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May 15 2017
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Hard Ass Mama

A few years ago, one of my higher-ups insinuated that I would be less qualified for my job once I gave birth.  This person seemed to believe that being a mother would make me less fit to do the work I enjoyed so much.  It broke my heart and made me question my identity.  I spoke with one of my sister clergy, a mother too, and I remember her telling me that I would be a better priest for being a mom.  And not because I’d become more nurturing or motherly–not because I’d offer better pastoral care–but because I’d be a better administrator, better leader, and stronger voice.

I thought back to that conversation last night as I held my inconsolable 7-week old daughter.  She is not a colicky baby.  But she does have the occasional night when she will do nothing but cry for an hour or two.  She won’t take a pacifier or bottle, she won’t nurse, she won’t be rocked or bounced–she’ll just scream in my ear.  All I can do is walk back and forth in her darkened room, sush-ing and patting, walking and walking until there’s a worn path on the rug.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Knowing that she will at some point tire of crying and fall asleep, but I can never tire of loving her.  I may not like it.  I may feel like she’s yelling at me and wearing me down.  But I can wait her out.  I can be stubborn and unrelenting.  I find new strength I didn’t know I had.

And then I remember my colleague’s encouragement, and realize I am indeed becoming a better priest by being a mother.  That these few hours of pacing are teaching me the persistence I need in my profession.  That being a mom has taught me I can carry more than I thought I could.  That I can put up with more than I ever imagined–and what I won’t put up with.  That intuition is a leadership skill that can only be realized or discovered–not taught.

I know a lot of moms who feel like their career–one aspect of their vocation–has to take a back seat while their children are young.  I feel that sometimes too.  And it’s hard because I’ve always been driven and I love my work.  But every once in a while I can see the “professional development” that my children bring me.  It may not be notable on a resume, but it’s meaningful and true.

If in the years to come I am a more persistent prophet, a more valiant lover, a more courageous and thoughtful leader, a wiser authority and a more savvy administrator–you can thank my children.  Because moms aren’t all softness and kisses.  We are hard asses.  And we will do the work.

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Nov 12 2016
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Apocalypse Now

It’s not my habit to write sermons anymore.  I find I get too caught up in how I’ll sound (me-focused), therefore missing out on what the Holy Spirit might be saying (God-focused).  Lots of people can write great sermons and do.  I just find I preach better from a place of vulnerability, and I’m more vulnerable sans script.

But nights like tonight, before mornings like tomorrow, I sometimes question that wisdom.  Here we are, mere days after the most divisive election in my lifetime, and we get to grapple with an apocalyptic text from Luke: Jesus predicting the fall of the temple.  Couple that with Isaiah’s text that God is making a new heaven and new earth.

Of course these texts weren’t chosen in response to the election.  I preached the same text 3 years ago and I’ll preach it again 3 years from now… only every 12 years does this text fall after a presidential election.  And its real purpose is to prepare the way for the season of Advent–the coming of Christ.

Here are some truths about my parish: most will be hugely (not just slightly) heartbroken over the results of Tuesday’s election.  Most.  And yet a significant number will not feel heartache, but relief.  And everyone has to feel welcomed and loved and valued–because they are.  So how to tend to the wounds of the majority without ostracizing the few?  How to preach in light of the election, but not about it?  And how to do all that being true to myself without making it about myself?  The tenderness of the timing almost does require a script of sorts.

Here are some things I want to say–things I’ve said before about this text.

