A Visit from a Spirit of Restlessness

The Restlessness That Would Not Lay Down…

July 1, 2002

Late winter and early spring of 2002: I was assailed by a spirit of restlessness that would not lay down. I am no stranger to this particular spirit. In the past, however, it would usually just take up residence in my soul for a period of time, and then, having rearranged the dust, it would shuffle on out the door.

Throughout my twenty-year military career, restlessness often rolled into town in the late winter and early spring as something that was affectionately known as “posting fever.” If I didn’t like my posting, it was a time of looking anxiously for a call from my career manager to discuss future possibilities, or alternatively, to whine endlessly about the sorry state of my present situation. If I was really enjoying my posting, it was a time to ignore telephone calls from “Disneyland on the Rideau.”

Like most life-cycles that lodge themselves in the calendar of the body, the restlessness of posting fever could be anticipated every two to three years, beginning just after Christmas. In my experience, it would usually pack up and leave sometime in May. For several years after I retired from military service, the cycle would come and go as predictably as the vernal equinox. And so, when I first noticed the shadow of restlessness darken my door in January 2002, I thought perhaps it was time to consider moving on, to begin looking for a new ministry. I had been at Eastside United Church in Regina for six years. In military reckoning, that was two posting cycles, longer than I had ever worked for any one employer in my entire career as a taxpaying adult. Since retiring, however, I had become a free agent, so to speak, and that meant I had to do my own career managing–a scary thought. Whom could I blame if I didn’t like the next posting?

Taking the first big step, I placed my name on the availability list of clergy looking for work. The next step involved requesting a copy of the recent vacancy list of congregations seeking a minister. As I perused the list, I wondered–why would I leave a congregation I love in order to begin a ministry with a group of strangers? My feelings swayed between the fear of stepping into the unknown, and the complacency of the comfortable pulpit. Out of the entire list of vacancies, there was only one position that remotely tweaked my interest. Taking another tentative step, I requested a copy of the Joint Pastoral Relations Committee Report for that congregation. As I read the detailed report of life in that community of faith, I felt myself being drawn by curiosity. The location was on the west coast, and I could imagine living by the sea, surrounded by towering evergreen trees. From the initial report, the congregation did not seem the type that devours its clergy, and there seemed to be some compatibility between their needs and my gifts. Why not send along a resume, I thought. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. That evening, I updated my resume and drafted a covering letter to be sent by email. But then, the strangest thing happened. As if pinned to the mouse pad by some unseen force field, my hand could not move the mouse to click on “Send.” I tried again in the morning, but had the same paralysing experience. Paying close attention to the message being delivered through my body, that evening I composed a new email letter informing the congregation that I would not be applying for the position.

The Province of Mystery

In retrospect, my decision-making and discernment mechanisms may seem strange to some, but I have come to trust the process of listening to my body and my intuition. I also watch for signs and signals along the way. In my life and ministry, I have found the insights of author Gregg Levoy to be helpful when discerning and testing what I feel are my callings. In his book, Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life, Levoy claims “there is no checklist against which we can test our callings with dead reckoning” (37). Nonetheless, there are general principles that can guide the process. Levoy suggests that the process begin by listening first without reacting because our powers of discernment “are routinely clouded and informed by all manner of impulses, hankerings, emotions, ulterior motives, and intuitions that may, in fact, be fear” (36). A conversation needs to happen between “the skeptic and the wishful thinker [. . .], the head and the heart” (36). True callings, according to Levoy, “make their way to us through many different channels” (37), so he advises keeping a tally of the sources for a particular calling. He advocates “being actively patient, using the time we have to submit the evidence we gather to the compassionate scrutiny of the mind, the adjudication of the heart, the gut reaction of the body” (43). This time of incubation can be used to try things out and study the outcomes. Here it can be important to define certain qualities that might help determine if the call is genuine. “Test and observe,” say Levoy. In the final analysis, however, he cautions against over-interpreting, as a call is ultimately “a missive from the province of mystery” (48). “Beyond a certain point,” he claims, “faith is the magic lamp and humility the abracadabra” (49). However, accepting the mysterious nature of a holy calling is never an excuse for not doing the homework of discernment.

