Sabbatical Musings #8 - Walking........

     In the eight weeks I have been on sabbatical, I have walked many more miles than during the previous eight months – or I wonder if eight years might be closer.  My feet hurt some, and my legs are a little sore.  But I’ve covered some wonderful ground – both in terms of where my shoes have pressed into roads and paths, and also inside somewhere.

     When I was getting ready to leave, I canvassed friends, asking for book recommendations.  The perfect book for this particular journey turned out to be The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, Rachel Joyce’s quirky and moving novel about an elderly man who embarks upon a walk across England, hundreds of miles from Kingsbridge on the south coast to Berwick-upon-Tweed far to the north, all in hopes of saving an old friend’s life. 

 He’s determined that at long last his life will matter, and he learns much about himself, his marriage and family – and touches the lives of total strangers.

     I’m still sorting through what I’ve learned, and I still have a hundred miles to go.  Starting in Newcastle on the eastern coast of England, I will be walking (with Lisa, and two friends) all the way to Carlisle in the west – tracing the path of Hadrian’s Wall.  Two thousand year old stone remains of a wall, with forts, castles, and convenient bed & breakfasts where we can sleep.  Old rocks, of which I never tire.  Adventure, of which I can’t get enough.  

     And walking.  For centuries, if you sinned, one way you could work off the penalty was to make pilgrimage to a holy place:  Jerusalem, or Rome, or Santiago de Compostela (the camino to which is featured in the marvelous film, The Way).  I’ve got things to work off, things to learn, a future to discern, some peace to be made with God, my self, and quite a few people.  Walking, the physically arduous aspect, and the stillness of mind, far from internet, TV, office and shops, creates a pace in the soul, a chance at the dawning of eternity.

     I’m promising myself far more walking when I’m back home later this month.  So please, if you see me, don’t think I’m crazy, and don’t offer me a ride.  I need to walk.

 

Sabbatical Musings #7 - Disappointment

   Disappointment?  How could you be disappointed with 3 months away from work, and travelling?  I'm not disappointed - although it's harder than you think.  I love working, and miss the routine, and being useful.  Working out travel details with various family and/or friends can get complex.  One person told me, "If I had a sabbatical, I'd go totally offline and not be in touch with anybody."  But I have a wife, 3 grown children, aging parents, and all the ongoing issues that don't just vanish because I'm on sabbatical.
   So why the title "Disappointment"?  The worst part about my sabbatical is the truth that grieves me:  I have disappointed people.  Some I probably am not even aware of!  But I know parents who were very disappointed I wasn't there for their child's Confirmation last Sunday, people who were disappointed I didn't attend a funeral, helping professionals who needed me to do something for them but I was just flat out gone, church members who brought visitors to hear me preach and were disappointed (three have told me this!) I was absent, preachers who were disappointed I wasn't speaking at my usual preaching conference, and even a high school classmate I haven't seen for years who heard about my sabbatical and felt crushed because she has a tough job that would never permit even 3 weeks off, much less months - and she Facebooked me to say she was disappointed (her word) in me. 
   I hate disappointing people.
   I love the fact that I have the privilege of living a life that matters, at least a little, to some people - and so they are disappointed when I'm not there, when I can't help.  I love being able to help, at least a little, and have built my life to be as dependable and accessible a person as possible.  So the disappointment is sad for me.  A few have asked why I didn't do the sabbatical at some other time and not miss what they thought of as important.  Good question - but it's tough to block out time that doesn't block out something, and that works for my family.
   I hope anyone who might be disappointed in me might be merciful, and count on me again once I'm back.

Sabbatical Musings #6 - 5 thoughts from the past few days

     1. Yesterday, I had a profound thought, but I didn’t write it down, so I can’t remember it today.  Word to the wise:  take notes.

     2. I LOVE not worrying about how I look, what I wear, if my hair is in place when I’m on sabbatical.  When I’m in Charlotte, if I wear jeans, inevitably I bump into someone who is compelled to inform me, “Oh, I see you’re wearing jeans.” 

