The Ones We Love
Familiar Echoes: My father's footsteps
Being young, a woman, and a pastor is something of an enigma to most people. When someone asks me what I do, my response always redirects the conversation. It usually evokes a self-conscious, I-hope-I-haven’t-said-anything-offensive-in-her-presence response first. Then, interest is piqued. A pastor? But you’re so young! And you’re a woman! I often yearn for a more neutral or at least a less exotic profession, but my species is so unique. Most times, I find that people want to understand: she seems normal enough. How did she come up with the idea to be a pastor?
And so, the topic of “what I do for a living” always prompts more investigation. The questions begin, as my conversation partner attempts to unravel the mystery. The first stop: “Oh, you’re a pastor! Is your husband in the ministry, too?” It would somehow be understandable if this were a family affair – a husband and wife pastor team. Putting aside my indignation that I have never overheard a male colleague being asked whether his wife is also in ministry, I add to the puzzle when I answer that my husband works in construction management.
Like Mother...
Dear Mom,
Happy Mother's Day! Last night, while Simon and I wandered through our local mall, I wondered what I would give you as a token of my thanks this year. On and off I have debated making you a pair of the fingerless gloves you asked for at Christmas, but I just couldn't convince myself that fingerless gloves were a good gift idea in May. (For the record, I have the yarn, a perfect non-scratchy cotton and wool blend in a beautiful blue. The gloves are on their way, just not on this occasion.)
Each year on Mother's Day, I do my best to thank you. Usually the thanksgiving is for all of the extraordinarily ordinary things you have done for your children. Considering that we are all, as Dad puts it, "successfully launched" as young adults with careers, homes, and bank accounts that are mostly independent of you, I think that you and he both have a right to be proud. Guiding three children in their journey through adolescence into young adulthood is no small feat. This year, though, I have a different thanksgiving to share.
Never Not the Minister
A few weeks ago, my better half ended up in the hospital for four days. His appendix burst in the middle of the night, and, as he is prone to doing, he was being tough. All of this resulted in the fact that we didn’t really get him to the hospital as quickly as we should have. Still, it all worked out as well as could reasonably be expected. They got him into surgery, fixed him up, and sent him home as quickly as they could, given the moderate risk of infection with a burst appendix.
It was scary and stressful, and I’m still not over the shock of realizing he and I might not be invincible after all. It was also the first time that I have been on the receiving end of my congregation’s big-hearted approach to pastoral care. I’m still reeling over how strange and wonderful that felt.
Love Thy Neighbor
My seminary boyfriend broke up with me just a few days before I was supposed to go house-hunting. It was my senior year, and I had just accepted an exciting new call as an assistant rector. A girlfriend of mine named Mary peeled me off the floor of my dorm room and insisted on driving me to look for houses in this town in which I had never visited, much less lived. Moving away from all that I knew felt terrifying. Mary metaphorically held my hand while we visited apartment after apartment, until I found "the one." The townhouse was brand new, painted a cheerful cream, in a somewhat Pleasantville-like neighborhood. Mine was a sweet two-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath, with a rent in the outer limits of what I could afford.
Love the One You’re With (Er… Yourself)
After services one Sunday, I walked into the sacristy to thank the altar guild for their work. The acting altar guild chair said those words we all long to hear: "Are you tired? Because you look really tired." I was, in fact, really tired. I hadn't taken a day off in nearly a month.
I hadn't meant to not take a day off. It just happened. What with a diocesan convention here, a religious arts festival there, some pastoral care emergencies, Lenten planning, and of course, the weekly parade of bulletins, committee meetings, and sermons, it had just been easier to keep going. For me, taking time off sometimes feels like one more thing on the never-ending to-do list.
Mom, Please Stop Vacuuming the Red Carpet
I am a bit of a curiosity in town. I know this, and if I go out wearing the collar, I now expect it: cordial smiles from the nuns and nurses at the Catholic retirement home, curious stares from many people, trying to figure out if I should be called "Father" or "Sister" or something else entirely, nods of bewildered greeting from all manner of people on the street, from policeman to punk rocker wanna-be. All in all, it's usually a much more positive reaction than I would get in some other regions of the country and the world. And it's not so bad, most of the time.
But what I didn't expect is what happened to my parents on the other side of the country. In my hometown, they have become minor celebrities.
Because nobody else has a pastor for a daughter.
Picking the Sick Puppy
My husband is ambi-pet-trous, but I am a dog person. He can admire and enjoy a cat’s company, but I remain suspect that cats are secretly judging me and planning to overthrow my domestic rule at any moment. Also, they make me sneeze. I want a pet that will be slavishly loyal, that will greet me with wild enthusiasm when I come home and will gaze at me sympathetically when pastoral weights hang from my limbs. I want a dog. And, because my husband likes dogs as much as I do, to celebrate six months of marriage, we began earnestly searching for "the one".
It's Not Too Late to Designate
Picture, if you will, a group of buddies preparing to go out and raise a glass to celebrate the holiday of your choice. One of the more responsible friends asks, “So, who's going to be the designated driver?” And then...silence sweeps away the talking and laughter as each person looks at the others, trying to decide whose turn it is to take on this necessary holiday role.
Flip to a scene of Thanksgiving or Christmas festivities with family and friends gathered around, laughing and joking, preparing to finally chow down on turkey and stuffing and pie, until one lone person raises the question: “So, who's going to say grace?” And the entire room falls silent in an attempt to de-volunteer. Another holiday role emerges, less public but just as valuable: the designated pray-er.
Better Together
When I began seminary, my husband was finishing, so the question du jour was, “Would you ever work together?” To which I responded with a resounding, “NO!” We’re too competitive, too insecure, I’d say. It would never work.
But as I moved through school and into my first call, and he settled in first one parish and then another, we began to see how our gifts for ministry could work together--how we could complement each other instead of compete. Our own personal styles developed and emerged, and perhaps most importantly we began to add a new dimension to our relationship: we began to respect one another as a pastor.
A Whole Person
Last night as we lay in bed, my husband Simon, who is a student at the college where I am the chaplain, mentioned that a fellow classmate had asked to “friend” him on Facebook. He asked what I thought he should do, so we began a conversation about his options and how he might handle the situation, knowing that there wasn’t really a perfect answer.
“There are consequences if I choose not to friend her, if I choose to friend her while locking her out of all the personal portions of my page, or if I choose to leave it all wide open,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure I don’t want her to see the pictures from the last time we went clubbing or the ones of me in the wedding dress at my stag do.”
