Throughout my journey of discernment over the past seven years, I have been blessed to have some amazing men and women - mentors, guides, and counselors - placed in my path. Some have taken just a few steps with me, others have walked many miles by my side. As result, my life - my personal walk to Emmaus - has been richly blessed.
Now that I am well into my first semester as an Episcopal seminarian, I have been confronted with something new, a place my path has led me that is far from my comfort zone - vulnerability. For an admitted Type A who lives by lists, deadlines, and the certainty of those things in life of which I can be certain, the feeling of vulnerability, of being exposed and uncertain, is something for which I have no answers. And I would be lying if I said that it didn't scare the hell out of me.
The many hours of study, classwork, tests, exegesis papers, and translation are exciting, challenging, thrilling, and exhausting - and shared by all. Multiple daily opportunities for community worship are strengthening the bonds I'm building with the amazing men and women with whom I am sharing this experience. But despite all of this, of being in the same foxholes and trenches of formation with many other folks, talking about my vulnerability is something that I didn't initially want to do for fear of - you guessed it - making myself even more vulnerable.
My upcoming clinical pastoral education (CPE), a 12-week chaplaincy program next summer required of all seminarians, is something that had struck me particularly hard. My biggest fear grew out of the fact that, because I am such an emotional person, I would not be able to hold my emotions in check. Being in the moment with people when they most need prayers and support is something very important to me - but I'm worried that I will become too deeply involved in those moments of death and grief that many friends have experienced as part of their chaplaincy terms. Hearing stories of comforting husbands who have lost wives and parents who have lost young children moved me to tears - and made me wonder if I could be strong enough to do it.
And in the midst of this struggle, of wondering whether I would be able to keep it together for those who were in the midst of losing everything, I was embraced by my community. I was reminded of the good moments that are just as much a part of CPE as the sorrowful ones. I was reassured that emotion at a moment when others are emotional would be a blessing at those times when those in need are longing to be met in their moment. And I was reminded that I now have a new family that will be with me in my moments of need, of sorrow, of joy.
There have been days recently that have left me exhausted and feeling incomplete, a beaten traveler left on the side of the road to Jericho. It is at those moments that one Samaritan, then another, and still another, pass by and find me laying there - and without hesitation, they stop to bandage my wounds and get me back on my feet.
God knows what He is doing. When I wasn't sure it was me that He was calling to ordination, He knew what He was doing. In my moments of doubt, He knows what He was doing.
And in surrounding me with men and women who understand, who are walking the same three-year path of seminary, and who have been blessed with immeasurable pastoral gifts, He definitely knows what He is doing. My journey to Emmaus continues, carried aloft on the love, prayers, and support of my seminary family.
