It's been a draining past several months for our family--between the busyness of summer complete with a week-long mission trip for my youth and a week-long VBS shortly thereafter, a church break-in (everything is fine), multiple deaths in one of my church families and several severely sick folks in the other, I had nearly become a zombie of the "passing for alive" variety.
Toward the beginning of my pastoral appointment in this Charge just over three years ago, the previously mentioned generous parishioners told us if we could ever get away to let them know because they had a place we could stay.
If you know me at all, you know I would never indulge such an invitation.
You also know (if you know me at all) that I almost never admit I need help or a break and certainly never both at the same time.
Come early August, though, I was at my breaking point. I was going to have to do all three of the things that I would usually "never" do.
It looked like--just as I figured by asking so late in the summer--that there was no availability on the weeks we would be able to swing it.
And then we got a call that someone canceled, and I took what felt like my first breath in a long time.
Our son was arguably more excited for our getaway than me and my husband combined. He had been yelling "GO TO DA BEACH!" more and more incessantly as the days leading up to our trip became fewer and fewer. By the time we reached the afternoon of our departure, it was almost like he was a scratched record--repeating that phrase over and over and over again.
I would drive through the night all over again even just for that first day on the beach. From the moment we reached our desired location to set up toys and chairs, he was non-stop. Our son was unafraid of the ocean and unbothered by the sand. He searched for sea shells and chased the poor seagulls and sand pipers back and forth along the shoreline for several minutes at a time without ever slowing down.
He did eventually decide he needed a rest. And an applesauce pouch. So, he plopped down onto one of our low-sitting chairs right at the water's edge--eyes closed, taking deep breaths of the salt water air that enveloped us while the waves crashed at his feet.
It was in that moment I realized: He felt it, too.
The zombie-ness.
The tiredness. The numbness. The anxiety. The grief.
He felt all of it right along with me even though I'd done everything within my power not to ever once expose him to the things I was feeling.
Poor kid is an empath like his mum. Not to mention, he's wayyy more intuitive than I'd care for him to be.
Nothing gets past him.
No matter how hard I tried to hide it, he was going to know something was up because he senses when the order of things is out of whack. He was going to be affected by my depleted-at-some-points, elevated-at-others emotions because his heart is just that big.
He needed the break, the get-away, the escape, the breather...just as much if not more than we did.
Watching him relax and re-center that day is an image I hope to always be able to access in my mind's eye. It's taught me countless lessons as I've reflected on our time together in the two weeks since we've been home, and I'm confident it will continue to teach me--just as he does.
Feel your feelings, friends. It's healthy.
Just know that your kids--they feel it, too.
