church. I had a child. I again followed God's call to another church. I had another child. And another. And another. I serve on a Board of Directors and am asked to speak to various faith-based and civic groups on a variety of topics. I am a respected (somewhat, hopefully) and useful (again, somewhat, hopefully) member of my community and society in general. Heck, I don't even get ID'd if I try to buy a beer in a restaurant anymore.
As I now approach 40 years old later this year, surely my life experiences determine that I am officially a man...no? And yet, so often I still wonder when it will happen. When will I wake up and see myself as more than just an overgrown kid?
I can tell you, that I never imagined it would happen while wearing a pair of fishing waders, standing in the pouring rain.
But it did. As clearly in my mind as if I had received a telegram informing me of the news. I knew I had become a man.
This past weekend I had the joy of sharing some time with my Dad, as I accompanied him on his annual spring fishing safari with the other members of the New England Outdoor Writers' Association. After a 5 hour ride up to Lake Bomoseen in western Vermont, we unpacked our gear, connected with old friends, checked in at the local tackle shop, and made our plans for the next morning. A good dinner, some good conversation, and some good sleep had me ready the next morning for some good fishing. Unfortunately, Mother Nature wasn't keen on cooperating.
A steady rain and an even steadier wind made it clear to us that we would not be heading out onto the lake anytime soon. So, a quick change of plans had us grabbing our fly fishing gear, stepping into waders up to our chests, and piling into Dad's Kia (which sprung a massive powersteering fluid leak...another story for another time). Following some solid information, we went to "the place" to fish on the Castleton River, where big brown trout lurk, just waiting to be caught by eager, and worthy anglers like us.
In the old days, when I was a boy, my Dad would give me a quick refresher course, some advice on the conditions, offer help on what fly to tie on (and offer to tie it on for me), and then point me to the best hole. But Saturday, it was evident right away that Dad was a bit resigned. At first I thought it was the weather, but then realized it wasn't. It was the bank of the river. Covered in loose pieces of slate, just waiting to twist a knee or an ankle, and at an angle of descent that required Billy goat-like balance. The type of river bank I had seen my Dad bound up and down for most of my life. Not anymore. Dad's bad ankle, and 70 year old body just can't do it anymore. We searched through the woods for an easier way to the big holes right below us, but none were found. In the end, I scrambled down for a cast or two while Dad stood at the top of the bank, watching in the rain.
We tried another spot on the river or two. But the same problem was encountered at each location. The bank was too steep, or the undergrowth too thick for Dad to consider conquering. At about 2:00pm, we called it quits and headed back to the resort. While undressing out of my World War II-era waders, I commented that it was time for a new pair, as these were leaking through. My Dad gently commented that I could have his newer pair of LL Bean's, which he had won in a raffle just the year before, as he was pretty sure his days of fishing the big waters were over.
And that was it. I'm not sure why it took my Dad's deteriorating to convince me that I am now a man. But it did. I always knew becoming a man would be a difficult thing in the end. But I had no idea just how difficult.
Norman Maclean, in his amazing book A River Runs Through It (nothing like the movie), writes, "I am haunted by waters". I believe this is my fate as well, and ultimately, the price of my becoming a man.
It's been a tough week, as one more within my congregation has shared with me the news of unspeakable hurt and grief. No... in reality it has been a tough year. It seems that more and more people that I come into contact with as pastor, are in the midst of pain. Deep hurting. Not the type of physical pain that comes with illness or accident (although they too have been present for many this year), but the type of deep pain that comes from broken relationships, and the struggle for self worth that comes out of abusive situations.
