Resting Places

It’s been a year. Quite a year. We’ve never used the word “unprecedented” so often. Whether we’re talking politically or pandemically, it’s been exhausting. We’ve also talked more, and read more, about resiliency, self-care and mental health than ever before. All with good reason. As sometimes happens, this past week insight from a book I’m reading converged serendipitously with conversations I was a part of. I always appreciate these moments, and this week the convergency provided some the clarity around resiliency and finding peace of mind to get through this year, and maybe any year.
   In Anne Lamott’s new book Dusk, Night, Dawn, I came across her phrase “existential exhaustion.” It’s certainly a phrase that could be open to interpretation, but it sure sounds like what a lot of us have been dealing with this past year. I also think we find ourselves with existential exhaustion at other times in our lives. I know I go through periods in my life where my mind and my heart are struggling to figure out if I’m on the right track, making the best use of my skills, living up to my expectations, life’s expectations and God’s expectations. I usually come to an uneasy conclusion, that I’m doing what I can where I am at the time, and I forge on.
   During our last week’s discussion at Pub Theology, our host, Rev. Susan Ohlidal, an Episcopal priest, and my neighbor and friend, talked about how she feels God supports us in the midst of struggles. God doesn’t guarantee us protection from difficulties, from small inconveniences to major life traumas, but in the course of life’s challenges, Susan explained, she believes that God provides us with safe resting places, and those resting places are indeed sacred places. Immediately my mind’s eye created this image of a soft, cozy niche where I could hide out for a bit, surrounded by love and away from my struggles. Ahhhh. Wouldn’t that be nice?
   The more I thought about Susan’s comments, after we’d all left our Pub Theology Zoom room, the more my vision of my cozy resting place changed. I wholeheartedly agree with Susan that we are not guaranteed protection by God. I believe that was never part of the deal, although many well-meaning Sunday School teachers (and likely Catechism teachers and maybe teachers of other faiths) suggested that if we followed God’s “rules,” we would be safe. If we did what was asked of us, God would take care of us. That theory falls apart fairly quickly when we see first-hand how terrible tragedies can happen to anyone, those who follows God’s “rules” and those who don’t. And wonderful things can happen to anyone as well, those who “deserve” them, and those who don’t. In my work as an interfaith chaplain, I often say, “I find that life is such a mix of blessings and difficulties, without a lot of rhyme or reason to how much of either we receive, or when.” And if it’s appropriate, I’ll add, “but I know we are never alone in any of this.”
    Susan’s idea of sacred resting places added to this for me. It made me think of resting places I’ve found in the middle of storms. As God usually appears to me in the shape, and love, of people, I could quickly think of those friends who have been safe places for me. Sometimes there’s a specific moment, and sometimes it’s in remembering who I can call at any time if something suddenly goes wrong in my life. I have a very clear memory of walking down the back stairs nearly 11 years ago, sobbing, and not sure how I was going to get through the day as it was the first anniversary of David’s death. At the bottom of the stairs, I looked up at the back door, and my friend Martha was standing there just waiting for me to open the door so she could hug me. Martha represents a crew of people who love me dearly and are, in themselves, safe resting places for me.
   There are also some literal resting places where we go when we need to feel close to God, close to our inner-most thoughts, close to whatever it is that brings us comfort. Maybe it’s a quiet spot in our house, a comfy chair on the porch, a secret place along the banks of the New Haven River, anywhere where the trees arch together across a road to form a canopy, or a private cove along the ocean shore. For me, one is at the top of the Knob. It’s a short in-town hike that leads to this perch looking north, where you can see as far as Willoughby Gap. Today I walked up there, crossing the two hayfields, through some woods and then hiking up along the edge of a pasture, and just stood quietly. The snow that remains along the route is that grainy, sugar snow that makes it feel like you’re walking in slippery sand. This was my third walk up there in as many days. And each time is different - different sounds, different clouds, different people along the trail. Today, standing quietly by myself, I think I heard the snow melting. Is that possible?
    The Knob is a quiet retreat in good times and bad. It is a literal resting place; there’s even a park bench up there, where I feel safe and in good company. Just as I felt when Martha hugged me.
   It’s been a crazy, challenging, exhausting year. I hope you’ve found your resting places. And on we go.
 
 
(Pub Theology meets on Wednesday nights at 6 p.m. We’re missing gathering in the Taproom in these days, but now anyone can join by Zoom. Check out Pub Theology/StJ on Facebook to find the link. Pub Theology - God, Conversation, Beer. People of all faiths and no faiths are welcome.)