.By Dan Hyun

It felt like drifting into a dream that took a sharp, scary turn. Memories of riding an inner tube, enjoying the gentle bobbing along the waves, only to suddenly realize the shore was now distant and the voices of the busy beach had grown faint. The tide drowned out my desperate efforts to paddle back. I still remember the fear rising like a knot in my chest as I helplessly floated out into deeper waters.

That imprinted emotions from that memory may be the best description of how I felt during one of the darkest seasons of life, centered around the time of my resignation from the church I helped start.

It was the low point of a couple horrible years that started with our family’s medical trauma. My younger brother and then my daughter were both diagnosed with leukemia within a few months. Though we’re grateful that they are now doing well, their diagnoses at the time only added to the grueling time we found ourselves in. On top of walking through the cancer journey, our church was going through a difficult season.

Some ministry initiatives launched with high hopes didn’t turn out well, and we waded through the messy fallout. We also walked through some complicated relational issues among leaders of our church, much of it connected in some way with me.

I always prided myself on my high capacity. I’m sure I even justified it with Kingdom language. So while pastoring our church, I also worked for a church planting organization, in addition to other growing external ministry opportunities. But the weight of my family’s medical journey, on top of everything else in life, forced me to recognize that I was living beyond my limits in unsustainable ways.

By the time I announced my resignation at the church, I had been sitting in a prolonged darkness of my soul. As someone accustomed to life feeling dark amid depression, I don’t say this lightly, but I had never experienced anything like this.

I broke. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Relationally. Spiritually. It didn’t happen overnight, but I broke, and I didn’t think this brokenness could be fixed. Like that kid floating into danger, I felt thrown around by waves, helpless to do anything to make things better.

Some of the pain I embodied was the hurt I felt from not being cared for by our church when I most desperately needed it. With the clarity of hindsight, I can recognize that many genuinely did care but may not have known how to best express it. I felt misunderstood and discouraged when it seemed like there weren’t too many who tried to understand.

Much of my pain was from my own guilt. Sleepless nights replaying scenarios I wished I handled differently. Regret at things I said or left unsaid. A guilt of feeling powerless to fix the broken things. Guilt that I did not do better.

I also felt the crushing burden of shame. Objectively, I don’t know if the church was in that dire of a place. In my mind, it sure felt like it, especially compared to where we once were. The shame of failure stared back at me every morning in the mirror.

It all felt so sad. The place that had provided such joy was now the same place that brought such deep grief.

When I resigned, part of me wanted to leave right then. I felt I had nothing left to give. But I felt God gently inviting me to stay to do whatever I could to help the church transition to its next season. So I made the commitment to serve as a transitional pastor until we found our next pastor.

I didn’t think it would take two years.

Some of those days were really hard. Standing in the pulpit when doing so felt like torture, triggering all sorts of complicated emotions. Choosing to be present when I wanted to hide.

The amazing thing? God was still working. The church grew healthier. It turns out that some of our dysfunction was the catalyst needed to build better structures and systems. In God’s providence, my very limited role cultivated a much deeper sense of shared ownership in the church.

And the pulpit, which had felt like a seat of shame, became a place where we experienced God moving profoundly. Even when I had nothing to give, God kept demonstrating his power to bring gospel transformation.

By the time we found our new pastor, the church was the healthiest it had ever been. It was a joy to welcome the new pastor into a healthy church. And by God’s grace, the church has done well over the past year. Our family has even been able to remain as members of the community.

A little over a year ago, our church honored my time as founding and lead pastor. It was a sweet and emotional gathering with lots of wonderful stories detailing God’s faithfulness. I was genuinely touched, and as I got up to close the event, I debated whether I should share what was on my mind.

I conveyed my gratitude. But I shared that it all reminded me how hard the past few years had been and that I should have left the church five years ago.

What I meant was that in my perspective, five years ago was the summit, for both the church and for me. Things were moving in an upward trajectory of growth. We were even gaining external recognition for our story. However, the years following felt like a long trail of broken pieces to pick up as sad reminders of how good things once were.

(You can imagine that brought the room down a little bit.)

But I was also able to share how glad I am that God kept me at the church. As hard as it’s been, the undeniable reality is that I am much better than I was five years ago. I’m definitely a better husband and father. I am also a much better pastor and leader. I don’t take it lightly when more than a few people have shared with me how I am much more gentle and patient than I ever was.

Not in spite of the brokenness but through it. It’s the fruit of experiencing the God I’ve loved for so long but in profoundly deeper ways.

God didn’t just want to restore his church; He also wanted to restore me. Not just to heal me, which he has, but to also sanctify me in holiness. Marked with scars but persevering in the way of Christ.

Shadows of grief still surface, even when I think about some of the best things that have happened. It’s the mystery of this faith — that we can be thankful and sad, often in the same moment about the same thing, trusting that He is to be found at the center of it all.

You don’t have to walk alone in this journey! Visit our website to see resources available to pastors, pastors’ wives, and more. You are also welcome to email Dan Hyun. 

Dan Hyun serves as BCMD Director of Formation & Health.

This article was originally posted at SOLA Network and is used with permission.