Читать книгу Daring to Fight - Victoria Mininger - Страница 11

It was early November, and I was painting a house. I often picked up side work to help make ends meet for our growing family of six, while my husband worked as a pastor along with a full-time job at a construction company forty-five minutes away.

I had been painting this house for weeks. First the front, than each side, followed by the back of the house. Finally, only one corner remained, accessed by a low shed roof that sloped towards the ground only feet below.

As I stood on that roof, rhythmically painting one board after another, I listened to the quiet of the woods that surrounded the low-slung country farmhouse. It was a house that I had come to intimately know from weeks of painting the same box. The birds called to each other, as if to declare that winter was not yet here with its icy grip. Yet, I was already feeling the chill of something bigger than winter deep inside.

The truth was, those days of painting gave me a lot of thinking time. The last ten years of life had taken their toll. The start of the deeper struggle was losing our business to bankruptcy during the 2009 housing crash. It was a blow that few saw coming, and we were unprepared for it like so many others. Just months before the crash we had we relocated our family to a beautiful mountainous town about forty-five minutes outside our hometown. We were answering what we had discerned as, along with our church leadership, a call to pastor a small church plant in that area. This pastoral call had come to us two years prior to the crash, when our business was thriving and supporting us well as a family. The original plan was to support ourselves with our business while planting this new church. It seemed that God was orchestrating the perfect plan for us to run our business and pursue this ministry call. But it was not to be. Instead, we started our first years of church planting on shaky ground as we tried to process the extreme loss of our business, altered relationships, and what felt like a darkened reputation in our previous community. Those were hard years, ones with a lot of questions from ourselves and from people who didn’t understand the magnitude of our loss. Their harsh criticism of my husband and the ongoing gossip about our failed business weighed heavy, even though my husband did his best to shield me from the cutting words of others. Now, like so many, we were looking for work in a hurting economy, struggling to rebuild a life in a new place, and, at times, questioning God in it all.

Besides the loss of our business, I was also trying to figure out my new role as a pastor’s wife, working to get a small business off the ground, finding my footing in a new community, and mothering our four little girls without the help of family, who had always been nearby. All the while, I was hoping and praying to build meaningful and healthy friendships with the women around me. Those first years in a new place were hard and full of firsts. There was so much to focus on and tackle, but I felt up to the task and wanted to do all of it—well.

On the Enneagram personality test, I fall squarely in line as a two. Twos are helpers by nature and, being an Enneagram two, my natural helper personality was fitting for all the roles I was trying to fill in that season. I didn’t know it then, but I’ve since come to find out that my helper personality, while it can be my superpower, can very much be my kryptonite. I grew up on a dairy farm in northern New Mexico. And, like any farm, there is always work to do. From an early age, my parents taught me the value of hard work. If there was something to be done, you did it until it was finished. And my little Enneagram-two self thrived on getting stuff done and helping others. My heart ate up the praise that came from doing and helping. I loved when my parents received compliments on my helping behavior. Oh how I would shine at that praise.

Fast-forward to my adult years, where hard work was still important, in particular for a pastor’s wife, fledgling business owner, and mom of four. There were always things to do, roles to fill, and people to serve. Honestly, my heart thrived in that place—until one day it didn’t.

Somewhere in all that “hard work” and “doing,” I forgot the most important thing. When you work hard, you also have to rest well. But I don’t think I knew how to do that. Nobody questioned whether I had hard work down pat. I had always been known as the one to get things done and done well. That wasn’t my problem. My problem was not in the doing but in the being. It was not in the starting of something as much as the stopping of something. Of learning the value of saying “no” instead of a never-ending stream of “yes.” Somewhere along the line, I had severely neglected resting well, and I was about to pay a hefty price for remaining blind for too long to the strain “yes” can put on a body.

But I found “no” hard to dole out, especially to those closest to me like my husband. When we married in 1996, I stood up in front of 250 witnesses on our wedding day and committed to love him and serve alongside him for the rest of our days. I had also stood up in front of our home congregation just a few years prior, when they commissioned us to the work of church planting, and I promised to be his helpmate in this ministry. I did not take these promises lightly and I intended to fill them with love, honor, integrity, and hard work. I was up for the challenge…or so I thought.

The truth is, whether you are running a business, planting a church, or raising a family, there is always more work to be done than hands to help. So every time there was a ministry need that needed extra hands or a side job came up that could use my help or the girls’ school just needed one more batch of cookies, guess whose hand went up in the air. Every. Single. Time. Looking back, I swear my arm was on one of those pendulum ball sets that you set on your desk to keep time. It’s fascinating to watch but a brutal roller coaster to stay on. That kind of roller coaster is where life found me that cold November day as I painted a house. One long brush stroke after another, I reflected on all the times I had handed out a “yes.” The list was staggering, and I knew deep down that this pace I had been running and this load I had been carrying were not sustainable.