  • While Jesus is predicting the destruction of the temple–Luke’s gospel is written in retrospect of that same destruction.  Anyone who has ever heard or read this gospel has done so in hindsight of the events Jesus describes.
  • This isn’t just about the decline of a building–but of institutions, of ministry.  Some might feel like our nation is doomed after Tuesday.  Others have felt that for the past 8 years.  But we can’t let that overshadow the decline we see in other areas: like the church.  Just last week a parishioner posted a picture from our balcony, lamenting that the pews are only ever half-full at the 11:15 service anymore.  And then there are declining relationships–marriages that feel as if they are falling apart.  Strained familial ties.  Best friends you aren’t sure you really know or understand anymore.
  • Clearly, this gospel is for us.
  • Our “temple” of St. Luke’s has been thrown down before–literally shelled only months after being established.  We have come out of the ruins.
  • We’ve been led astray by false teachers before–all of us.  Whether it be at work, at school, at church, or in our national landscape.
  • Our kingdoms have been at war, as the veterans we celebrate this weekend can so ably attest to.  In fact this church was born out of war.
  • We know something about natural disasters too–even as our neighbors just North of us suffer from wildfires–so close we can smell it if the wind blows our direction.
  • Betrayal, hatred and death are daily realities.
  • And YET, Jesus says we will not perish–we will endure.  And the fact that this church still stands and that this nation still stands is a testament to that truth.
  • Most importantly–Jesus says this is our opportunity to testify.  Every single one of us gathered in this room is called to testify.  To give witness.  To proclaim.  Not in our facebook statuses, but in our lives.  Does your life, does my life, testify that Jesus is the risen Christ?  That Jesus is the living Christ?  That love conquers death and faith conquers fear?
  • I know that it can be hard to testify when you feel your “temple” (whether it be our country, our church or our relationships) is in shambles.  It is so much easier to testify when we feel like we’ve been vindicated, when we’re making progress, when we’re on top.  The truth is that fear breaks down creativity.  And many of us are facing varying kinds and varying levels of fear right now.
  • But lets take a look at Isaiah.  “For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth.”  Folks, testify from that hope–the hope of God’s vision of the future.  Read through that text again and remember that God is at work in the world–even at this very moment–and that we are invited to share in that work and creativity.  We don’t have time to be stifled by fear. It’s time to get busy.

All of this brings me to one of my favorite prayers in the Book of Common Prayer.  It’s one that can be used at various times, but it is always used at ordination services of deacons, priests and deacons.  I think it’s important to share it the week following baptism.  Last week we renewed our baptismal covenant, as we do several times a year.  We promised to seek and serve Christ in all persons.  We promised to respect the dignity of every human being and to work for peace and justice in the world.  And in so doing, I want to remind us all that this week’s gospel calls us ALL to testify, for we are ALL among what church types like to call, “the priesthood of all the baptized.”  So remembering that you are all part of this priesthood, be it ordained or not, I share with you this prayer at ordination:

“O God of unchangeable power and eternal light: look favorably on your whole church, that wonderful and sacred mystery; by the effectual working of your providence, carry out in tranquility the plan of salvation; let the whole world see and know that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are bing made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection by him through whom all things were made, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.”

Amen.

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Apr 17 2016
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Safe in the palm of God’s wild hand

This week we talked about what it means to belong to God, to be claimed by the Good Shepherd.  How we are safe and secure in the palm of God’s hand, and no one can snatch us away–BUT our God is a wild God.  We are safe in the wilderness.

Listen here.

Preached at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Atlanta.

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Mar 25 2016
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Lessons in dying

A Good Friday meditation on Jesus’ words in Luke 23:39-43, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Listen here.

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah?  Save yourself and us!”  But the other rebuked him saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?  And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.”  Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

It is never too late for us, and it is never too late for God.  The collect we just read together points to the truth that Jesus is still loving, still teaching, still promising to be present to the sinner hanging on the cross beside him—even at the hour of death.  It is never too late for us, and it is never too late for God.

You might be surprised to find that some of the most precious moments of a priest’s life are spent at the bedside of those nearing death and dying.  This truth is not borne out of a morbid fascination, but out of the realness and vulnerability present at death, creating an intimacy that is difficult to articulate beyond the moment itself.

Four years ago, I experienced a particularly poignant week of death during Lent.  Three people who were dear to me died in the span of seven days.  First, Henry—a 10-month old baby who we had been praying for since before his birth.  Henry was a twin, born with only half a functioning heart.  His parents and the doctors knew before he was born that his first moments of life would be risky moments of surgery and hope.  The first pictures we saw of Henry were of a tiny, beautiful boy, breathing tubes in his nose and a vertical scar across his chest.  Those preliminary surgeries were just a temporary fix until his could receive a heart transplant.  At four months, Henry received the gift of life through the heart of a toddler girl who had died in a car accident.  It was a painful rejoicing.  An answer to prayers difficult to pray.  Eventually he came home to his family and his twin sister, finally strong enough to live without the assistance of machinery.  And then one day, his body rejected his heart.  He had given life all that he could, given us all that he could.  Ten months may not seem like much, but I can tell you as the mother of a ten-month old right now that ten months is a lifetime.  Henry, in his dying, taught us how to always live on the precipice of life—on the very edge of hope.  He taught us how to inspire love without words.  He taught us the ministry of presence, for that is all he had, and it was more than enough.