Strange Signposts

Obviously, the first ministry vacancy I considered was not the one for me. Nevertheless, the restlessness continued. “What now?” I asked my soul. “What am I supposed to do? Nothing else on this list arouses my interest.”

“Indeed,” she replied, “you are at a major turning point in your life, dear one. You are being tested to see if you are ready for what is ahead. As usual, your path will lead you to places beyond your wildest imaginings. If we revealed it to you right now, you might turn and run. Besides, it’s your life. You need to make the choices for yourself. But fear not. You will receive many clues along the way. Watch and wait. And listen closely.”

In mid-February, Eastside United hosted Bruce and Cheryl Harding in a concert. While sitting, waiting for the concert to begin, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to see Linda, a friend from a neighbouring congregation. “I’ve been looking in your neighbourhood for a little house to buy,” she said. “Do you have any idea what your house is worth?”

“No,” I replied. “I’ve never thought of selling it so I’ve never kept up with the market in my area.” When she whispered the ball park market value in my ear, I almost fell off my chair.

“Let me know if you change your mind about selling” she added. ” I know your house is just exactly what I’m looking for.”

The mere thought of selling my house was deeply troubling. It was just a tiny two-bedroom bungalow, but it was a sanctuary to me. I had invested a lot of effort in renovations when I first bought the house, and had even named her “Angelica.” “You can’t be asking me to sell the house, can you?” I asked my soul. No response.

During the last week of February, I received a phone call from a local real estate office inquiring if I would be interested in selling my house. “I love my house and I just can’t imagine selling it,” I responded confidently. After I hung up, the niggling little conversation between head and heart began:

What if it is a good time to sell?

When you bought the house five years ago, your agent cautioned you that you might not get your investment back when you sold because of the location.

Is it really worth what Linda estimates? Could I really sell it?

It’s just a piece of real estate, after all. You do feel a sense of restlessness and have been looking at other jobs. If you take another position, you’ll have to sell in order to move.

But this is my home, my nest, my safe place in the world.

Attached to the security of the material world are we?

After a week of relentless internal parley, I finally gave in and called a real estate agent. Traci seemed to sense my situation on an empathic level, and from the moment we met, I felt I could trust her. As I explained the situation, I was in tears. “Your friend is very accurate in what she told you about the market in this area,” Traci told me. “It’s an ideal time to sell–the market is high and brisk. I can tell you love your house,” she added. “It was clear from the moment I walked in that this house is well loved and cared for.” I told her I needed some time to think about the situation before deciding. A week later, the house was on the market. Three weeks later, it was sold. I felt as though a whirlwind had descended upon my orderly little life.

Letting Go

A wise person once said to me, “You can’t take hold of something new when your hands are filled with something else.” Having let go of the house, I now had some serious discernment to do regarding my ministry position at Eastside. Several months earlier, when I had been considering the position on the west coast, I had consulted with two board members from Eastside, sharing with them my feelings of restlessness, and asking for their guidance. They both agreed that leaving or staying was a decision I needed to make for myself. They assured me that I would have the support of the congregation whatever I decided.

It would have been easier to make a decision to leave if I had been unhappy in my ministry with Eastside. On the contrary, our ministry together had been exciting and filled with abundant blessings. In my experience with them, Eastside had desired more than anything to live and model an authentic life of faith. During our time together, they had made some bold and innovative changes in the way they were church. My discernment question was simple: Is my work with this congregation complete?

In some ways, I find ministry to be a bit like housework–at the end of the day, you can always find some other task that needs doing. When is ministry ever complete? In both housework and ministry, it takes a large measure of discipline to establish healthy boundaries, and an even larger measure of self-esteem not to feel guilty about what is left undone. To end a beautiful pastoral relationship, however, would be much more challenging than shuffling the Presbtyery minutes to the bottom of the in-basket, or ignoring the dust on the coffee table. To leave would stir up all kinds of emotions–anger, pain, abandonment, sadness, grief, perhaps even joy and relief. It was not an easy decision to make.

At the suggestion of a friend, I sat at my computer one Friday evening, and drafted a letter advising the congregation that I wanted to end the pastoral relationship. Over the weekend, I reread the letter many times. On Sunday, as I led worship, I felt completely drained. The spark was gone. After the service, I spent some time talking with Wanda, a dear friend and trusted member of the congregation. A gifted caregiver, she let me talk my way through the situation until I found my own answer. I gave the letter to the chair of the board on Monday afternoon.

