Honoring My Need to Cocoon

This is the word that I fell off my lips today.

My therapist picked up on it.  What is it about honor that you need?  What is it about honor that you want?  What is it that you understand in that word?  she asked.

The snapshot I offered was one from the Church and Ministry meeting yesterday.  Our conversation explored the differences between Commissioned, Licensed and Ordained Ministry.  In the end, when all of the various aspects of each were named, we tripped over the problem of prestige in our non-hierarchical tradition. None of these ways to ministry are better than the other. One is not more loved by God. One is not more valued by the church. Instead, they each articulate the different ways that we seek to serve God in the various ways that we explore our service. When I offered this in therapy, I clarified that I'm not interested in prestige. I don't want my honor to be determined by others.  Instead, I want it to be my own.  I want my honor to come from within me.

This photo was taken by Madhu B Nair.

In this moment in time, I'm aware that something big is changing within me.  My therapist says that I might be in a cocoon.  It might be that something big is happening and I'm feeling that need to pull myself tightly together before something new emerges.  I like that.  It fits me -- even though I really don't feel comfortable blogging about it publicly.  (I might go to a password protected blog very soon.  I have another blog though so you can read about me there.)  And yet, in these past few weeks, I've been holding my cards very close to my chest. I've been aware of a change that is happening within me but I've wanted to solve it.  I've wanted to make it better without living out all of the questions that are so deeply embedded in my core.

These are things I would tell church people not to do -- but life would be far too simple if I were able to take my own advice.  I need someone else to play my pastor.  I need someone else to reflect that part that I'm not able to see as I'm wrapped up in this cocoon. So, I'm trying.  I'm trying to be in this cocoon.  I'm trying to be aware of that space that I need to change and to grow.  I'm trying to be gentle enough with myself too feel all of the things that I'm feeling.  I'm trying to honor myself enough to be in this time and this space so that I can experience resurrection.

I need to honor myself.

What Do You Need?

This is the question that I'm asking myself.  Over and over again.  

What do I need?  

It's a question that has emerged from my shiny new therapist. She's pushing me on this question -- as apparently I fall into that dreadful category of clergy who think of others before themselves. (This is news to me.) There are lots of things that are pushing up against this question. Lots of things. Too many things. It's why I haven't blogged.  I'm just not sure what to say about myself.  I'm not sure how to answer this question about what I need.


This afternoon, a friend called.  She told me dramatic news that makes my heart break into too many pieces.  It's not my story to tell, so I will only ask for prayers upon this friend.  She needs them.  Of course, I didn't say I'd pray for her.  (I will but I believe she knows that. Or she better.) Instead, I asked her, "What do you need?"


Like me, she tripped over the answer. She offered the things that she had to cross off a list -- those things that I can't really do anything about. So, I interrupted her train of thought. "The list must be long," I said. "I know you'll do those things, but I want you to know that I'm here to hold your hand if you need it."

And I will. 


In my own words, I heard that reminder that there are others that will do that for me. I'm trying so hard to find the words to talk about the things that I'm feeling about my call to ministry and the new expression of grief on my heart, but I need to remember that others are asking me that question too. (There's a reason that this post isn't making sense.  I'm struggling with words.  It's a big problem.)  But, even when I can't find the words, someone somewhere is holding me in prayer -- and that's something I really need.

Saying Goodbye

I've always thought that I know how to say goodbye. After all, it's part of grief and I know quite a lot about grief -- but as I search for wisdom on how to say goodbye to a congregation you've loved, I find that I don't have a clue. This goodbye is on my terms. I'm more than aware of how God is calling me toward the next thing. I don't know what that next thing is. Not exactly.  That's the hard part.  I know where I want to go.  I know that there is a change that needs to happen, but it's a change that only I feel.

The congregation I serve still makes those biting comments about my staying forever. They don't hear my reminder that nothing is forever. They've embraced me. They love me. It's hard to leave that comfort. And yet, I know that there's something else happening. In grief, when someone is dying, everyone knows. It doesn't matter how thick the denial is. Every party involved knows that the relationship that has been is coming to a determined end. Not here. In this transition, it's my secret. It's my truth to share. Carefully. 

