Tired

By Ross Paterson

After a recent conference a fellow attendee sent me this reflection on processing through and living after losing her husband. This a beautiful and real reflection that I am sure many in the same situation can relate with.

I. Am. Tired.

I know that probably doesn’t seem like anything noteworthy, but this is a tired I have not experienced before. This is a new level, a new depth, a new source of tired.

Having said that, I want you to know that I am well acquainted with tired. I have raised five children. I could probably just leave it at that and you might have a good measure of respect for the fact that I’m not currently in, nor being sought for admittance to a mental institution. However, to give you the full picture of just how much tired I have experienced, you need to know that I had all five of these children (one at a time and yes, I gave birth to them all) within six years. Imagine the scene at my house when I brought home the youngest child: Jessica was 5, Kevin was 4, Abby was 3, Isaac was 1 and Dianna was a newborn. Crazy tired, right? So tired, in fact, that I don’t have a lot of memories of those years. Feeding, diapering, dressing, bathing, laundry, feeding, diapering, dishes, sweeping up the results of the feeding, laundry, diapering and… did I mention feeding? It was never-ending, and seemed like it would last forever, especially on Mondays… and Tuesdays… and, well, pretty much all the time. Although I loved my kids, it was just physically taxing to be in demand 24/7. I know there are those of you who understand exactly what I mean.

But that’s not the kind of tired to which I refer now. Neither am I talking about the kind of tired I experienced when my five small children got older and I became less of the physical caretaker and more of the taxi driver, parole officer, relationship expert, event planner and life coach. I remember the year that I had four kids in little league – somehow their games and practices seemed to be perfectly synchronized to be at the same time… on opposite ends of town. There were times that I had to call in reinforcements and have my mom and sister participate with Ken and I in getting everyone where they needed to go. As they got a little older, I had a white board on the refrigerator that was a calendar. The rule was that if it wasn’t on the calendar, it wasn’t my responsibility to help them make it happen, which resulted in at least one time (for each child) of major crisis, and yet none of them died when they had to solve their own transportation problems or when they missed the event… and they never forgot again to put their activities on the family schedule. The “tired” of those days was more mental than physical – like being one of those herding dogs who goes crazy trying to keep their wayward flock from heading in all different directions, sure to get lost and eaten by wolves if not kept together. But even that is not the kind of tired that I’m referring to here.

No, this tired is much deeper than that. This is the kind of tired that no amount of rest or sleep can refresh. It is the kind of tired that starts in your head and gradually spreads throughout your body. It goes down to the end of every strand of hair, down into your bones, the soles of your feet, your skin, your fingers. It circles your heart and squeezes it like the prey of a boa constrictor. It is the tired that goes clear down into the depths of your soul. You see, this is the kind of tired I have experienced as I have tried to build a new life different from what I had known for two-thirds of my time on this earth.

Imagine that you are standing in the center of your homestead, looking at the smoldering pile of ashes that used to be the barn that was the lifeblood of your family. You have spent years painting and repainting until you got it just the right shade of red. You have painstakingly purchased and lovingly maintained the tools that you would need for this life, sharpening them with each use and replacing handles as they broke from the kind of hard use that sometimes happens. You have stood in this place soaking in the aroma of sweet hay and fresh, cool air as it protects you from the harsh rays of the sun and the wind and rain that comes in the winters of life. You have repaired damage done by everyday wear and tear – the hinges bent from swinging the doors open too hard; the boards that bend too much when you walk on them, the latch that doesn’t quite keep the window closed anymore. You have worked and listened to the comforting, familiar sounds of your real life in this place. And then, one day, you awake to the pile of ashes. I can relate, in a new and poignant way, to the scene in “Out of Africa” in which Meryl Streep, having spent years trying to build and nurture her coffee plantation and finally brings in the best crop in this farm’s history, storing it in the most natural place – the barn – is awakened in the middle of the night to a raging fire. As she stands there and the understanding of her helplessness to do anything further sinks in, she says in a dreadful reality check, “All gone… all gone.”

Meryl’s only choice is to pack, sell her belongings and go back to the safety of her childhood home. She has no fight left, and she is defeated and angry with God because, in her mind, He has destroyed everything that she ever loved. Here is where our stories take very different turns. She has lost her farm, her husband, her lover, her dignity and her will to strive. I have lost my husband, my lover, my confidante, my cheerleader, my therapist, my spiritual advisor, my prayer and ministry partner, my best friend… my favorite. I have only ever been an adult with him – never really alone, and here I stand in the wake of his passing with a feeling that I am twisting in the wind… but not really.

The difference between Meryl and I is that I have not lost hope. I am not alone in the world and I am not talking about my family who has been there through it all, loving and supporting me. I’m not talking about my friends who have lifted me and my family up in prayer and provided for our practical needs as we reeled from the shock of it all. I’m not talking about my employer, who came alongside me and patiently gave me the time I needed to sort things out, and all my co-workers who called, emailed, came over to let me know that they were there for me. Even my landlord was gracious, understanding and patient, giving me the time to figure out what I was going to do next, but I’m not talking about him, either.

As good as all that was, the best part of it all was that my God, the one I have talked about believing in for all these years, showed up. He was with me as I got the first phone call that my favorite was in the hospital. He was certainly in the car as my daughter drove me to see Ken (it was a miracle we made it in one piece!). He was there as I learned that the prognosis was not good in earthly terms, holding my hand and keeping me calm enough to really hear what the doctor was saying. He sent his army to care for my family in the waiting room – food, water, babysitting services, prayer warriors, even sending some folks to my house to care for my dog so we didn’t have to worry about him – all coming without request, but responding to the One who was executing His sovereign plan. He was there as my favorite took his last breath, and I got a glimpse of His glory as Ken passed from this life into the presence of his King. He has walked with me through every stage of every day of my new reality – especially on the days when I am too blind to see Him next to me. His face is clearer, His love is more palpable, His truth is more precious, His tender care is more apparent, His mercy and grace is more fulfilling than ever before and I feel that my worship of Him, which has been hindered in the past by my own inhibitions and fear of man, have become more full and unabashed.

Spurgeon put it very well in Morning and Evening when he said the following:

“Here rest is but partial; there it is perfect. Here, the Christian is always unsettled; he feels that he has not yet attained. There, all are at rest; they have attained the summit of the mountain. The have ascended to the bosom of their God. They cannot go any higher. Ah, toil-worn laborer, only envision when you will rest forever! Can you imagine it? It is a rest eternal, a rest that ‘remaineth’.”

The only rest that satisfies the kind of tired that I’m talking about is the eternal kind. No amount of sleep will satisfy. My soul is exhausted from reaching for that Heavenly rest, and until I achieve that summit, I will continue to strive for it. As Spurgeon so aptly concluded, “Happy day when ‘mortality will be swallowed up of life’ (2 Corinthians 5:4) and the eternal Sabbath will begin!” He gives me the strength and desire to keep on keeping on in anticipation of this kind of rest – the only rest that satisfies this kind of tired.

 

New Zealand-native Ross Paterson spent 10 years in sales and management in Wellington and Auckland, New Zealand, before heeding the call to full-time ministry. Ross has served as senior adult pastor at CrossPoint Community Church in Modesto, CA, for 20-plus years.