Moms in Ministry
Review: Clergy Moms
Do not be fooled by its cover—a whimsical cartoon of a woman in full Episcopal clergy garb juggling a chalice and a baby as she walks a tightrope between her home and her church—Clergy Moms: A Survival Guide to Balancing Family and Congregations—is anything but whimsical. However, Clergy Moms is also not really a survival guide—only 21 pages are devoted to actual practical advice. In fact, Clergy Moms is not even exclusively about clergy moms, but addresses all members of kinds of clergy families--"traditional" clergy wives, male clergy spouses, and same-sex clergy families.
Being spoiled
Standing at the front of the sanctuary, feeling the Spirit, ready to do the benediction, a shriek rings out from among the congregation. Only I look to see who it is – because I know the voice. It is my daughter, Eden. At all of a year old, hearing my voice causes her to let out a squeal.
I watch for a moment, distracted, as she tries to wiggle out of the nursery worker’s arms. And then I begin, “Now as you go…” But before I can get to any amount of peace, I notice that is crawling down the aisle, trying to reach me. Unsure what to do, the nursery worker wrestles her to the ground. “May you go in peace,” I continue. Finishing the benediction, I begin to process towards my daughter. Forget the acolyte; forget the lay reader.
Just as I get close enough to hold her, a hand reaches out to grab me. “Pastor,” the older, grouchy woman begins, “you know, we would not care if she crawled down the aisle.”
Clergy Women and Infertility--Breaking the Silence
If I have to read the story of Abraham and Sarah’s miraculous conception of Isaac one more time, I will run screaming out of the pulpit. Because I know what it’s like to want a child. I know what it’s like to try everything under the sun to create one – frankly, if concubines were a legal possibility, I might go for that at this point. I know about barrenness. I do not, yet, know about the laughter which might follow.
I am an infertile pastor. As I write, my husband and I are undergoing fertility treatments, and have been for three and a half years. Thankfully, we have the resources to do this, and for that, I am deeply grateful. But they have not succeeded, yet.
In the meantime, I dread Advent. All those texts about babies showing up where they shouldn’t have: to Elizabeth, who thought she was too old; to Mary, who thought she was too young. And the hearkening back to the others whose barrenness broke their hearts: Sarah and Hannah, my sisters. It is hard to preach these texts. Some days, I dread baptisms; I worry that I cannot hold one more baby at the font and not mix my tears with the baptismal waters. It is hard to keep all of this a secret, but I do, because I cannot quite imagine another way.
There’s Not a Word Yet for Old Friends Who’ve Just Met
Editor's note: This article was originally written in January of 2009.
The tiny people and I are going to Minnesota. I cannot describe to you how excited the boys are. Aunty K, a dear pastor friend of mine, and I planned this trip back in … August? 2005? I'm not sure, but it feels like it's been on the books for millennia. And, considering that it's been planned for a high percentage of my two year old’s lifetime, he's about to blow his top he's so eager to leave.
Back in October, he would look at the clock and say, "It's January o'clock! Time to go to Minnesota!" We finally got him to understand that we weren't leaving until after Christmas. This gave him the distraction of Welcoming the Birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ so as not to get too stir crazy in the meantime. A few awesome presents worked well to defer the hourly questions about when we were boarding the airplane for Minneapolis.
Two parts of a whole
“Does the mommy guilt ever subside long enough to feel good about anything you’re doing?” This was the question that a new mom in my congregation who was returning to work following her all-too-brief maternity leave tearfully asked, and I resonated deeply with her grief, anxiety and, yes, her guilt. It wasn’t that long ago that I had returned to work after ten weeks of maternity leave with my second child. And just because I had done it once before hadn’t made it any easier—if anything it made it more difficult, because now I knew just how quickly the time passes and before you know it they’re not babies any longer.
Elizabeth’s question brought me back to my first day back and the first full day that that my son had been with his babysitter. I got a little more than an hour with him (just barely enough time to nurse him, change his diaper and, oh yeah, get a bite to eat myself) before I had to hop back in the car to fight the rush hour traffic in order to get to a community action. And I cried all the way there, thinking about missing my babies.
Family Business
I asked some pastor friends, “Looking back on your career, what would you do different?”
And one answered, “I would have never been a pastor. If I knew what kind of toll the pastorate was going to have on my sons, I would have never gotten into the job.”
“Really? Then, what would you have become?”
“Anything. A secretary in a law firm. Anything other than this, really.”
Routine
There's nothing more comforting than routine, especially for children. And really... isn't this true for us all? We wake up and expect the newspaper to be in the lawn, double-bagged so that the dew hasn't ruined our morning reading. We start our cars, expecting them to run. We go to work, anticipating the tasks ahead. We eat lunch. We fight taking a nap. We count down the hours, and then leave in our dutiful vehicles, headed to our homes, which should be waiting for us when we arrive. All life inside should have stories to tell and hungry bellies to fill. Dinner is prepared. Sleep comes. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Am I what?
Dear Member of My Congregation,
I wanted to respond to your statement the other day. As I was leaving church on Sunday, you came up to me and said, “You’re trying to get pregnant, right?” At the time I was too shocked to say anything more than, “Um, uh, no, not yet” to you, but upon further reflection I think a longer response is warranted.
Now, I know it is no mystery that I love babies. I grab babies at church every chance I get. Holding one of those warm, wiggly creatures gives me a rush of endorphins unlike anything else. When I first got married, members of the congregation to whom I was close would often joke about whether or not I was pregnant and that felt fine and funny because I had pre-established rapport with them.
Putting the Damage On
Two weeks ago, I preached. The sermon is posted here, and I'm really proud of it. It's possibly my best sermon yet, but it was hard. The text was Genesis 22 (The Akedah - The Binding of Isaac), and the lectionary dumped this text in my lap during one of my fullest weeks in ministry. I had just done the funeral of a friend, which is never easy. I had also done the wedding of some friends only days before. It was a week where I was sure of my calling, but walking around with fear and trembling at the heaviness of my job in all of its fullness.
Sabbath
For the last few weeks, I've been taking Fridays off from taking Fridays off.
By that, I mean that the boys have been staying home with me. There were a lot of reasons behind this, but it mainly stemmed from the fact that I missed them, my time with them, our days together, our camaraderie.
When I first started working at Saint Mark, I had spent the previous 5 months home with both boys on an... unanticipated sabbatical, let's say. It was wonderful, most days, but because of all of the anticipation, worry, anxiety, and uncertainty about the future and what the Board of Ordained Ministry might decide for me, that time was not always pleasant. I was sometimes resentful of folks who got to get up, go to their jobs and live out their vocations.