When the Body Speaks

Later, on that Monday evening, I was having dinner with a group of friends who are hospital chaplains. In response to the question, “What’s new with you?” I replied, “Well, the house sold last week, and today I gave notice that I’m leaving the congregation. I have no idea what comes next, but that’s what’s new with me.” After a few moments of puzzled silence, Mary, one of my chaplain friends, made me an offer I could not refuse. “Tomorrow,” she said, “our CAPPE units are doing a special workshop on psycho-drama. For some reason, I just feel you should come along, too. I’ll pay your way from the hospital budget. Just show up at 9:00 a.m. at the university.” I had planned on sleeping late the next day as it was my day off, but the offer felt too synchronistic to ignore.

Those attending the workshop included a group of local counsellors, the student chaplains from the hospital, and their chaplain supervisors. At one point in the workshop, the leader asked for a volunteer from the group to act out a real life situation from the workplace that was causing trouble. The volunteer, one of the counsellors, explained that she was having difficulty with a client who could not make the decisions needed to move on in her life. She was stuck, and the counsellor felt stuck, too, as she had tried every technique she knew to encourage the woman to be more decisive. The workshop leader then asked the volunteer to place out some chairs in a way that would reflect the setup of her office. Then, she asked her to act out a mock session with the troubled client. As the volunteer sat in her chair, pretending to prepare for an up-coming difficult counselling session, I noticed a snarl come over her face. I had seen that kind of facial expression before; specifically, the expression took me back to a scene in the movie “Shadowlands.” In the film, Debra Winger plays the wife of C. S. Lewis. Near the end of the movie, she is dying of cancer, and she has just returned from the hospital so she can die at home. Anthony Hopkins, who plays Lewis, is sitting at her bedside while she sleeps, keeping a night vigil. Winger stirs in her sleep, and awakens in pain. The expression on her face is a snarl. Although she has made a valiant effort to fight the cancer, the battle is finally more than she can stand. She is tired, and it is time for her to let go and die. To me, her snarl said, “I’m tired, and I can’t put up with this pain any longer.” The snarl of the workshop volunteer said something similar to me, “I’m tired of this client, and I can’t bear to work with her any more.” As I made the connections between the two women’s snarls, I suddenly remembered having snarled in the same way just before Sunday morning worship. To me, my snarl said, “I’m tired, and I can’t carry the burden of this ministry any longer.” In a technique more eloquent than words, my body had affirmed the decision I had made to leave the congregation. But even more importantly, the psycho-drama workshop helped me understand why I had to leave–my life force energy was dangerously low, and I needed to rest. From that moment, the idea of rest began to drift through my consciousness like a feather on the breath of God.

Cosmic Humour

Restlessness arrived on my doorstep when I was nearing completion of my doctoral work. I often thought the purpose of its untimely visitation was to test my mettle–to see if I had the discipline and stamina necessary to complete the seemingly endless rounds of revisions to my dissertation and project. With great shouts of jubilation, however, the day eventually came when the final drafts were “in the can,” winging their way to the eager hands of my doctoral committee. With that stage complete, it was time to turn to the task of preparing for a presentation of my doctoral research to a parish nursing conference in Calgary at the end of April 2002.

It was a delight and an honour to be invited to share what I had learned about energy-touch healing ministries in congregational settings with this group of parish nurses. As I have several cousins in Calgary, I was also looking forward to a short time of visiting, and a wee break before returning to the craziness of moving. When the conference ended, Colleen picked me up from the hotel, and on the way to her home, she informed me that we would be enjoying a “hen party” for dinner as John, her brother, was up to his neck in taxes (he is a chartered accountant), and could not join us until dessert. Marie Josee, John’s partner, would be coming for dinner, and we could expect intermittent visits from Colleen’s three daughters–Megan, Lauryl, and Cheryl. During dinner, I shared the news about my strange situation. Colleen looked at me, and then at Marie Josee. She then said, “You should have Marie Josee read your tarot. She’s very good.” Marie Josee offered to call John so he could bring her cards when he came for dessert.

