What We Need When We’ve Been Hurt
by Michaela Lawrence Jeffery
It’s December. I’m sitting on a wooden bench in the garden of what used to be a convent. I’ve found a spot where the sun is warmest. I need only cover my legs with the cozy blanket I smartly brought along to this writing retreat.
The other writers and I have a while before our next session. I’ve thought about napping but first this—sunning my face and listening to God. The latter seems to always follow the former without intention. Makes sense; God made the sun. And God doesn’t yell so if I’m going to hear him, I can’t afford to stay in the noise of unmet expectations. Being still has felt impossible for a while now, but here it doesn’t simply feel—it exists.
This is only day one of what I think will become a forever memory. How could it not? It’s three weeks from Christmas and I’m spending four days with other women who, like me, love words so much that we’ve used vacation days to drive or fly to North Carolina, to sit around rectangular tables, respond to writing prompts and workshop our words. And it’s here that I experience some heart healing.
As I replay (for the millionth time) a painful conversation with a member, I’m also still enough to recite Psalm 91:1 over and over and over again. If I’m in God’s presence, I’m not worrying about that interaction that I could have handled more graciously. I’m not thinking up better comebacks to the opinions boldly tossed my way. As my shoulders move away from my ears, my defenses lower in tandem with the voice of my inner critic. I’m not trying to prove my worth. I’m simply here. The sky is blue and cloudless. The breeze is cold but gentle.
The thought of taking time away from our jobs can be a confusing one. We understand the idea of vacation days but perhaps only because we celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas and have family that expect us to join them during that time. We also understand taking a weekday off, although, as a member asked me, shouldn’t pastors have two days? And do Sundays really count? We know there’s no perfect time to step away, but that doesn’t stop us from waiting for the perfect time. “Jesus never said the road would be easy” becomes the sentiment we recite to ourselves like a 13th Sabbath memory verse that receives an applause, an unconscious theology of ministry. And yet it’s the time away that gives us what we need to more fruitfully tackle the interpersonal wounds we’re carrying.
When we finally get away, we notice every creak of opening doors and the hum of cars being driven down a distant road. Bird calls. Leaves rustling. Our belief that the world was created by an all-powerful God finally moves us away from facing our challenges alone. Our creation as humans in the likeness of God is finally a good enough reason to take care of ourselves, really good care that begins not with being busy but with getting quiet.
When I finally get away to a former convent or another iteration of simpler living, I notice how much I’ve depended on the smooth waters of agreement as proof that I am where I’m supposed to be. I notice the flawed theology that has made burnout easy to deny and hurt easy to wallow within. I notice how noisy my brain has been because now, now I can think. Because instead of feeling overwhelmed at the invitation, I say, “I’ll join you,” when another writer asks if anyone else wants to sit around a fire tonight. This will first require starting the fire and I’m willing to try even after we realize that the wood is damp enough to smoke more than glow.
When I finally get away, I notice that part of the reason the road isn’t easy is because I’m still on it. A long pause, the cool December air, a fire pit glowing just enough to warm my feet—this is me off the road, finally able to believe God when he says, “I’m here.”
Michaela Jeffery serves as the pastor of the Athens Georgia Church, and writes about life at www.wordhabit.com.
