Last Easter I was manic. We went to Anniston First, where I used to be associate pastor. Sporting purple pants and a pink tie. Early in the service I slipped out to the narthex for snacks, coffee, and handshakes with latecomers. A strange freedom, not leading from the front. I joined Heather in the pews near the back. The choir robed, leading hymns. The bells rang, Jason carrying it all. At the end, the Hallelujah chorus. I videoed the service, all the music parts, from the pews. Shared on Facebook.
I had resigned the first week of Lent. That morning we sat the kids down in our living room. The kids cried. Are we leaving the church? We said no. Then I FaceTimed Jason. He was busy teaching but he answered. "I know you're doing this because you feel like you have to," he said. "I'm happy for you, and I'll be praying for you." Took the kids to IHOP.
Before and after the Easter service, everyone was glad to see us. Jason found me and pulled me into a hug. "It's so good to see you, my friend. Happy Easter! I love those pants!"
There was the egg hunt on the church playground. Pics of us with the Easter Bunny, then we headed to my in-laws. Taking selfies with the kids, wearing our neon 80s glasses.
I thought I was fine. Better than fine. Better than ever.
We became too busy for church after that. Sabbath gave in to the farm hustle.
Kids on video games. Me not knowing what to do with myself. We tried once: a song, some verses, a prayer. Didn't keep it up.
The farm sales dried up mid-summer. Farmers markets slow in the heat. Few people want bouquets in the summer. We kept showing up. It got slower and slower. Heather's health was declining. The surgery was finally scheduled after a year of waiting. We started canceling farm events. Credit card bills piling up. Projects slowing down. Letting go staff we'd taken on a month or two earlier.
The thing we dreaded came: I started getting depressed.
I took whatever work came. Painting a deck with my brother-in-law in Jacksonville for a month. Carrying six-by-sixes, twelve feet long.
I made a few feeble attempts to return to church. Folks were kind. "It's good to see you." I told them I had been diagnosed bipolar. That the resignation was done in a manic episode, and the reason we might lose the farm. They hugged me. "I'm sorry, I understand."
I couldn't sing. Played on my phone during the sermon. Deflated. Slipping out the side door just before the service ended to sit in my car while Heather and the kids caught up with friends. Hating myself for resigning while manic. Two decades gone. Friends we'd be leaving soon. Everyone cruising along. Let Heather and the kids go without me for a while.
In the hospital, I jabbed at God in a notebook.
After we moved into the trailer, it was too hard for Heather too. We took the longest break I've ever taken from church.
Then muscle memory kicked in. I started listening again to the Pray As You Go Jesuit podcast on mornings as I walked. The stories didn't land. They still don't always.
The only thing throughout was bedtime prayer with the kids. Lighting a candle, singing "walk in the light, the beautiful light,"
This Easter was our second Sunday visiting Jacksonville First Methodist. I knew this room. I'd led worship here once a week for a year and a half. We sat in the back row. Andy, the pastor, an old friend from my Weaver UMC pastoring days. During the service, he asked if anyone had been invited to help serve communion. No one had. He looked me square in the eye and invited me by name. "I'm going to ask my friend Matt Headley to help me serve communion." I was holding the bulletin. I felt like Mary, shocked to be named. I set it in the pew and walked to the front of the room, next to the communion table.
After months of not attending church at all. After feeling like maybe I had lost my faith. After wondering if resurrection was even possible, let alone beginning.
The cup in my hands, the bread in his. Looking in the eyes of the people who came forward. The words came the way they always had. "The blood of Jesus, shed for you."
After the service Andy walked up to me. Said "Thank you. Sorry I sprung that on you. You're a talented musician and a great pastor." We agreed to get coffee soon.
A friend met me for coffee on Easter week. She has bipolar too. We sat by the window, my request, late morning light in her eyes. The last time we'd seen each other was over a year ago, in the same place, when I was manic. "If you don't mind me wearing my sunglasses while we talk."
She paused.
"Your ministry will be stronger because of what you've been through. Sharing your story can help others and help you. It helped me..."
I had thought that was true — had been told so, felt it after my first recovery. I didn't know if I'd ever return to ministry. "You can be in ministry without working at a church." I knew that. But it was different hearing it from a former parishioner.
This week we started reading Harry Potter with the kids again, like we used to years ago. The Jim Kay illustrated edition. Starting from The Sorcerer's Stone. The kids look at the pictures. Soren reads it now aloud for us. Then we light the candle and sing.
Walk in the Light
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