But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope; the steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great it’s your faithfulness. — Lamentations 3:21-23 The days after my panic attack last week felt like the aftershock of an earthquake. The debilitating exhaustion from every nerve ending in my body being activated -- as the toxic cortisol that had been real eased into my system flushed from my veins and returned to the depths from which it came -- felt worse than the panic itself. Maybe this sounds melodramatic, but I wondered if I would ever feel whole and well again. I returned to work for a day, but just went through the motions and left early. I took the rest of the week off because I just couldn’t get into the right mind/body/spirit (as if these things aren’t impossibly and inseparably intertwined) to be present in the way my work requires. No one wants/needs a chaplain who is phoning it in — someone just trying to fill his lungs with another breath and stay awake — to care for them in crisis. At least, I assume this is true. Regardless, I took the next few days off to rest and recover and rediscover myself. I’m in a much better place now. I spent the weekend with friends, playing music and sharing stories… talking openly about grief and loss and struggle and God’s presence amid it all.
The Aftershock is Worse than the Earthquake
The Aftershock is Worse than the Earthquake
The Aftershock is Worse than the Earthquake
But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope; the steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great it’s your faithfulness. — Lamentations 3:21-23 The days after my panic attack last week felt like the aftershock of an earthquake. The debilitating exhaustion from every nerve ending in my body being activated -- as the toxic cortisol that had been real eased into my system flushed from my veins and returned to the depths from which it came -- felt worse than the panic itself. Maybe this sounds melodramatic, but I wondered if I would ever feel whole and well again. I returned to work for a day, but just went through the motions and left early. I took the rest of the week off because I just couldn’t get into the right mind/body/spirit (as if these things aren’t impossibly and inseparably intertwined) to be present in the way my work requires. No one wants/needs a chaplain who is phoning it in — someone just trying to fill his lungs with another breath and stay awake — to care for them in crisis. At least, I assume this is true. Regardless, I took the next few days off to rest and recover and rediscover myself. I’m in a much better place now. I spent the weekend with friends, playing music and sharing stories… talking openly about grief and loss and struggle and God’s presence amid it all.