 3. At home, I spend way too much time indoors, and in my car.  On sabbatical, I’m outside, even if it’s pouring down rain or wicked cold, and every day I walk further than I’d walk in a month at home.  Today Noah and I hiked to the top of the Devil’s Staircase – an arduous climb.  Right after we took photos, it started sleeting.  Then after 30 minutes of being pelted by flecks of ice, the sun came out and we were presented with a rainbow.  My legs hurt, my shoes were soaked, mud everywhere, shivering, hands shaking… and I’m invigorated.  I need to engage with and participate in the beauty and peril of God’s good earth in order to be more genuinely human.

     4. We did something really hard today, and we have every day, trying to find places that aren’t on the map, ducking under “Trail closed” signs, climbing beyond weariness.  I suspect that if we did things that were hard more often, we’d be better prepared when we were faced with something hard.  Typically at home we cultivate easy, comfortable lives, and avoid the difficult.  No wonder we’re not very adept at crises when they pop up.  Ancient people had a huge advantage over us in this.

     5. And finally, as I travel I witness everywhere the innate goodness in people.  A waitress is patient with my fumbling to order food I’m not familiar with.  Drivers look amused when I get on the wrong (that is, the right) side of the road.  And a total stranger on the train overheard me saying I wonder why they don’t sell Hobnobs and McVities chocolate digestives in the U.S., and that I plan to take some home – and when we reboarded the train after a short break in Mallaig, he handed me a bag of Hobnobs and McVities.

     Maybe tomorrow I’ll have another profound thought.  If so, I’ll certainly write it down and tell you about it.

Sabbatical Musings #5 - day 30

     So as of today, I haven’t worked for a month.  That’s not entirely true.  A few little things have come up (oh, and one fairly large crisis), and a couple of dozen people have approached me with “I know you’re on sabbatical, but…”  I don’t mind at all.  But what’s surprising is how busy I have been – helping me understand what retirees mean when they say “I don’t know how I ever had time to go to work.”  This sabbatical does make me wonder what my own retirement, looming out there a decade or so from now, will be like.

     One person reprimanded me for blogging, declaring I should be totally off line.  But I like to write, it's energizing, not work at all - and I assured her I wouldn't mind if she took a little sabbatical from reading.  She laughed; we're pals.

     My great comfort in being away is how great church is going without me!  Attendance is steady, even above average for this time of year.  I watched the live stream this past Sunday, and heard stellar music and powerful preaching.  The Church is the people, the Church is of God…  I have labored under no illusions that I am necessary to the Church, and it is tremendously gratifying to see the Church being the Church without me lifting a finger!  I do miss worshipping with my Church family.

     I’ve spent some time with a spiritual director – a warm, gregarious diocesan priest who listened attentively to me talk about my life, and did so through the lens of God’s love, holiness and call.  We spoke of how to pray, and how to be grateful to God and joyful in life.  I recommend this kind of conversation to everybody.

     It has been quirky and a tad unsettling to run into people who know I’m on sabbatical.  At the Harris-Teeter the other night, a woman’s eyes flew open, and she told me quite resolutely “You’re not supposed to be here!”  But I really was supposed to pick up the items on my list. 

     If you have seen me, you will know I’m attempting to go semi-incognito by sporting facial hair.  Don’t worry, I’ll shave it soon.  I didn’t really plan to grow a beard.  I just didn’t shave one day, nor the next… and it’s a lousy beard.  I remember in high school wanting desperately to be able to grow a beard, and it’s fascinating to contemplate the meaning of facial hair throughout history.  For instance, during the Civil War, men grew beards to assert their masculinity.  I think the only thing I’ve been asserting is I’m out of the routine.  But not for long:  it gets on my nerves and requires more maintenance than I’d imagined.

     So, more sabbatical to come.  If you’re reading this, I’m honored, humbled, and a little surprised you’re interested.  But friends do these things with one another, so thanks for reading.

