Rest for the Weary: What the Hobbits Understood

Anyone who has been on a journey has a story to tell, and this is the story of my journey through depression.

In the Fall of 2007, I was 33 years old and entering into my tenth year of full-time pastoral ministry. I was doing what I had wanted to do since I was 17, and what I went to college and graduate school to be trained to do. The years of ministry had been a wonderful adventurous learning experience, and I was grateful for every day of it. My family life was enjoyable with my lovely wife and two daughters. Nevertheless,

I was shutting down.

I was beginning to experience what I can only describe as a dullness of spirit-- I was losing interest in the things I used to love doing, I was avoiding people I used to enjoy, and I had a constant sinking feeling within me-- the way it feels when you've been through something really sad and you are on the verge of tears and then you break down and cry, which is something I was doing regularly though no one else knew.

I never felt suicidal. Not even close. I didn't stay in bed with the shades pulled down until I looked like the uni-bomber. I didn't rebel against God, drop out of church, or start fighting with my wife.

In fact, quite the opposite.

I was in the best physical shape of my life-- I exercised daily, had a 31 inch waist, weighed an even 150 pounds, and celebrated my solid blood pressure and obsessively healthy eating habits. I worked hard at this.

I was getting up early every day, spending extensive amounts of time reading the Scriptures, praying, and pastoring a church where we celebrate communion weekly. I worked hard at this.

Shelley and I were getting along just fine. We regularly had intimate evenings, seldom argued, and I took Carly to school everyday, making her one of the only kids at her school whose dad did this on a consistent basis. I worked hard at this.

Our finances were healthy. No debt, and we lived in a home we spent a lot of time beautifying. I worked hard at this.

But I was shutting down. Feeling bad and getting worse.

What was happening to me?

The odd thing about it is that I didn't even consider the fact that it might be depression. I didn't know what it was. I just knew I was feeling a way that I couldn't explain, and so I didn't. I was perplexed though, because people who are working this hard at doing the right things-- godly and honorable things-- cannot and should not get depressed.

So I thought.

Then I happened upon these words by author and fellow pastor Steve Brown:

"The reason we're so bad is that we're trying so hard to be good. . . The only way you will ever get better is by believing that you don't have to. . . That's how I got better. . . I'm still not good, but I'm better than I was."

As if this were not enough to jolt me into reality, I happened to hear a classic rock song by the band America, which contained these words:

"Well I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed. . .
Well I've tried to fake it, I don't mind sayin', I just can't make it."


That did it.

I decided to stop trying so hard.

I decided to stop faking it.

I decided to come to terms with the fact that I was depressed and needed to get help.

Guess what, my wife already knew.

And thus began the process of healing, and the amazing experience of being free to tell people what I was feeling.

I went to a pastor's gathering with several friends of mine who are in the ministry. I mentioned to the guys at lunch that I think I might be struggling with depression. To my surprise, they all smiled, and one of them looked around the table and asked, "Are any of us at this table not in counseling or an an anti-depressant?" No one raised their hand. Instead, they hugged me and my friend Chris said, "You're not alone in this. And it's okay to get help."

I started to wonder if perhaps "being a good witness for Christ" (the odd cliche' that continues to reverberate throughout the halls of Christendom), did not mean what I had been led to believe for so many years. Could it be that it's not about being strong, setting a stellar moral example, being a better person who tried hard and spent a lot of time talking about what to do and what not to do? Could it be that it's simply about being transparent, honest, and willing to say to struggling people the two words that Anne Lamott calls the most powerful sermon anyone could ever preach: "ME TOO"?

That sounds too easy. If only Jesus had said "My yoke is easy and my burden is light".


I decided to go to a trusted counselor who specializes in ministerial problems. He listened to me and he said, "Dale, you have to stop. Now. It's okay to take a break, to stop trying so hard to be successful. Ask your leader for a sabbatical, which is standard in most denominations. In fact, even if you weren't depressed you are past due for one."

