I would hope that the costs of leaving a congregation based ministry would be obvious to all. The short list is: love, people, love, and thinking about really important things every single day.
There are benefits, however. (Ministers might want to stop reading here and go back to their copies of Augustine's Confessions and ironing their khakis with Gregorian chants playing in the background. If you choose to read on, don't say I didn't warn you.)
1) When you leave they throw you an amazing party and give you thoughtful gifts and make you feel like you should not leave. Oh, wait. That was going along pretty well before the end there.
2)I can truly wear whatever I want. The biggest shock to my former congregation would probably be that I was holding back on the clothing thing. Today I wore white, black, maroon, pink, silver, and purple and was happy happy. My custom made Converse they gave me are a STAPLE of my wardrobe and possibly my favorite shoes ever.
3)I am returning to my "I will listen to whatever I want and read whatever I want" self. I have read: Housekeeping vs. The Dirt by Nick Hornby, At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances by Alexander McCall Smith, The Sweet Potato Queens' Book of Love by some crazy woman, and have started not 1, not 2, but 3 others.
As for music I have recently downloaded the new Delbert McClinton, Band of Skulls, Bex Marshall, Cage the Elephant, and Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears. Almost none of it would work in a worship service. Not even one of mine.
4) If you are miserable with grief, but not ministering to a congregation, you are not required to get up before hundreds of people and talk about really deep things that only make you hurt more. And you don't feel guilty when people ask "How are you?" and you lie lie lie.
5) People say outrageous things. People hold back on the outrageous around the minister. I blushed half a dozen times today just on what I overheard because no one knew a minister was in the room. Not kidding - I blushed so much it was starting to hurt. WOW!
5b) People curse alot more than I ever imagined. And more cleverly.
6) I have had dinner with my children every night for at least two weeks.
7) My husband and I go to bed and wake up at the same time.
8) My cleavage tattoo is almost healed and is stunning.
(Hee hee. Because my mother is alive, healthy as a horse, and taller than I am I must admit that I am lying on #8 or risk never getting fed her amazing shrimp and grits again.)
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Now What?
What do you do after beginning what is scheduled to be a 2 year sabaatical and ending the worst 10 days of memory?
Start a scrapbook? Knit? Watch a Spongebob marathon?
I don't know what to do. My kids, parents and I spent 9 days in Florida and travelling after hearing of my aunt's suicide. I performed the funeral, technically memorial service. We are now home. I have what I used to counsel people as "alien syndrome."
Alien syndrome comes as the aftermath of any major emotional event. You return to "normal" life and nothing is normal. You cry and laugh at the wrong times. You can't get on a normal schedule. In my case, I am having a hard time digesting and breathing. Any time anyone asks about last week my stomach starts to roil and churn. If I start talking, I begin to feel like I'm having an asthma attack. Writing this is unpleasant, so I'm going to move on.
I have been talking to myself.
The Rev. Me says, "Don't rush. Don't push. Don't commit to anything on a schedule. Don't do retail therapy. But go ahead and buy more Tums."
The Niece Me says, "AHHHHHHHHHCHCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The Rev. Me says, "That is a perfectly healthy reaction."
The Niece Me says, "Shut up, you holier than thou, know-it-all, snot weed!"
The Rev. Me says, "Anger is an appropriate..."
The Niece Me interrupts, "Get me TUMS NOW!"
These have not been productive discussions.
The Rev. Me is calm that this is all going the way grief goes, particularly in the almost immeasurable grief of suicide. The Rev. Me understands that the pressure of having to do the service was immense and I was not allowed to grieve fully, nor experience healing through the service. The Rev. Me feels that blogging about grief after losing a loved one to suicide is healthy and removes some of the stigma for others.
The Niece Me just wants to be alone. No, with the kids. No, walk with the dogs. Wait. Let me try to eat. No, that did not work. Listen to the Rev. Me. No, she's an idiot. Talk to people. No! Don't talk. Take pottery lessons. No, drawing! No, go to bed.
"This is healthy, Niece!"
"Shove a sock in it, Rev."
Start a scrapbook? Knit? Watch a Spongebob marathon?
I don't know what to do. My kids, parents and I spent 9 days in Florida and travelling after hearing of my aunt's suicide. I performed the funeral, technically memorial service. We are now home. I have what I used to counsel people as "alien syndrome."
Alien syndrome comes as the aftermath of any major emotional event. You return to "normal" life and nothing is normal. You cry and laugh at the wrong times. You can't get on a normal schedule. In my case, I am having a hard time digesting and breathing. Any time anyone asks about last week my stomach starts to roil and churn. If I start talking, I begin to feel like I'm having an asthma attack. Writing this is unpleasant, so I'm going to move on.
