One article linked to another, and somehow today I stumbled onto the promo information for the Epic Fail Pastors Conference. I'm going to email and beg them to let me (layperson, spiritual director, wanderer in a denominational no-woman's-land, and perpetual discerner) attend. Go check it out yourself-- I've typed half a dozen different explanations, and can't nail the beauty that I see in this offer of integrity and mutual support.
I cried. I kid you not, I cried. The whole concept still has my heart vibrating with the glory and exhilaration of taking risks, of love and joy and freedom and the adrenaline that rushes when you're elbow deep in whatever it is that YOU DO, and to hell with somebody's metrics for success.
I've been in a rut for the last few months, and I've been... tentative, tepid, circumscribed for longer than that. It's a horrible feeling-- like my self is withering. It's harder the older I get. When I was younger, I didn't have responsibilities to anyone else. Today, there's more pressure to remain a manageable, unobstrusive size (spirit-wise, not pants-wise). Freedom is harder. The risks are bigger.
I'd love to know if the payoffs are, too.
Failure is not nearly as big of a deal as shriveling up.
My prayers this week (and for heaven's sake, please help me out here):
What are yours?
The Calm Before the Accreditation Visit
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