So, I'm searching the internet for that wisdom about how to leave. I'm wondering how on God's green earth a clergy person asks for recommendations in a discreet way that doesn't explode with the parking lot conversations of which my congregation  is rather famous. I'm wondering how you tell that story of God calling you to the next thing without hurting feelings and betraying the trust that will need to endure through the months of a search.  I know that I have to get clear on those things that I am called to next. I'm doing that. I'm reading. I'm painting. I'm praying. I'm journaling. I'm finding those things to be clearer. And yet, the last time I discerned where God was calling me, it wasn't a call against anything else. It wasn't a rejection but a possibility. I'm trying to find that same space now as I affirm God's possibility while leaving behind this chapter of my first call. Honestly, it's not really working.

I've told friends that I'm uncomfortable in my own skin. They've misunderstood. I'm not rejecting my life in this beautiful seaside town. I love it here -- but I know that I can't stay here and live the life that God is calling me toward. Trust me. If I could do both, I would stay in my beautiful condo with the comfort my fabulous friends. But, the truth is: my call to live as a follower of Christ needs more. So much more. It's hard not to feel uncomfortable. That's what I feel like when I'm wrestling with my own angels. It's painful. It's frustrating. It feels endless but it's important work to know where God is calling me next. I just wish She'd speak a little plainer. That'd be really sweet.

Life Line

On Tuesday, in the midst of a pastoral visit, this favorite church member announced that she might be done with this town. She came home from a vacation to discover that this is not where she wants to be. I perked up. Too much. If you know me well, as it turns out she does, you know that I have no poker face. None. What. So. Ever.

As with every other pastoral visit we've shared over the years, she asked how I was. It happens the same way every time. She asks once in the beginning. She asks once in the middle of our conversation when she realizes she's "monopolized all the air time." And once more when our conversation is nearly over. I always dodge the question. She knows I'm doing it. I offer small bits of information but my walls are so high that I don't share all that much. 

This image first appeared here.

Not this time. This time I spilled.  "Well," I said. "It's interesting. I'm compelled by part of your story as it relates to my own." And then, it just came out. Choppy. Awkward. Honest. I'm discerning a move. I'm wondering if its time to do the next thing. 

She said what I would have expected her to say. She referenced her concern about me from the beginning. She was always nervous I wouldn't stay. She didn't think I had a prayer to last here. She knew the track-record of my colleague. There's a pattern that she noticed. She wasn't going to trust me, but she did.

Rather quickly. 

She started to refer to me as her life line -- which obviously made me uncomfortable. And yet, I was. I was the only safe space that she could talk about her mother's illness, her divorce, her children and her shattered relationship with her church (the same one that I serve and try to invite her into). She let me listen to things that she wouldn't let anyone else hear. She trusted me. And, in this choppy, awkward and honest moment, I realized how much this trust meant to me. I realized the indelible mark it has left upon my own hands that I could now trust her as she as trusted me. Yes, it's tricky and far from simple -- but to read these words in her email just now reminded me how important this beloved community is to me:

We’ll not be done with one and the other when geography or polity might suggest otherwise. I’ll be insisting on that.

Wander Lust Again

I went to France. I got the blissful opportunity to return to London -- where I lived for 4 months after college. I am so freakin' lucky. I have wonderful parents who want to give me their miles to satisfy my wanderlust. For some reason, when I blogged about this long ago, I thought wanderlust was two words. It's not. I was wrong. I'm also in a very different place than I was.

While on my journey through Europe -- seeing friends marry, seeing old friends and bastardizing the French language -- I was thinking a lot about my wandering. The fact is: I did buy a house. I did settle in. I did decide to call this place home. And now, it seems that God has something else in mind.  I'm feeling that pull. It hasn't gone away. If anything, it's gotten worse.

