I am the single father of a son, Casey, then 10, who was in the car when his little sister, Maya, then 6, was killed in a car crash. 

I was, at the time, in Florida, serving a church as their pastor. For 16 years now, I have been serving as pastor of the Congregational Church of Patchogue on Long Island, New York.

I thought, in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy, that I could work-through my problems. I thought I should model faith, courage, and strength in adversity for the church and our extended family and community. 

I did not think much about how I might be working to avoid my feelings of anger, defeat, loneliness, and despair. I did not think about how I might be fending off feelings of powerlessness, meaninglessness, and utter lack of control. 

Neither I, nor my church, had the foresight or wisdom to take away my office keys, and to demand that I stop working and just grieve, rest, play, pray, and whatever else might be necessary to heal. 

Instead, I worked. And worked. And tried to meet the needs of others in a time of my own profoundly unmet needs.  

Seven years after the crash that took one child but spared the other, the Lilly Endowment Clergy Renewal program – not one person of which I had ever met – recognized my needs and their ability to help. They awarded me and my church a grant for a sabbatical that took my son and I to Germany and to South Africa. They paid all the church’s expenses to replace me during my two month absence. 

It was difficult for me to avoid turning the renewal grant into a “research” grant about the holocaust and Berlin Wall in Germany, and apartheid in South Africa. But research was not the goal. Renewal was the goal. Play was an important tool. Joy would be a glorious possible outcome!

My son and I did visit Dachau, the Berlin Wall, and the sites of horror in Munich. But we also visited the zoo, mountains, churches, museums and festivals of Germany. We saw the atonement and the renewal. 

In South Africa, we went to Soweto and other villages and towns that, under apartheid and to this day, languish under poverty and corruption. We visited sites of Nelson Mandela’s trials and imprisonment. And we went to Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s beauy  church in Cape Town. We also went on two safaris near Johannesburg. 

Rest and renewal need not mean “vegging-out” or running away. Sabbatical taught me about self-care, balance, and timing. It taught me how I can parent my son, but not the world. It taught me to not always DO something, but to sometimes just sit there.

My daughter, Maya, is still 6 years old in our last memories of her earthly life. My son, Casey, is now 28 and doing well. Their older sister, Celeste, is doing well with her husband and their three children in San Francisco. I am now 73, have been living alone for many years, and am still here in New York. Doing fine.  

I am still a pastor; still a writer; still trying (with questionable results) to repair the breach of the world. At least I manage to keep the sidewalk in front of my life swept and clean. 

I am in many ways younger now than I was then. And though I still need to be very intentional about it, I am intent on being rested, renewed, and restored. I am more than a composite of my experiences. Casey is more than what he has survived. Maya is more than the way she died. And Celeste does not need to be the parent of her father or little brother.

This Sunday, February 18th, is the anniversary of Maya’s death. I am going to Florida to visit, wash, and adorn her grave with tears and flowers. I will take the same water with which I wash her grave to wash my face. I will drink some of the water to quench my sometimes parched soul. And I will empty myself to make room for sweet memories and sweeter possibilities. 

I will take a sabbatical from my mind, a journey to the center of my soul, and  a pilgrimage to the God within and beyond me.

God loves company. Thank you, God, for welcoming Maya home. And thank you that I have a standing invitation to a seat at your table, where our plate is never empty, and our cup is always filled.  

 -Dwight Lee Wolter is the author of “The Gospel of Loneliness” (Pilgrim Press) and many other books.