Henry’s funeral was on a Saturday morning.  From his funeral I drove to the home of my friend Aimee, dying of colon cancer.  Aimee was lying in a hospital bed in her living room, unconscious and surrounded by family.  She would die the next day—a Sunday.  Two years earlier, Aimee’s husband and I had sat down with their two daughters to tell them their mom had cancer.  You see, Aimee was one of my closest friends, but she was also my colleague on staff at church, which meant that I was a youth minister to both her girls.  It was hard for all of us on staff to grieve the loss of our friend while also ministering to the parish we cared for.  That first night after Aimee died, her husband handed each of their daughters a box of sealed letters.  Each envelope was labeled with a certain occasion Aimee knew she might miss: Graduation, Your first heartbreak, Your first time having sex, When your dad falls in love again, Your wedding, Your first child.  One of her daughters ripped every envelope open, pouring over the words of her mother all at once.  Her other daughter opened only one envelope labeled: When I die.  Aimee, in her dying, taught us about selflessness.  She died her death in the same way she lived her life—mindful of what others might need and how she could best serve them.  Her death was like an exclamation point on an already loud life full of loud love.

From Aimee’s funeral, I went to the bedside of my friend Milton.  Milton was the father of my best friend, and he was dying of brain cancer.  Milton’s nick-name was “Magic.”  He was well beloved in the community for his contribution to the arts, but he was well beloved to me for his thoughtful and challenging conversations about faith.  Milton was an atheist.  Not an angry atheist, but a clever and caring one.  And really, I don’t think ‘atheist’ is an appropriate term to describe him—he talked way too much about faith not to espouse it himself.  He was a lifelong learner, always open to teaching and being taught, a truth that shined through in our conversations.  Not many people got to sit with Milton in his dying, but I did.  And when I asked him if I could pray with and for him, he nodded his head, yes.  He knew it was my language of love, and he let it wash over him as a loving recipient.  Milton, in his dying, taught us how to depart in dignity.  He helped us to find beauty in his death, even commissioning pottery pieces to be glazed and fired with his ashes—vibrant red candlesticks and vessels.  And he taught me the grace of letting love come in whatever form it will.

Before Jesus was resurrected, he was dead.  And before Jesus was dead, he was dying.  Jesus, in his dying, tells the penitent sinner, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”  And the implications of his response are this: You are forgiven, you are loved, death cannot separate you from me or my love, I am with you now and will be with you to the end and beyond.

Nothing is too much for Jesus—not the brokenness of the sinner hanging beside him, not the brokenness of his own body nailed to a cross, not the brokenness of the world that put him there.

It is never too late for us, and it is never too late for God.

We do not get to sit at the bedside of a dying Jesus, we do not get to hold his hand and wait for the kind of wisdom only death can impart.  Instead we wait at the foot of the cross.  It is a gruesome and uncomfortable place to wait.  It is, for me, the most uncomfortable time of Holy Week.

And yet Jesus, in this most excruciating moment, speaks of paradise.  Jesus, in the midst of torture and wrongful death, meets us with love and invitation.  Jesus, ever the teacher, spends his last words on us, that his dying may teach us how to live.

My brothers and sisters: It is never too late for us, because it is never too late for God.

Amen.

Feb 07 2016
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#blacklivesmatter too

Sometimes, the young white clergy woman gets asked to preach on Absolom Jones Sunday.

Preached from white privilege–Listen here.

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Dec 20 2015
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The Pregnant Church

My first sermon preached in my new parish: St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Atlanta

Advent 4–Listen here.

This week last year, I preached this very Gospel text in a different pulpit.  I’ll admit today’s reading is a favorite of mine.  But preaching this text last year was especially memorable because it was in that sermon that I shared with my then-parish that Jay and I were fourteen weeks pregnant.  This year, instead, I am so excited to share the news: YOU are pregnant.  You are!

One of my favorite mystics, Meister Eckhart, says: We are all called to be mothers of God, for God is always waiting to be born.  Isn’t that a beautiful reality to contemplate?  We are all called to be mothers of God, for God is always waiting to be born.

And with that reality comes this truth as well: You are blessed and highly favored.

Can you imagine a world where every person was treated as if they were blessed and highly favored?  Imagine what it would look like if we treated everyone known and unknown to us as if they were pregnant with God—or even how we might treat ourselves if we truly believed that we too were mothers of a God waiting to be born.