But it would take the slow, rhythmic strokes of painting a house to finally bring me to that point of honesty.

That day in November, I was finally ready to admit to myself that I couldn’t carry the weight of all the tasks and commitments on my shoulders any longer. The reality became apparent to me. I was so out of balance that it wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge. The truth, that now so boldly stared me in the face and that I had worked so hard to ignore, was that if I didn’t drop everything right then and there, I wasn’t sure I would be alive the next year.

That realization was a scary and painful one for me. I had so much to live for, yet the life I was leading was one I could no longer manage on my own. In that moment, on that roof, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t pretend any longer for myself or for anyone else. Enough was enough. I set my paintbrush down on top of the open paint can, pulled out my phone, and dialed my husband. I knew he was probably on a job site somewhere and might not be able to pick up the call. His workload was often heavy, and the demands on his time frequent. Part of me was desperate to hear his voice; the other part just wanted to run. It rang once, twice, and then his voice broke through.

“Hey Hon, how’s the painting going?” my husband said as he answered.

“I’m done!” I declared.

“Wow, great!” He enthusiastically responded. Getting this job done meant we could finally pay the gas bill that had been looming over our heads.

I paused, a bit frustrated that he didn’t catch my immediate meaning. With a bit of a panicked voice, I uttered, “No, you don’t understand. I’m still painting, but I’m done. I’m done juggling everything. I’m done. Really done. I can’t do it anymore. The church stuff. The business stuff. The house stuff. Everything. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore, and as of right now, I am dropping it all.” I paused before continuing, “I have to, or I’m not sure where I’ll be next year, Hon.”

The air between the lines hung with a palpable silence. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if this declaration would surprise my husband or not. For the last two years, we had often talked about how weary I was beginning to feel and how heavy the load was getting. We had spent hours walking around the cow fields at home, going back and forth about how to juggle this and that. Often our discussions ended in frustration as he failed to see my weariness and I failed to speak clearly what was in my heart. The reality was that he was feeling just as weary as I was. He was working long hours to provide for our family and shepherd a small church. He was also still working to process the years of loss prior to our move and trying to find some solid footing for himself. There just was not enough room for me to not be okay. He needed me to be okay so that he could focus on those other areas that were important too. But the day I called him from that shed roof was the day the harsh reality began to hit both of us that I was far from okay anymore.

It’s funny the things you can remember about a day. Have you ever had a moment that just etches itself in your brain? Sounds, smells, thoughts, and feelings. So poignant that the very memory of them makes you startle. Moments that years later seem as clear as the day you experienced them. That phone call to my husband is such a memory for me.

I feel the hesitation in my body just before I dare pick up the phone, my shaking fingers somehow dialing the familiar phone number. And that panicked moment when my brain said run and yet my heart knew that this pivotal moment might never happen again. Then the pause, and then a long press of the button, and, as it rings, practicing the words that seem so hard to get out. Words that, in essence, will say, “I can’t go on. Help me. Love me. Don’t leave me.”

In that moment, admitting to him that I was not okay was hard for me to do. I wanted to be strong for him. I wanted to shoulder the weight of life together and to be the best partner in marriage and life that I could be. But as hard as it was for me to admit that I was not okay, I realized much later that it was just as hard for him to hear. A few years later, after the worst of my depression had lifted, he would share with me that he was so caught up in taking care of everyone else that somehow he missed caring for the most important person in his life. My phone call that day shook him to his core, and he realized that much of the weight I was bearing was a result of him allowing it to rest on my shoulders. Guilt weighed heavy on him for years as I bore the brunt of, in his words, “what he had done to me and allowed to be put upon me.”

Breaking into the silence I continued shakily, “Honey, I realize this is not what you signed up for. When you married me and asked me to serve beside you in ministry, I was all in, but now I can’t go on anymore. So, if that means you need to walk away from our marriage then, okay. I get it. I failed. I failed you, and I failed God. It’s okay. I would completely understand. I’m sure you could find a better wife.”

And I waited. Waited with bated breath. Certain of his next words. In all honesty, I was fully prepared for him to walk away because, in my overwhelmed heart, my brain could only fathom one answer from him. The answer I felt I deserved for what I saw as my complete failure as a wife, mother, and ministry partner. And, in the waiting, I heard him catch his breath. Then he simply uttered these four words: “Babe, I’m coming home.”

And in that moment, as he spoke those words, it was as if I could finally exhale all the doubt, pain, shame, and failure I felt. I could finally let go of everything on my plate and just be. He was voluntarily choosing to stay, and in that moment, it was as if God whispered, “I’m not going anywhere either.”