sabbatical. – gentino family

“Too often we try to avoid the scary place where we love so deep, so much, our hearts could break. But without the bitterness, we would never appreciate the sweetness.”

Katie Davis Majors

We have four weeks left of a 12-week sabbatical, and even though that seems a long time, in our hearts David and I are already gearing up for our return to church ministry on September 1.

I was so determined, when we first embarked on this season — on our first sabbatical — to “get fixed.” I wanted to use the time efficiently, to disconnect well, to rest well, to make new memories with my family well. I signed up for counseling, as did David, determined to get to the bottom of the things that are wrong with me so I could “be better” on September 1.

As I sit here in my living room and read over the paragraph I just wrote, I feel a welling sense of sadness, followed by compassion. I have compassion on myself for that desperate, driving urge to be stronger, to be better — because people are depending on me. Because I need to hold it together for them and lead well. In my home. In my church.

And yet. While those thoughts are the narrative by which I’ve lived most of my life, my body and emotions have been telling me something different. For a long, long time. They’ve been asking me to pay attention, sometimes in loud, insistent voices and sometimes in soft pleas.

I’ve truly loved my Facetime meetings with this godly, wise counselor this summer, even though I leave them with my heart laid bare and raw and my grief bigger than ever. I’ve loved reading this book, which a dear friend recommended when I shared some of my struggles with her.

Thanks to my meetings with him and Aundi Kolber’s book, our sabbatical has shifted from a season to “get fixed” into a season to be still and listen. What is my body telling me? That I am in trauma. What are my emotions telling me? That I’m so very weary and discouraged. That quite often these days I just want to quit ministry, because it’s so hard. That I feel like we give and give and give and then wonder, at the end of the day, if we’re making any difference at all.

I used to upbraid myself for even thinking something like that. Now I just say, “It’s okay. It’s okay to feel this way.” I bring it to my Father.

And in doing so, I’m learning in a new way to be myself with Him. It means being honest, instead of being the person I think He wants (needs?) me to be. So it’s become a summer of learning a new way to be, instead of learning new things to do.

If my goal is to get fixed in order to get back out there and white-knuckle my way through life and ministry, I’m going to crash and burn again. That is not the abundant life.

I’m shifting the questions I ask myself. Instead of “How do I survive the next 8 years of pastoral work without imploding?” I’m beginning to ask, “What does surrender look like? What does simple day-by-day faithfulness look like?” What would it look like to draw near to Jesus, to find my deepest joy in being close to His heart, and then to do what He prompts me to do? And let go of my need to control the results, to manage people, to manage my reputation?

As I’ve pondered these questions, the Lord has been doing two things: first, like I said, through the work I’m doing in counseling sessions, He’s giving me for the first time in my life, actual compassion for myself. Both for the girl I used to be. And the woman I am today. This is a very new and surprising feeling. And it’s causing a shift deep within my heart. I feel . . . different somehow.

Second, He’s reminding me of the joys of this work He’s set out for David and me — and our children — to do. The heartaches come from people, yes, but the greatest, most overflowing joys also come from people. You can’t have one without the other — can’t have the sweet without the bitter. Because, like Katie Majors says, to open yourself up to love, to relationship, and to investing in people’s lives, you open yourself up to pain.

Of course.

No matter how long this sabbatical lasted, I would never find a way to solve that puzzle. Because it’s not a puzzle to be solved or a problem to be fixed, it’s a reality to acknowledge. It’s what my Father has done for me in giving His beloved Son, to be despised and rejected and mistreated and killed. So that we could have the opportunity to be near Him.

Just as my Savior offers Himself to me, even when I hurt Him and push Him away, I would like to offer myself to the Bride of Christ. Not because she’s perfect or makes me feel good about myself. But because He chose her. He lived and died and rose again for her. He wants to use her to draw people into relationship with Himself.

It’s okay that loving hurts. It’s okay that I get tired and I fail and don’t have the right answers for people’s deep pain. It’s okay that it makes me unpopular and lonely sometimes.

As I’ve taken two months to immerse myself in the unchanging character of God and His calling on His people, I’ve concluded that I don’t want to flee the scary place after all. I could quit, yes. I suppose that in a sense I’d be within my rights to do so — to tell my husband that I’ve given a whole lot in the last decade and now I’m done. Let’s do something else.

But to whom else would I go? Jesus alone has the words of eternal life.

Deep in my heart I know He has not released me from this calling. And if we quit the church and David went to work at Starbucks, I suppose we’d go right on doing, more or less, exactly what we do now. Loving people. Telling them about Jesus. Inviting them into our home. Risk getting our hearts broken. Because it’s who we are.

Jesus did it all first, and He offers rest for my weary and heavy-laden heart. He doesn’t ask me to carry the burdens and to fix people, but simply to walk with them because they’re made in His image and He loves them, starting with those in my home. To love people in small, everyday ways. To believe in them — and even more than that, to believe in Him, who is transforming us, in fits and starts, into His image. To believe in Him who will never, ever fail us. Who redeems the pain by meeting us in those raw, aching places and ministering to us there. And in doing so, making us more compassionate and more dependent on Him.

I don’t feel “ready” to return to church in the way I’d hoped, but I feel ready to surrender myself to Christ. I feel ready to love people and to be loved by them. I feel ready to count the multitude of blessings in my life, and to just live this day by faith in the One who loved me and gave Himself for me. I feel ready to rejoice in this weakness of mine, because when I am weak I am strong.