Sabbatical Musings #4: Am I Sabbatical-ing Very Well?

     So it’s Day 19.  I have never been away from work for 19 days before – and I have a ways to go.  Well-wishers seem to have high expectations, and I fear I will disappoint them all.  “I hope you are resting” or “I am sure you’re getting re-energized” – but I’m not sure I was really tired, and the mix of travel, hiking, and activity I’ve been engaged in isn’t exactly restful.  I have taken 2 or 3 naps over 19 days:  not my norm…

     I should be having lots of profound thoughts – and maybe those will come next week.  This morning I saw a deer outside my window, as we find ourselves in a cabin with some friends up in Ashe County.  You can hear… the river flowing, the breeze in the trees, and really nothing else but a stunning, wonderful silence.  I’m tempted to ratchet up my reflective self and think of something shrewd to say about this – but then I decided just to watch the deer, and listen to… nothing, which I never, ever get to do in my normal life, and I’d imagine you don’t either. 

     Someone sent me a note today saying “I bet your sermons will be quite profound once you return."  I'm not a profound guy, and am not sure I can go much deeper than previously.  We did have something happen the other day that reminded me of how I feel about preaching, at least sometimes.  We were in a hotel, and a loud alarm began blaring, the type at which you exit the building because there’s a fire or some real trouble.  We opened the door, and the staff was in the hall laughing, saying “Oh, ignore that.”

     I recall being in college, and sophomoric and drunk guys would pull the fire alarm, setting it off at all hours of the night.  Generally when the alarm sounded, we just stayed in bed.  One night the alarm kept on, far longer than usual.  My roommate said, “Oh, look out the window and see if anybody else has gone outside.”  I looked out, and there was a crowd of guys 6 floors down, and a fire truck, spraying water our way.  We opened the door, the hall was thick with smoke, so we made a dash for the stairwell, and exited coughing and wheezing.

     Sermons are like fire alarms, or at least we intend them to be.  “The seemingly safe place you have constructed for yourself is not so solid, not so safe, and you need to run to a new life!”  Or, “Stop ignoring all the signs and take God seriously!”  But like the people in our hotel, and like my college roommate and myself, we hear the sermon and just say “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll stay in bed, I’ll cling to my old life.”

     I’m trying for this time to shed my old life and maybe just be.  It’s a Saturday, and I’m not anxious about tomorrow’s sermon, although I’ll miss the preaching – maybe.  It’s a Saturday, and Lisa and I can be out of town with friends; this has been a rarity in our married life, and I kind of like what most people get to enjoy when they happen to feel like it.  It’s quiet.  I don’t know if that’s good for me or not, but I think I like it, and will miss the quiet when I’m back to the work and noisy life I do miss.

     Mostly I want to avoid fretting about how I’m doing on sabbatical…  I’m just trying not to watch the clock, and not feel the pressure to produce, even profound thoughts about being on sabbatical.

Sabbatical musings #3 - A Hopefully Holy Ambivalence

     As the time for my sabbatical drew near, quite a few people asked me if I were excited.  How to answer?  I felt an urge to apologize, for the people asking me I’m sure never had such a nearly elitist privilege as being able to take 3 months away from work – and not just able, but cheerfully encouraged to do so.  I have friends with no job at all; I have a job where I can not work one fourth of the year and my employers seem pleased.  It’s a little awkward to explain.

     Now that I’m off, and gone, I’m studying some other ambivalences that are revealing themselves to me.  Well-wishers have said, I hope your time away is restful.  I haven’t known how to respond to that either.  I’m not tired – or maybe by stopping I’ll realize how tired I might really be.  But my family and close friends can attest that time away with me is far from “restful.”  I’m in some place, any place, and I Google places to see and things to do.  I’m at the ruins of a medieval abbey – and the fact that I revel in strolling through these old stones and imagining monks chanting by candlelight seven centuries before I got there does not prevent me from picking up the pace, checking my watch, and dashing off to the next abbey, or Roman fort, or museum, or seashore vista.  The sunset isn’t a thing of beauty so much as a mandate that we must now stop the dizzying round of touring until morning.

