Whew. I am tired!
Nothing has prepared me for full-time, all-by-your-lonesome, too-much-to-do-and-too-little-time-in-which-to-do-it Methodist ministry. I’ve been blessed with an outstanding education, challenging internships, and a strong support network. But still, this transition is making me tired.
Sunday comes so quickly. No matter how much I do in a day, so many things get left undone. (Currently I have 61 items on my to do list for this week… 28 of them for today… I have the feeling that a good number of those will get the “postpone” button at the end of this evening… only so I can wake up to them tomorrow).
And I’ve been afraid to blog because I worry that people will think I should be working instead. But I *HAVE* been working. I shouldn’t feel guilty about spending part of July 4th watching fireworks, or devoting an afternoon to buying furniture, or falling asleep after church on a Sunday… but I do. I worry that if I take any time off I’ll just get further behind.
I know that it is silly to work myself into a depression. I know that I’ll do better at my work if I grant myself some rest. But knowing that is different from DOING that.
Someone who knows me well suggested that I read for fun. I thought through the books on my bedside table: “Administration in the Small Membership Church,” “Reading Romans,” “Transitions,” “Beginning in Pastoral Ministry,” John Wesley’s “Sermons” (yes, I am re-reading some of those for sermon prep…).
Last time I counted (which was during finals… I’ve since bought 20+ new books), I had 69 books “in progress.” Very few of them (save a Michener book and a re-read of L.M. Montgomery) are fiction. I seem to be on this continual quest for self-improvement, and I have so far to go that I’ll be reading non-fiction for the rest of my life…
I preach about grace every week. Preach it until you practice it. Practice it? Preach it? I’ll have to preach it for a while.
I don’t cry by myself.
I cry when people are nice to me.
I cry when my parents come to visit, when I talk on skype, when I get an e-mail, when people tell me they’re praying for me, when I make reservations for a weekend away, or when I get a nice card in the mail.
“You aren’t being nice to yourself,” says that same wise person who tells me to read fiction.
I can’t believe when people are nice to me. I don’t deserve that. It triggers something inside of me, and my heart just explodes.
Since when is accepting grace so hard?