Creating Home

On Friday, I went to look at condos. I saw four -- two of which were charming, one which was a dump and another that I'm literally dreaming about. It's charming. It's adorable. I would love to live there. I would love to make it my home.

That's what scares me. My dad just booked a flight to come see me this weekend. He's going to see this place and one other. He's going to be here with me so that I can make this huge decision. Will this be my home? Am I ready to settle here? Yes. I'm terrified to say that, but yes. I love this place. It has everything that I need and want. I shudder at the very thought of leaving.

The problem? Right. It's this career path. I'm an Associate Pastor at a big steeple church in the area. They love me. We're doing good things. Things are looking good. I see some challenges and some areas for growth. I see what they can teach me and what I can offer them -- but I never saw myself as a lifetime Associate. I cringe at the thought. I never really saw myself in this call for that long. And yet, here I am thinking about buying property which means that I would be here for much longer. It means that I would actually create my first real mortgaged home here. Yikes. So, is this realistic? Am I insane? Of course I am but don't great things come from great (expensive) risks?

Good News

That's what we'll be celebrating in just a few days. The bulletins are already done for the Christmas Eve service. They're not printed, but they're done. It seems to be coming fast. Too fast, I might say except that Advent has provided the pause that I needed. I have remembered how to pray. I've found new vocabulary for God. I've slowed down.

And yet, the possibility of Christmas makes my heart race. It makes me panic, not because of the stress of being a pastor at Christmas but because it means that I'll be alone. It means that I have to figure out how I will celebrate this fabulous event after the candles are blown out and the church is locked. I've been invited to celebrate with families -- but there is nothing more depressing for me. The truth is: I want to be with my family. I miss Christmas Eve with my family and I don't know if I'll ever get that back or if it will remain a fond memory. For now, I can't go home so every year, I get to this point in the Advent season and begin to stress about how to celebrate the most depressing time of year for a single woman.

This isn't about depression though. This is good news because tonight I had dinner with a friend whose children and grandchildren will be far away on Christmas. They invited her along, of course, but she's like me. We're single women who don't really want to be the invited guest who had no where else to go. Again, that's depressing and doesn't really seem to embrace how I experience the Christ child. The incarnation of Christ is about worshipping and celebrating with those that you call family -- those that you choose to be part of your life. And so, tonight we hatched a plan to have dinner together on Christmas. Maybe we'll cook. Maybe we'll sip wine and munch. Either way, we'll be together and this is good news.

Image: Christmas Gifts: Daylight, and Christmas Gifts: Dawn by Eric Gill (1882-1940)

What's Cooking?

This friend told me last week on the phone that he only reads my blog every month. He then told me that he scans my blog for what he deems the "good posts." In my sporadic blogging of late, I'm wondering what constitutes a "good post" for me -- and whoever might stumble upon these pages. I have no answer, by the way.

I'm stealing internet outside in the cold (yes, it's cold here) in order to scour the internet for recipes to cook dinner for Musicman tomorrow night. I steal my internet. I really need to get my own. I know. It's awful. Anyhow, did I mention that on top of all of the wonderful things there are about this boy, he's also a wonderful cook? Yes. I'm no whiz in the kitchen but I like to think I can do more than boil water. He intimidates me. I haven't cooked yet. I've flexed my credit card muscle instead. I have been to meek and shy. But, tomorrow, I cook. I don't really know what yet -- but I shall cook. I shall create romance in my kitchen and enjoy the fruits of my labor (no matter what).

To all of the domestic god(desse)s (and those that aspire to be), I ask for your prayers.

Soggy

It's been raining for several days now. Maybe it's only been two days. But, it rained on my days off. And it continues to rain. The forecast predicts more rain this week. Rain all week, actually. And I feel soggy. That's it. Just soggy. I don't want to admit that the weather affects me this much. But, it appears that it does.

I went home last weekend to see old friends. I told them how happy I was here in this new place that I have been trying so hard to make become home for the past seven months. It was officially seven months on Friday. I got on the plane to leave this new home by the sea feeling like it actually was become home. And when I came home, I wasn't quite as certain. Like I said, I feel soggy.

I want so desparately to feel settled. After all, that's what I am -- a settled pastor. I'm supposed to be settled, aren't I? But, I don't feel totally home yet. I really wish I did. But, I don't know how to transform that prayer into reality. I don't know how to make that soggy, hollow feeling be anything other than a lamenting prayer.

I miss New York

I found this poem by Tomas San Diego on Textweek. I used to go to this church. I used to live in this neighborhood. It makes me wonder about this story. The paradox of a protest in light of what is about to happen in the story. The confusion of emotion. The charge of the city and the energy that it ignites.

Today, I miss New York.

1

On Palm Sunday in Holy Week
i ride the A train uptown to St. John the Divine
high art gothic looming over lowly Harlem
where liturgy is divinely rendered by a bishop
wearing a purple zucchetto
and pita bread replaces the wafer
falling crumbs to the cold
concrete floor of the grand cathedral
i stoop to pick up the pale fragments
of His broken body offered as sacrifice
of praise and thanksgiving for us careless
caretakers of the Holy Mystery

2

In Manhattan as hard rain falls at midnight
lady artist, Jesse, poet David Henderson
and i break bread and drink wine together
talking books, cinema, politics and personalities
like Cornel West selling out to Harvard's black elite
In ecstatic conversation we celebrate the word
made flesh on Sunday nite in Mekka on Avenue A