Taking Care

This morning, just as the prelude was starting, I starting feeling dizzy. I was talking with a parishoner in the narthex and needed to tell her, "I'm not feeling well. I'm going to sit down." I chose the pew with the nurse who would be taking blood pressures later in the morning, who took one look at me and said, "Are you okay?" "Not really," I responded. She offered to take my blood pressure. I sat there wondering if I was okay and trying not to go into a panic attack (as has happened to me in these situations in the past). But soon the person I'd been talking to was giving me a glass of ginger ale, someone had a cool towel for my head, and someone else had sent their children to go looking for my worship folder and keys. By the time I needed to do the announcements, my color had returned and my hands had stopped shaking. By the end of the the announcements a bag of goldfish crakers from the Sunday school had made their way to the front of the church for me and I'm sure a couple prayers had been said on my behalf.

This may sound strange, but this little spell was, in some ways, the answer to a prayer. Lately I have been feeling the isolation that is so often associated with pastoral ministry, but that I hadn't really experienced until I began this solo call. Lately I'd been feeling like I was the one who had to hold things together and was feeling resentful and angry that no one seemed to be appreciating all that I was doing. So I had prayed early this week for someone, anyone to tell me I was doing a good job. As sometimes happens with prayer, someone did that very afternoon. And someone else the day after that. And someone else the next day. And then, this morning, a strange thing happened. The moment came when I couldn't be the one to hold it all together. And in my moment of weakness I got to be on the receiving end of my congregation's legendary caring and concern. I got to experience what other people experience when they come through our doors. And it strengthened me.

But that re-strengthening could be a problem. I have always lived this strange irony -- one familiar to many oldest children. I am seen as the "strong one." "Jennie can take care of herself" is a phrase I've heard since childhood. So, people don't worry about me. They're not as focused on me. Some, I dare say, have actually lashed out at me, perceiving my strength as a threat (even as they have required it of me). And much of the time, I can take care of myself. But the problem is that when I am weak -- and I am weak much more often than most people think -- then I am alone. Who, I wonder, will think to step in and take care of me?

Some will suggest that I stop being so darned strong. But it's hard to stop. I know the world won't come to an end of I let my weakness and vulnerability show. I know it won't destroy my congregation or my family or my friendship systems. But, still, it's hard to stop. And some people wouldn't know what to do with me if I did. Besides, much of the time my strength is a good thing that serves me and others well.

But this morning was a good lesson in what could happen in my weaker moments. It might just be that when people know I am weak, they will rush in to take good care of me and then send me on, strengthened and re-newed. Of course, some of my caregivers later told me they were relived that I was feeling better. "What would we do without you?" one asked. After all, they need me to be strong.