I’m tempted to end my sermon here so we can walk around this sanctuary and practice greeting one another with this truth in our hearts.  [Turn to your neighbor and tell them they are blessed and highly favored]… But first I think some words of context might help this exercise.

First—a word about Mary’s song.

This song that Mary sings might be familiar to you.  The “Magnificat” is often read in our liturgy or sung by our choir.  Indeed the words of Mary’s song have been put to countless tunes in every language.  As familiar as it may be to us, the words were even more commonplace to Mary’s contemporaries.  You see, a very similar song appears in 1 Samuel when Hannah learns she too is with child.  And anyone who studied Hebrew scripture, Mary included, would have found Hannah’s song to be familiar.  God gave Mary the words she needed before she even knew she needed them.

My soul magnifies the Lord.

My spirit rejoices in God my savior.

My God is strong.

My God scatters the proud.

My God is lifting up the lowly.

My God is feeding the hungry.

And surely, Hannah’s words and Mary’s words shaped Jesus—who, like his mother, quoted the Hebrew scripture when in his first public address he said:

The Spirit of God is upon me. 

God is caring for the poor.

God sets the captive free.

God lifts up the lowly.

God is restoring the broken.

With these familiar words in mind, let me return to the thought that God is always waiting to be born.  You know what this means, don’t you?  God is born when the proud are scattered.  God is born with the lowly are uplifted.  God is born when the hungry are fed and the poor are comforted.  God is born when the prisoner is freed and the broken are bound up.  God is born and God is strong—and why?  Because your soul magnifies the Lord.  To magnify—to make bigger.  Our words and actions ought to make God bigger.

Which brings me to my second note of context—a word about peace.

Peace does not mean quiet.  Peace does not me calm tranquility.  Did you hear the world described in the words above?  According to Mary’s song and Jesus’ teachings, peace means turning the world as we know it upside down.  Peace means comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comforted.

Last week when Dennis preached, he reminded us that a voice prepares the way for God incarnate—a voice that refuses to be quiet in the face of injustice.  And I carried this challenge—to be a voice—through the remainder of the service, letting it shape how I heard the Great Thanksgiving of our Holy Eucharist.  At the end of each service, we prayed the post-communion prayer per usual.  But at the words: send us out into the world in peace—I paused.

Send us out into the world in peace.

Grant us strength and courage.

To love you and serve you.

Peace is not quiet. Peace takes strength and courage.  Loving and serving Jesus takes strength and courage.  Being a voice and singing Mary’s song takes strength and courage.  Giving birth to God takes strength and courage.

Which is why I can’t ignore this final word of context—the increasingly familiar violence we face—or perhaps choose not to face.

Three years ago, I preached this same Gospel text days after the mass shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School.

Last year I preached this text the morning after two police officers were assassinated in Brooklyn.

And today I am preaching this text on the heals of a Wall Street Journal and NBC News poll finding that 71% of Americans believe that random acts of violence are part of American life.

Unfortunately, Mary’s song is not the only familiar tune.

And yet it is in the face of such violence that we must sing all the louder.

I think it’s easy enough to be inspired by Dennis when he reminds us that a voice prepares the way of the Lord.

I think it’s easy—though different–to consider the possibility that all are called to be mothers of God.

But how do those ideas play out in real life.  How do we move from proclaiming the Gospel to living it?

Sometimes I can walk out of church feeling so energized to do something, but then a few days go by and I find that I haven’t channeled that energy into doing anything new or different.

So in response to Dennis’ sermon last week, and in preparation for my sermon this week, I thought about how to use my voice to sing Mary’s song. And then I wrote my first letter to Governor Deal as a Georgia resident, asking him to reconsider his stance on refugees entering our state. It took all of ten minutes and $0.48.

And no, I don’t think that my letter will singlehandedly open Georgia’s doors to vulnerable families fleeing war. In fact, what usually keeps me from speaking up is the fear that my voice won’t make one bit of difference. That as a person of modest means and little influence, I might as well save my breath. But save my breath for what? God gave us a voice to join God in this song.

How will you give birth to God this week? How will you use your voice to sing Mary’s song? How will you go out into the world in peace?

Will you give more money than you are comfortable giving to ensure the most vulnerable in our city and world are cared for?

Will you bake a loaf of ginger bread for that acquaintance you’re not sure you know well enough to visit but know you should?

