One of my goals during this sabbatical is to re-ground myself. When life is going a hundred miles a hour, it is easy to get swept up in the next thing that has to be accomplished. I am going to try to slow down and do those things that resonate with who I am.
Ironically, one of the ways that I am hoping to slow down is to run. In addition to being a physical exercise, running has always been a spiritual and mental practice for me. I feel more like myself when I get to run regularly; when I first moved to Nashville it was 3 or 4 runs a week of 4-5 miles. Since Covid that regularity has eroded to a 5K run every week or two.
When my therapist asked me what I was going to do on my first day of sabbatical, I replied that I was going to drop my kids off at school and go for a run. I wanted to get out there and get going.
I did not get out there and get going yesterday morning; at least not in that way. I like to believe this is a sign of maturity. When I was younger and I would go for a run after a long layoff, I would push myself and then I would run sprints afterwards. I would be panting with my hands on my knees saying out loud, “Christopher (my reasonable voice calls me “Christopher”), why are you doing this?” And then I would respond super dramatically, “Because I can.” Then I’d will myself to do another sprint. It was dumb, but you can often get away with dumb when you’re in your early 20s.
I can’t get away with that now and I woke up yesterday thinking that I would not want to even if I could. So I dropped off the boys at school and drove to Percy Warner Park. I left my phone and headphones in the car so I could just be in the crisp blue morning without distraction. The thing I love about Percy Warner is that it is barely outside of Nashville, but it feels like a world away. It is peaceful in a way in which the city rarely is.
And I began the process of trying to let the stillness settle in me. That can be difficult. I was listening to a podcast recently about Sabbath and the hosts talked about how there is almost a withdrawal when you step away from the busy world. I found my brain whirring through thoughts of work, all the things I wanted to do during this month, and catching snippets of the songs that we had listened to on the way to school. It was like tuning through the weirdest array of radio stations. It was like the more I tried to quiet my mind, the more my mind yelled whatever random idea it could.
About 2 miles into my walk, I came across a bench off the trail that looks down on a peaceful valley. This overlook has a special place in my heart. The week that Jim was baptized, he and I hiked up here, talked about what it means to follow Jesus, and took communion together. The bench was cold, but I plopped down and exhaled; my breath visibly floating up.
I think this spot was why I decided I needed to go on this hike. Last week, I was having lunch with our associate student minister. At one point, I asked her as the person who serves in ministry with me week in and week out, if there was anything she felt I needed to do while I was off for the month. Jenny’s initial response was that she was happy that I was going to get some time to just rest and be. And then she thought and wondered if I needed to take some time to grieve.
It’s not that my life has been particularly difficult. Indeed, the person telling me this has gone through the wringer herself. But she pointed out things that were weighing on me from the last few years: the loss of my grandparents, Covid and the litany of losses and stresses that it brought, worries about family, work, and life. Jenny said that there is healing in naming those things and acknowledging the scars they bring.
Sitting on that bench, I talked out loud. Not to challenge myself to run just a little bit more, but to talk with God about these losses. I told God that I missed my grandparents, that the pandemic had left me ragged, that I mourned those students that never really came back after Covid, that there were times I felt unseen, unheard, and alone. That there were times when I felt like my best efforts weren’t good enough. That I mourned the times when I screwed up. And I asked to not forget those things, but that God would use the memory of those things to mold me more into who I was made to be. That I could let go of the things that weighed me down.
Jenny was right: there was healing in that. Healing, of course, is a process. That conversation on that sacred bench did not magically erase all the hurt. But it was good to say those things. I got up to walk the rest of the loop and my mind was quieter. Not quiet, but more quiet. And that was a good start to this month because sometimes you need to walk before you run.