     Should I reprimand myself?  I envy, and simultaneously pity people who go someplace and just sit, or relax.  My faith tradition tells me it is good to be still, to rest (which is what the word “sabbatical” means!).  Yet sloth is a deadly sin; and God did strew this world full of so many wonders that it seems disrespectful not to get out and notice, and marvel.  How to strike any semblance of balance between being still, resting (even if you aren’t weary), letting time pass, taking the opportunity simply to be – and a healthy activity, a robust sense of adventure, soaking in all the world has to offer?  I am driven – and yet as I drive to the next place I discover a joy in the drivenness of which I pray God would cure me.  Ambivalence.

     I find precisely the same ambivalence when I think about working and not working, and being connected and not being connected.  I love work.  I think I’d love work if I’d become a chemist or a lawyer or whatever else I might have become had God not interrupted my meanderings in college.  But doing what I do for a living:  I often say I’d do it for free, but I happily accept a paycheck.  But my work is invigorating, and meaningful.  How lucky:  I get to do something that really matters, or at least I hope it does. 

     So I never find myself itching for a few days or weeks away from work.  I miss it when I’m away.  I’ve never settled on varied hobbies – although I wish could garden or sew or build furniture or hit a golfball straight.  I might confess to being addicted to work.  Is it addiction? Or a deep tender attachment?  I cannot tell, and I suspect God doesn’t mind my confusion.  I’m not ambivalent about work, but my ambivalence about whether I should feel guilty for digging work so enthusiastically rattles me once in a while – like when I go on sabbatical and find myself not working.  I miss the work, but I realize the life of God’s church goes on wonderfully without me, and perhaps even better:  the church I think needs me so much probably grows strong when I can’t be needed.  Maybe I’m not as needed as I’d thought.  I think this is a holy ambivalence, and to resolve the tension would be curiously sinful I think.

     And finally the whole issue of being connected.  Today one can be connected always:  in another country, even on an airplane, I am reachable.  My phone can ring almost anywhere on God’s good earth.  I can text for a nickel, I can see and post Facebook pictures from Europe, I can answer emails in a hotel or on a city bus.  Pundits bemoan this new reality – and I have echoed their sentiments in several blogs (including “Hamlet’s Blackberry”); I do suspect that unhealthy, addictive patterns of thought, self-perceptions, and habits are inevitable.  How many have “liked” my sabbatical photos?  Why hasn’t anybody texted me?  And theologically:  if I am always reachable, if I’m always connected to semi-friends on Facebook or anybody who happens to get my cell number, then I wonder if I am ever reachable by God?

     And yet being connected is the deepest human dream.  God made us not to be alone but to love, to tell stories, to point and share moments, to converse.  I envy people in olden times who travelled, and mailed postcards, which took days to be delivered; a loved one back then was simply incommunicado, and perhaps the heart grew fonder as a result.  And yet that I can respond now to my wife or daughter, that I can tell my son on another continent that I saw something he’d dig:  these must somehow be good things.

 

     I’m ambivalent, and hope to stay that way.  If I blithely stayed connected and never peeked at the perils, if I never went into any sort of solitude, if I forgot how to be with the person I’m actually with instead of being perpetually distracted by the people I am not with, this would be tragic.  And yet if I dispensed with the smart phone entirely, if I never took advantage of the technological miracles that enable me to speak with loved ones over great distances, if I had no desire to share with you what I see that you cannot see, this too would be sad.  So I live with the awkwardness, the paradoxical confusion.  Maybe I take mini-sabbaticals within the larger sabbatical to be out of touch, and then seize other chances to be back in touch.

     Holy ambivalence.  I think, and hope God is pleased, and that I can grow by being thrown off balance by these ambivalences.

