Admitting Exhaustion

I’ve written in a previous post how important it can be to admit that it is time to turn around and head out of the wilderness. These are times when the weather gets bad, or when time is running out, or some other unforeseen thing happens. What I did not stress are those moments when you are just tired, when you have pushed yourself further that you thought you could and had nothing else to give, and it was time to get out, or stop and set up camp. It is a little trickier to make the subjective call as to when it is best to be done with hiking for the day or for the trip, but an important decision to make. When we push ourselves further than is physically safe we can make bad decisions, hurt ourselves, and end up in trouble. It is important to be able to say when it is time to be done.

In the wilderness, I am not very good at this. When I am hiking I like to push myself, to see how far I can push my body and my mind. I like to see how many miles I can cover in a day, and to end the day exhausted. To be clear, I don’t do this when I lead groups – so do not worry and sign up for a trip!

When I have to turn back from a goal, I don’t like to admit that I physically couldn’t do it. I don’t like to admit that I was not up for the challenge. I wonder how much this might be an attitude for others in the wilderness; that we should just push ourselves, that we should go further than what might be appropriate. Maybe this isn’t everyone. I do meet people who have a good sense to just do short days, to enjoy themselves, and to keep the hikes manageable. Yet there seem to be just as many who are like me, who embrace challenges, and who don’t like to give up.

In the wilderness, this makes some sense with real, physical challenges before us. Mountains loom, miles stretch before us, and the challenges are real. And the goals are real. Climb, hike, and find success. Albeit it is a success that carries exhaustion and bruises and soreness, but it is success, mental and physical. In the front-country, for many people this attitude pushing yourself beyond what you thought was possible is real. We need to push ourselves, we need to keep our head down and overcome whatever challenge are before us. And to give up, to leave, to quit can be seen as a weakness.

At least that is the case for me.

I was pastoring churches for over 20 years, and as much as those experiences were full of joys and blessings, they also have challenges. For the most part, I kept my head down and I pushed through. I worked with wonderful people who supported me, who loved me, and who helped me through the challenges and I will always be grateful for those individuals’ presence in my life. The challenges were real. The weight of other’s pain, the demands of leadership, the desire to inspire and influence people to a life of faith and hope, and so much more. I know pastors who soar and dance in their ministry, who find a way to make the way. Pastors who are able to see that they are there for all the needs of the church without running out of energy. Or at least that is what they say. This was not me. I could not do it. I was empty. And it hurts me to admit that.

When I left my last church, I said I was leaving because I strongly felt that God was calling me into the wilderness, to be a pastor in the wilderness, to guide others to experience God in this different setting and context. And this is true. The moments of revelation that I have had in the wilderness (see Thirst) and the moments I continue to have bolster such a sense of calling. But what I didn’t say openly was that I was empty. I was exhausted. I could not push through any more. Shall I call it burnout? Shall I call it compassion fatigue? What I want to call it is quitting. And I am ashamed to say that I quit.

That is a judgement, or at least it is in my own ears. To say that I quit because I couldn’t do it anymore. I criticize myself because I should have been able to work a little harder, I should have been able to have a little more faith. I should have been able to trust God and stay. But I couldn’t. I had nothing left to give. I was empty and I don’t like to admit that. There is shame that I have with this transition, this time in my wilderness, and mixed with that shame is grief.

When I was 10-years-old I said I wanted to be a pastor. In my sophomore year in college, I fully embraced the call and focused my life on serving the local church. This has been the focus, the totality of my life. It has been the mountain that I have been training and looking to climb for decades. And again, there have been moments when the views, the experiences were wonderful and amazing. But I found I could not climb any more. This is something I grieve because I am leaving a significant part of who I have been for many, many years. I have walked away from an identity, a way of being, a way of breathing. I know that a part of me will always be “a pastor,” but not in the way I had been for so long. And I need to grieve. And to grieve means I need to admit that I could not do it anymore. This is a difficult wilderness.

This is the struggle that I currently have. I do not want to admit that I needed to get out. I do not want to admit that I was empty, because it feels like I gave up; it feels weak. I would rather say that it was time for something different. But then there will be this unresolved grief just below the surface, eating away at me and getting in the way of whatever might be next.

I’m getting old. I am realizing that there are some hikes that I cannot do in the same way that I could 20 years ago. I am realizing that there is wisdom to shorter days, and I am ok with that. I am ok with saying that I do not have the same physical abilities that I did before and I will engage the wilderness in a different way. I do not feel shame. I do not feel like I have given up, but instead I am taking care of myself.

Can I say that it was the same for me in my ministry? I need to. I need to grieve but the shame makes it complicated.

I share this in part out of a realization that I am not the only one. I am not the only one in ministry, in helping professions, in life, who is empty, who is pushing themselves further than is safe or is possible. The feelings of shame are real. The feelings of guilt are real. The feelings that you should be able to do better or better are real. My hope is that in my confession, I may make space for others to not feel so alone, to find the space to admit where they are without shame or guilt.

This is a different wilderness. There is no storm, no animal threat, no stream to cross, and no cliff to climb. But the exhaustion is real and I needed to stop, and find a different way. And this makes me grieve for I will miss all the wonderful vistas, moments, and experiences that I had and that I know I would have.

This is a different wilderness. It continues to be difficult to find a way.