I then went to my family doctor. He listened to me and looked into my eyes and said, "Dale, I have been there. It's depression. Whether you realize it or not our culture and our churches put an enormous amount of pressure upon us to be a better parent, more successful in your career, and better looking than the next person. We begin to subtly live by that philosophy and we wonder why our country has the highest rate of depression of any country in the world."

I then met with each of my leaders, and my two staff members are gems, told my story, and asked for a sabbatical. They didn't hesitate to grant it. Not for a second. They gave me 15 weeks off, starting on Memorial Day which was just a few short months away, the time needed to get get things in place to cover my duties while away. These leaders of mine never even questioned whether or not they would continue to pay me during my time of rest. This humbled me, and made me feel loved and accepted. It was almost as if they operated under some strange belief that the Bible describes grace as Jesus generously crediting rest into the accounts of weary sinners and promising to continue giving it even though the weary would not have to work to earn it, and that this strange belief was not simply a spiritual thing that was separate from other areas of life but should extend to our dealings with other people as well. Imagine if the Bible taught such a thing. That would have to fall into the category of good news, which in biblical Greek is the word Gospel.

But, I digress.

My leaders were amazing, overwhelmingly understanding and supportive. They displayed compassion that humbled me and made me ask myself if I would have been as gracious if I had been in their shoes. I still wonder that.

We announced it to the congregation, and with the exception of a few of the usual suspects, the folks of New Life Church were overwhelmingly supportive, understanding, and loving.

I stopped trying so hard. I stopped basing my identity on whether or not my church would ever be big, and I stopped doing many of the things I was doing that a pastor shouldn't be doing anyway: running the church, trying to be every single person's best friend, not resting until I visited everyone, returned every email, refuted every disgruntled person who threatened to leave if we didn't get a better youth ministry than the church their friends attended. Instead, I started to pray in fits and starts, spend more time on sermons, and enjoyed leisurely being with people in my church and community-- listening to them, going to Starbucks with them, and loving them without an agenda, without pressuring them to do more in the church, without asking why their attendance is not as consistent as I would like, without getting mad because not everyone agreed with me about everything. I started to enjoy people again, began to fall more deeply in love with my church, and started to feel twinges of missing them when I thought about being away from them for 15 weeks. I started taking a mild anti-depressant too. I kept exercising and eating healthy, but if I missed a few days of working out, or decided to splurge and have pizza and ice cream one night, I didn't feel guilty. I spent more time with Shelley and the girls, with my brother, sister, parents, and grandmother.

You know what? I started to get better. And to my surprise, the church even started to grow a little more. Even though I was no longer trying to be the Messiah of the church.

It is now one year later. I do not live in a constant state of ecstatic jubilation (which is abnormal anyway). I still get discouraged, worried, and exhausted from working too much. But I assure you this much is true: I'm better than I was.

Steve Brown was right, so was Sister Golden Hair, my pastor friends, my counselor, my doctor, my wife, my leaders, my staff, my siblings, and the message of Jesus:

Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.


In Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Ring, he describes the powerful transforming influence that the land of Rivendell had on the hobbits when they went there to rest in the midst of a dark and trying time:

"For awhile the hobbits continued to talk and think of the past journey and of the perils that lay ahead; but such was the virtue of the land of Rivendell that soon all fear and anxiety was lifted from their minds. The future, good or ill, was not forgotten, but ceased to have any power over the present. Health and hope grew strong in them, and they were content with each good day as it came, taking pleasure in every meal, and in every word and song."

My family, friends, my wonderful church, and all whom God mysteriously uses in my life, are my Rivendell.

If you're reading this and are starting to think perhaps you have the seedlings of depression, don't follow my example. Instead, learn from the Hobbits. They were smarter than I'll ever be. Find your Rivendell-- a safe place to rest, tell your secrets, and take pleasure in every meal, word, and song. And stop trying so hard. Believe me, you'll get better.