Sabbatical Musings #2 - I "miss" you

     What a fascinating framing of an inexplicable emotion:  “I miss you.”  Whom do I miss when I travel?  Depends on who’s not there.  Pretty much I miss my wife, and my children.  Once in a while I miss somebody else.  Out of three possible ways to drive to Kilcreggan, we chose the route through Inveraray. 

     I couldn’t recall why this place was fresh in my mind – until we elected to stop and visit the 18^th century castle.  I saw a peculiar number of people snapping photos literally through the wired fence – and then I nabbed the little brochure which featured the cast of Downton Abbey, the PBS television series, on the cover.  Inveraray!  That’s where the Granthams went to visit their “highland relatives.”  We posed for photos, and luckily met Joan, the manager of the castle, who was on her way home from work when I asked her where the front of the castle was in the TV series.  She explained it all – and I asked what she thought of the cast and crew.  She reported they were lovely, gracious, great fun. 

     Whom did I miss?  Oddly, I found myself missing the little conclave of people I know love watching Downton Abbey, and especially one of our staff people at work:  Claire.  Not only does she dig the show, but when I see her in the hallway at work, I realized that when I say “Hi, Claire,” it sounds precisely like “Highclere,” the name of the castle where the show usually is filmed.  So when I found myself at Inveraray, I snapped a photo and couldn’t wait to download it, email it to Claire, and see if she recognized the place without me tipping her off.

     Missing works this way.  We associate someone with some place, or some song, or something.  In

Edinburgh we waltzed into “The Scotch experience,” and I spied an absurdly rare bottle of scotch priced at 10,000 pounds.  I pulled out my camera, photographed the bottle (and the pricetag), and emailed it to my pal Stewart, who introduced me to fine scotch.  I missed him just then, and wished he’d been there.

     Did I miss my wife when I saw the bottle of Scotch?  No.  But I missed her terribly during most of the junket when she wasn’t there.  Walking to the north end of Iona, where there were no other human beings, just a handful of sheep and gulls, I wished she were there, knew she would treasure the moment, and knew my telling would both thrill her and stir some envy – as it should.  I try to type messages to her later, or show her the photo gallery once I’m home – but this leaves me hollow, as it’s just not as precious as it would be had she been by my side.

     I miss my children during such days.  When they were little, we all travelled together.  But now we do not.  But I think of each one, and not all together I find.  When we worshipped at the abbey in Iona, I heard the lead singer, who was all right, but not as good as my Sarah would have been, and I wished she were with me – or even leading the singing. 

 

     When we hiked the daunting climb to the top of Dun I, the highest point on Iona, I wanted to phone my son Noah right then; and later I did shoot him a message reporting that we had an “arduous” hike – and knew he would laugh out loud over the word “arduous,” which I used repeatedly the previous summer when we hiked in Switzerland.  Indeed, he responded with a “hahahahaha.”  I really missed him right then.

     And any time I take a photograph, I wish Grace were there.  She became my official family and personal photographer during her high school years.  What an eye, what an ability to capture just the right moment, angle, framing.  Every photo I ever take, I wish she were there taking it instead of me.  I miss her every time I lift a camera to my eye.

     What does it mean to “miss” someone?  You are somewhere, in some situation, and the living, vital presence of someone – who may even have died twenty years ago! – lingers, because the moment reminds you of that loved one, because you know he would dig this moment, because you know she of all people would grasp the grandeur of the moment.  And that bond enlivens you, and yet grieves you at the same time.  Could God rework the universe so those I love might be hovering about on standby, reading to stand with me here, or there, or at a castle on Inveraray, or in a stone church on Iona, and relish the moment with me? 

     Years ago I found myself in Paris, alone.  I saw the grand buildings, the beautiful landscape, the stunning stained glass and architectural wonders – and was miserable.  Every scene was one I wanted to share with Lisa, or a friend whom I know is keen on architecture, or Chopin, or pate.  God declared this at creation:  “It is not good for man to be alone.”  I know it is not good for me to be alone, or at least I am dead certain I do not wish to experience this world alone.