I have been talking to myself.
The Rev. Me says, "Don't rush. Don't push. Don't commit to anything on a schedule. Don't do retail therapy. But go ahead and buy more Tums."
The Niece Me says, "AHHHHHHHHHCHCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The Rev. Me says, "That is a perfectly healthy reaction."
The Niece Me says, "Shut up, you holier than thou, know-it-all, snot weed!"
The Rev. Me says, "Anger is an appropriate..."
The Niece Me interrupts, "Get me TUMS NOW!"
These have not been productive discussions.
The Rev. Me is calm that this is all going the way grief goes, particularly in the almost immeasurable grief of suicide. The Rev. Me understands that the pressure of having to do the service was immense and I was not allowed to grieve fully, nor experience healing through the service. The Rev. Me feels that blogging about grief after losing a loved one to suicide is healthy and removes some of the stigma for others.
The Niece Me just wants to be alone. No, with the kids. No, walk with the dogs. Wait. Let me try to eat. No, that did not work. Listen to the Rev. Me. No, she's an idiot. Talk to people. No! Don't talk. Take pottery lessons. No, drawing! No, go to bed.
"This is healthy, Niece!"
"Shove a sock in it, Rev."
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Huge and Monumental vs Small and Fecal
Don't sweat the little shit.
I think I get to say things like that now that I am not a regular fixture in a pulpit. Not that I don't know dozens of ministers, priests, and rabbis who say that sort of thing on a daily basis. Nor do I know that I really get to say it now. But that nuance is some of the little shit I decided not to sweat today.
But if I had a nice roadside sign for my backyard wedding chapel that I have yet to build, it would read in fine Roman stencilling: Don't sweat the little shit.
I had 4 days off. 4 days of the rest of my life. On day 5, I was playing in my bed with the children at a luxuriously late hour, like 10. I had some nice plans for the day before I pulled my evening shift in training at a part-time job. (I'm lying on that "plans" part. I don't know what I was planning. I think I was trying to figure out how to get pizza delivery brought to me and the kids in bed.)
My mother called. She didn't invite us to swim or ask what we were doing. She did not say hello. My mother told me that her youngest sister was dead and we did not know why. I called my cousin, her son. I found out why she was dead. She had chosen, maybe accidentally maybe not, to be dead.
Five hours later there were five of us in a car to Florida in August. At some point I thought that we were the ones who had died and that post mortem reckoning had gone unexpectedly poorly. After 6 days of this, I am still not completely sure that is not the case. But eternity in Florida is no more than the usual little shit. I may be sweating, but I ain't sweating it.
My uncle is grieving in such a way that it is painful to be with him.
Meanwhile, my aunt kept a beautiful home, but not the best organized place. How dare she? My house is neither beautiful nor organized. This is why I plan to live until I am 115 because it will take me that long to clean it up.
My large extended family, many of whom I am meeting for the first time, is grieving.
I am grieving.
But I am not sweating any of that. That all has become little shit.
Why would I say such a ludicrous thing? How can I be so dismissive? What on earth would make me consider these huge, monumental issues small and fecal?
Because I am doing the funeral. I am presiding over my aunt's funeral. After she took her own life. No one will agree to speak. No one will stand with me. My uncle doesn't want anyone else.
Excuse me while I go hyperventilate.
But I am NOT sweating the little shit.
I think I get to say things like that now that I am not a regular fixture in a pulpit. Not that I don't know dozens of ministers, priests, and rabbis who say that sort of thing on a daily basis. Nor do I know that I really get to say it now. But that nuance is some of the little shit I decided not to sweat today.
But if I had a nice roadside sign for my backyard wedding chapel that I have yet to build, it would read in fine Roman stencilling: Don't sweat the little shit.
I had 4 days off. 4 days of the rest of my life. On day 5, I was playing in my bed with the children at a luxuriously late hour, like 10. I had some nice plans for the day before I pulled my evening shift in training at a part-time job. (I'm lying on that "plans" part. I don't know what I was planning. I think I was trying to figure out how to get pizza delivery brought to me and the kids in bed.)
My mother called. She didn't invite us to swim or ask what we were doing. She did not say hello. My mother told me that her youngest sister was dead and we did not know why. I called my cousin, her son. I found out why she was dead. She had chosen, maybe accidentally maybe not, to be dead.