Will you sit with a woman who is dying and hold her hand while the pressure of Christmas to-do lists loom large?

Will you write a letter to your representative, or pick up the phone and call, even though you don’t feel knowledgeable or influential enough to do so?

Will you invite someone to your table, knowing it might make dinner uncomfortable for your family or other guests?

Let God scatter your pride this week so that you too can lift up the lowly. Find strength and courage in the meal we are about to share at this table so that you can proclaim peace—loudly and uncomfortably—to the poor.

God is waiting to be born. And St. Luke’s is pregnant with possibilities.

Amen.

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Oct 12 2015
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The Rich Young Man on Wall Street

Proper 23: Amos 5:6-7, 10-15; Psalm 90:12-17; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31
Preached at Trinity Wall Street, New York

This week was my first time preaching after four months of maternity leave–a most amazing and spiritually formative time.  And I was thrilled when I saw the Gospel reading for Sunday included Mark’s version of the “rich young man” coming to Jesus.  I love this reading because it inspired a life-changing decision and adventure in me ten years ago.  But I also loved that I was going to get to preach this text while looking at Wall Street through the glass doors at the back of Trinity.

What struck me about Mark’s Gospel this week is that Jesus said what he did to the young man out of LOVE.  Jesus loved the man, and thus asked him to sell what he owned and give to the poor.  This was not a punitive statement–not something to shame or burden the man.  It was a statement made in love.  This is how Jesus loves us–by inviting us into a life of sacrifice for others.

Watch it here.

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And here’s the whole family at church this week.  I’m glad Jay put Charlie’s red Holy Spirit socks on for the occasion.

Mar 02 2015
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Confronting my own Racism

03/03 Update: Execution delayed because drugs to be used are “cloudy”–unclear if SCOTUS is reviewing case or not.

03/02 Update after 9pm: Execution delayed for SCOTUS to weigh in.

Tonight a woman named Kelly Renee Gissendaner is scheduled to be executed in Georgia at the age of 46. Her picture has been in my newsfeed for days, a beaming face under a blue graduation cap. She is known to at least one of my classmates from seminary.

At 6:45 tonight, I sat down on the floor to pray for Kelly. I wanted to pray for her in the minutes leading up to and following her scheduled 7pm execution. As I prayed, several thoughts and phrases repeated in my mind…
I sang the spiritual, “Oh, Sister, let’s go down, down to the river to pray.”
I recalled the words of the Nunc dimittis we recite at evening prayer, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace… for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.”
I apologized to Kelly and made promises to her.
I asked God’s forgiveness for my being complicit in a broken and sinful system.

And then it hit me.

While I have been opposed to the death penalty for as long as I can remember, this feels different. And it feels different because Kelly looks like me.

A white woman, pictured in cap and gown, smiling, a professed Christian.

The difficult truth–for me at least–is that this death affects me differently than the more prevalent images of incarcerated black males. Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.

I’m re-reading Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow with a group of parishioners at Trinity Wall Street right now, I just met with a previously incarcerated black man last week to discuss some excellent work he is doing to give hope to prisoners serving life sentences, and I share dinner with a group of recently incarcerated (mostly black male) people once a month–so it’s not like I’m naive to the very real problem race disparity and mass incarceration.

And yet that knowledge is apparently not enough to override my internal prejudice.

Perhaps others will be more affected by Kelly’s execution as well, and perhaps God will use that extra dose of “she looks like me” discomfort to bring about justice. I don’t know. But I know Kelly has taught me a lot this night.

As of 8:45pm, Kelly has not yet been executed. She has been denied clemency–a decision affirmed by the parole board after her scheduled 7pm execution. I can’t imagine what the past few hours of hopeless hope have felt like.

Kyrie eleison. Lord have mercy.

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Sep 24 2014
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Shanah Tovah

Growing up in Virginia, my family celebrated Rosh Hashanah every year with our closest Jewish friends. It was a time we looked forward to–in large part–because of Maryann’s great cooking. My little brother often said he hoped he would grow up to marry a Jewish woman in hopes that fresh-baked challah would be a staple in his home. (Who knows–it could still happen!)

So last week when I met one of the members of Tamid, I got excited and nostalgic upon mention of this week’s Rosh Hashanah service. I asked around to see if I could attend (High Holy Day services in NYC are generally ticketed events with no empty seats) and was so pleased to join with five other Trinity clergy. Why would so many of us be at a Rosh Hashanah service? Because Trinity shares space with the Tamid congregation in St. Paul’s Chapel. And only tonight did I hear the story of why.

