Saturday
This morning there was a blue heron fishing in front of the house. I kept Duke away from the window and got the camera. The bird saw me and I had to stand still for a time. Finally I was able to take a picture.
My previous attempts had been poor, but I was pleased with this one. It is a joy to watch herons fish. It is all in slow motion. They look ungainly. But when a fish is near they react like lightening. I am pleased when one stops by.
I laid down for a nap in early afternoon and was awakened by the phone ringing. It was from a couple I had recently married. Would I come to the hospital to pray with her Aunt Mary? She had asked for a pastor.
I am no longer pastor. I should have said,"no." Instead I said yes, dressed and went to Ft. Wayne. On the drive I chastised myself for not standing firm.
Once there I joined the couple and her parents at Aunt Mary's bedside. They remembered me from the wedding. Ninety-nine and struggling to breathe Mary was still in good spirit and ready to talk. She thanked me; thanked God for her salvation and we prayed. All thanked me for coming. Shortly after, I left.
On the way home I could not stop thinking about how it was I, not Aunt Mary, who had been blessed. Many times I have had a task before me I would sooner not do. Each time I have done what I must, and each time the blessing has been mine. I know I should have said no. I also know that saying yes was wrong by the book but right by the heart. It will be difficult to wean me from my "pastor" persona.
At home there was an email from a pastor I am friends with. He is bipolar and on disability. He is bright, witty and most times, happy. I hadn't seen him in a year or more. He told me that in Mexico I may have to learn to speak "Catholic with a Methodist twang." He also wrote that he had read my blog and invited me to read his. I did.
He had begun the blog in 2007. The entries were sporadic and depended on how manic or depressed he was at a given time. He began the blog to chronicle what he termed "his trip down the rabbit hole." He is heartbreakingly honest. His goal is to give other pastors with similar problems a shoulder to lean on.
I read all the entries. It took two or three hours. When I had done I felt ashamed. I knew he was bipolar. We talked together often when he had problems in his church. But I had no idea how difficult his fight was or how much it eats at him. His memory is very poor now. He forgets almost immediately. Somehow I have to be a better friend.
No translator can
decipher this message--
words from the rabbit hole.
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