I was more than intrigued. For most of my adult life, I have been fascinated with Jungian psychology, especially the interpretation of symbols, dreams, and myth. I have always been curious about the symbol system used by tarot. At that moment, my future felt like a gaping void. Perhaps the tarot would provide some clues that might help me find my way.

The cards revealed that I was in the midst of a huge transition. More specifically, they showed that I would receive three job offers in the next few weeks, but I should pay closest attention to the one that involved a young man in his mid-twenties. I carefully filed the information away, and then proceeded to baptize a huge strawberry in the chocolate fondue.

About a week later, I was expecting a visit from my dear friend Carell. She was supposed to come on the Sunday evening so we could attend the healing service at Eastside together. The next day, we were going to participate in a sweat lodge with Wanda and some other women. Sometime on Saturday, Carell called to say she could not come down on the Sunday because her mother was ill. If her mother was feeling better over the weekend, Carell would come down on Monday for the sweat lodge.

After the healing service, I decided to go out for dinner to the local Boston Pizza. As I was driving toward the restaurant, a car came screaming out of an intersection, almost crashing into my vehicle. I swerved to avoid the crazy driver, and wondered to myself what that was all about. As I sat pondering the menu, I suddenly felt an overwhelming presence of male energy. Looking around the restaurant, I noticed that all of the servers were young men, and most of them were wearing shorts to show off their muscular legs. Almost all of the clients were men. There were men dining alone, and men dining with other men. “That’s odd,” I thought. As I waited for my dinner to arrive, the name “Buckskin” suddenly came to my mind. “That’s odd,” I thought again. Buckskin is the name Carell gave to her camper van. “Why in heaven’s name is Buckskin coming to my mind? Wouldn’t that be fun, though, to take off in Buckskin, and just spend a year roaming around the world in a camper van.”

When I got home, I called Carell, and told her about my experience in the restaurant. “What’s going on with Buckskin?” I asked.

“I just decided to sell him,” Carell responded. “I thought I’d be able to use the camper to get away more often, but with mom being so ill lately, I just don’t want to go too far away in case she needs me.”

“Oh my soul, Carell!” I exclaimed. “Do you think I’m supposed to buy Buckskin from you, and then just take off for a year?”

“Who knows, Kathy,” she replied. “I can tell you this much, though. I sure would support you if you decided to take some serious time off. We can talk about Buckskin when I come to visit you tomorrow.”

That night, I could hardly sleep. Thoughts of Buckskin were dancing through my head. The more I thought about taking a year off to explore the world in a camper van, the more the idea appealed to me. I could hardly wait to find out more about Buckskin from Carell.

Carell arrived shortly after lunch, and she spent the afternoon describing the van to me. It sounded perfect. That afternoon, as we sat in my living room, the phone rang twice. Both times were calls from other congregations wondering if I would consider applying for their vacant ministry position. Later in the afternoon, we picked up Wanda, and were heading out to the location of the sweat lodge. I was telling her about my crazy experience in the restaurant, and the idea I was forming of buying Buckskin, and taking a year to explore and rest. At one point, I turned to Carell and asked her, “What year is Buckskin?”

“He’s a 1976 Chev camper van. But he’s in great shape for being 25 years old.”

“My stars alive, Carell. Buckskin is 25 years old! There’s the 25-year-old male from the tarot cards! My heavens, I had calls for two job opportunities today, and here is the third. This job offer comes from me–it’s the offer of a year-long sabbatical, and it involves Buckskin! And get this–I just turned 49 a couple of weeks ago. That means this is not just any sabbatical–it’s a Jubilee–a year of rest.” We all laughed. Well, actually, we roared and may have even snorted.

Later that evening, waiting for the sweat lodge to be ready, I stood alone and looked out over the open prairie. “A Jubilee Sabbatical! Wow! You’re right, soul. Not in my wildest imaginings would I have conceived of such an idea. But it’s brilliant.”

“You passed the first test, dear one,” she whispered. “You’re paying attention, and most of all, you’re trusting your intuition. It takes courage to step out in faith like you are doing. You will need courage and faith where you are going.”

 

Buckskin overlooking Buffalo Pound Provincial Park, SK