Five hours later there were five of us in a car to Florida in August. At some point I thought that we were the ones who had died and that post mortem reckoning had gone unexpectedly poorly. After 6 days of this, I am still not completely sure that is not the case. But eternity in Florida is no more than the usual little shit. I may be sweating, but I ain't sweating it.
My uncle is grieving in such a way that it is painful to be with him.
Meanwhile, my aunt kept a beautiful home, but not the best organized place. How dare she? My house is neither beautiful nor organized. This is why I plan to live until I am 115 because it will take me that long to clean it up.
My large extended family, many of whom I am meeting for the first time, is grieving.
I am grieving.
But I am not sweating any of that. That all has become little shit.
Why would I say such a ludicrous thing? How can I be so dismissive? What on earth would make me consider these huge, monumental issues small and fecal?
Because I am doing the funeral. I am presiding over my aunt's funeral. After she took her own life. No one will agree to speak. No one will stand with me. My uncle doesn't want anyone else.
Excuse me while I go hyperventilate.
But I am NOT sweating the little shit.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Or Maybe Not
When leaving a place of employment, subtlety and decorum are your keys to a successful transition. On your last day of work be friendly, kind, and unassuming in your presence. A successful departure from one job will lead to a fruitful beginning at the next. A graceful, quiet last day is the mark of a true professional.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
The First Day of the Rest of Your Life
As Nina Simone so memorably sang,
It's a new dawn.
It's a new day.
It's a new life... for me.
And I'm feeling good.
Well, I'm actually feeling pretty tired. But this is the first day of the rest of my life, so what do you expect?
I worked my last day of my job yesterday. My high profile, high stress job that was full of constant human interaction and rewards that most people can only dream of in their professions. My job that I mostly enjoyed. My job that was how I was defined by many, maybe even how I partly defined myself.(?)
Gone.
Done.
Over.
I am lucky to say in 2009 that I left my job by choice. (Lucky, stupid - I have trouble with my adjectives at times.) I am very lucky to say that I have other work lined up that will pay the bills in the short and long terms. I am working in law enforcement now. I will be working in a law office eventually. I am lucky.
But Nina Simone neglected to mention that the new dawn of the new day in a new life feels mostly quiet and foreign.
And messy. My former office held 10 boxes of books, 5 large boxes of miscellany, 2 pieces of furniture that were mine, a queen sized quilt, roughly 2 dozen pieces of art, and hundreds of files in paper and e forms. Then there was the wardrobe full of work clothes. Those are neither done, nor gone, nor over. They are sitting in my living room. And my car. And a friend's garage.
I have spent the past two months NOT posting to this blog as I decided what to do with it after I left the job that made me take up blogging in the first place. In a sense, it has been sitting in the middle of my living room getting tripped over, too.
If I end the life of this blog, it will be after the living room is clean. Since that will be awhile, and anyone in their right mind would choose cleaning a website over cleaning their real house, I did some redecorating around here. If only to prove to myself that I can still locate my right mind.
It's a new dawn.
It's a new day.
It's a new life... for me.
And I'm feeling good.
Well, I'm actually feeling pretty tired. But this is the first day of the rest of my life, so what do you expect?
I worked my last day of my job yesterday. My high profile, high stress job that was full of constant human interaction and rewards that most people can only dream of in their professions. My job that I mostly enjoyed. My job that was how I was defined by many, maybe even how I partly defined myself.(?)
Gone.
Done.
Over.
I am lucky to say in 2009 that I left my job by choice. (Lucky, stupid - I have trouble with my adjectives at times.) I am very lucky to say that I have other work lined up that will pay the bills in the short and long terms. I am working in law enforcement now. I will be working in a law office eventually. I am lucky.
But Nina Simone neglected to mention that the new dawn of the new day in a new life feels mostly quiet and foreign.
And messy. My former office held 10 boxes of books, 5 large boxes of miscellany, 2 pieces of furniture that were mine, a queen sized quilt, roughly 2 dozen pieces of art, and hundreds of files in paper and e forms. Then there was the wardrobe full of work clothes. Those are neither done, nor gone, nor over. They are sitting in my living room. And my car. And a friend's garage.
I have spent the past two months NOT posting to this blog as I decided what to do with it after I left the job that made me take up blogging in the first place. In a sense, it has been sitting in the middle of my living room getting tripped over, too.
If I end the life of this blog, it will be after the living room is clean. Since that will be awhile, and anyone in their right mind would choose cleaning a website over cleaning their real house, I did some redecorating around here. If only to prove to myself that I can still locate my right mind.
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