Rabbi Darren Levine told us that years ago, he and his son would shoot hoops before school almost daily. And daily they would encounter another father-son duo doing the same. A year or two passed by, and the dads became friends without ever mentioning their day jobs. In 2011, Rabbi Darren was looking for a space for Tamid to worship. The historic St. Paul’s chapel came to mind, so he looked up Trinity Wall Street’s website, only to discover the dad-friend from the basketball court: the Rev. Mark Bozzuti-Jones. And in a New York minute the basketball dads became clergy colleagues– the rest is history. Only tonight the history grew deeper as Tamid dedicated it’s new/restored/historic Ark as a permanent fixture at St. Paul’s. It was a beautiful celebration to witness, with some personal touches that will remain etched on my memory for all time.

Tonight I am grateful for haunting Hebrew music, moments of incarnation and Spirit filled spontaneity, a warm welcome from the people of Tamid, and the promise of profound relationships as we encounter and embody the Holy in this world together.

It’s going to be a great New Year. !שָׁנָה טוֹבָה

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Jul 04 2014
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New not-yet Norms

Apparently I have a subconscious desire for making several major life changes all at once. Three years ago I got married, became Mrs., moved to New York (which also meant moving in with my husband), and started seminary all in the same week. And now, over the span of 6 weeks, I graduated seminary, was ordained a Deacon in the Episcopal Church, became the Rev., moved from Chelsea to West Harlem and started my first clergy call at Trinity Wall Street.

The new norms are numerous, and not quite normal yet. Here are the top three:

1. Groceries. One of the selling points (or in our case, renting points) to our new place is that it’s across the street from a grocery store. Awesome! And said grocery happens to have the best craft beer selection in all of NYC. Even awesomer (you heard me). But we are Trader Joe junkies. We love TJ products, and we love that they cost the same in NYC that they cost in CLT.  And now the closest TJ’s is 50 blocks away… so we’re torn about whether we should somehow schedule weekly/bi-monthly trips to TJ’s, or just cut it out of our routine all together and accept the reality of expensive groceries in The City. Booo. Also, the Harlem Fairway does not deliver for free like it does in Chelsea. Double boo. Gluten-free Jay will have to adjust his shopping habits twice over.

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Panoramic View of Thunderstorms from our Patio

2. Pepper. People in our building know who Pepper is whether they have met her or not. Why? Because we made the mistake of leaving her alone for 3hrs on her very first day in a new space to attend a great birthday party in Brooklyn. Going to the party was not a mistake… underestimating Pepper’s shock to the system was. We came home to the sound of Pepper barking at the elevator door. Note that we heard her barking on the 1st floor, but we live on the 8th. Noise carries down those elevator shafts! So we left an apology note in the elevator, “Hello new neighbors! Sorry for the three hours of barking you may have put up with today… Pepper is normally quiet, promise!” And then I left Jay’s number for complaints (hehe). Instead we got a nice “Thanks for being so courteous, and welcome!” note on our note. WIN! But any time we meet new neighbors, they say, “This must be Pepper…” Yep. She’s doing much better now, though the fireworks and thunder aren’t helping much.

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First day of work (but also: YAY real refrigerator!)

3. Clergy Collar. It appears I am allergic to my collar–or the collar studs at least. I’ve always had a metal allergy, but I can’t remember the last time I had to mess with it. Today I ordered new collar studs and less-tight collars in hopes that this new clergy getup won’t feel like an itchy noose around my neck. It’s hard enough to come up with professional-not-frumpy-female clergy outfits… and it’s hard enough to get used to the implications of wearing a collar in a world where it can signify a range of things for an even broader range of people. It may sound silly, but I try to be sure I never have a scowl on my face. I mean, really! It’s a serious adjustment, though “lauren laughs” isn’t much of a scowler.

There are a gazillion other little things like… Do I keep my personal cell phone and carry two around or migrate everything to my work phone? Relearning Microsoft and all it’s hangups. Not being able to crowd source my peers for wisdom and insight on church dorkdom. Not knowing everyone in my building or neighborhood. Commuting. But figuring out how to navigate “our daily bread,” caring for our fur baby, and acclimating to my new uniform (with snazzy accents on a good day) and all it represents… those are every-day adjustments that will def take some time to normalize.

Lord help us, and thank you Jesus.

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