While I wandered on planes and trains through Europe, I tried a little bibliotherapy by reading The Geography of Bliss. In this book, the author wanders around the world in search of happiness. It's unclear if he's looking for his own happiness or whether he's more interested in being surprised by other's happiness. It seems he doesn't believe in the possibility of happiness -- as when he comes close to it, he tries to talk around it. He also fails to understand the place of religion in that would-be happiness. However, what surprised me most is the assumption that happiness is always somewhere else. You have to travel to find it. You have to be in another place where you'll find happiness.

That's not where I am. I love this city. I love this state. I love that I can drive 20 minutes to a beautiful beach. I love that fantastic culinary wonders are around the corner. I love that I can drive 20 minutes in the other direction and hike a mountain. I love this place. It is indeed home. I don't really want to leave it -- and so, I'm a little annoyed at God. Still. It hasn't gone away. I wish I could find a way to talk myself into loving the ministry I'm doing, but I'm bored. I love these people. I love them so much that it hurts to think about leaving them, but it seems that it's getting closer to that time when I have to answer God assertively by saying, Here I am Lord. Here I am. Send me. But, I'm not really ready for that. Not yet.

Too Much

It is.  It's too much.  I'm not sure where to put any of it.  It's just too much.

It started when I attended The Young Clergy Women Project Conference 2010. It wasn't what I was expecting. I'm not even sure if it's what I wanted -- but God is a freakin' riot. The conference focused on leadership -- specifically about our leadership.  And so, there were many moments for personal reflection. (That is, after I was able to adequately download the information I'd been offered into the crevices of my brain.) There were also moments for lots of conversation. I reconnected with old friends -- including a friend from seminary who has called Atlanta home since our days in New York City. I met new friends. I ate. I drank. It turns out I didn't eat as much as I drank. Oops. 

It was the small group conversations that shifted my question. I had come to understand my role as a leader and young clergy woman. I had thought that this question lingered in my eternal dance of staff dynamics with the beloved Senior Pastor. (He's so, so, so much better than he used to be, but still.) That's not what I heard myself saying. That's not what I heard in my peers. I heard an affirmation. (I firmly believe this was only in my head.) I heard the resonating truth that I am called to serve the church. I'm called to serve her until I'm old and gray -- but more than that, I'm ready for the next thing. 

My ministry in the past year has been all about trying to create a new thing. They need change. I've offered some of it, but what I've really felt is the push to do something new in my ministry. In my current context, I feel stale. I feel bored. Ew. I hate that. I really don't want to be bored, but I am. I'm really bored. I'm ready for the next thing. I'm just terrified to do it. Totally freakin' terrified. In that circle, in that small group in Atlanta, I heard the divine affirmation I needed and didn't want to hear.

And so, like any good child of discernment, I ignored it. I ignored it until the end of the week of vacation that followed when I walked on a foggy beach alone. The tears came pouring out of me. I shook my fist at the heavens. Damn it. I'm not ready. I just bought a home. I just began to feel settled. I thought I was here longer. Really, God? Really?

This is all too much. 

Being Heard

Tonight I went to our city's local art museum. The new exhibit was opening. I drooled. Literally. There were Hoppers and an O'Keefe. There were two whole rooms of Homer. It was inspiring. Each brush stroke. Each splash of color. It made me want to paint. Oh, how I want to paint. Of course, ironies of ironies, I'm not painting. I'm blogging.

I went with a new friend to this exhibit. She's a member so she gets to be there for these fabulous openings before the rest of the city gets to see this work. I was honored to be her guest. In general, I'm honored to be in her presence -- but the relationship is a little complicated. We met when I hosted a dinner party and invited friends to bring friends because I wanted new friends. She was one of those guests. And yet, when she walked through the door, we both recognized each other. I knew her. I had done her grandmother's funeral only a few months prior. It was one of those moments where the reality of the small city I call home loomed true.

And yet, we're friends. We're in that wonderful dance of getting to know each other as friends. We both share a passion for the arts and a curiosity about life. It's a boundary violation maybe but I want to be her friend. It doesn't mean it's not complicated. Our conversation often returns to the moment we met when I sat holding tissues for her family and listened to their stories. It did again tonight when she asked me about my family -- but it didn't feel weird. It didn't feel strange. It didn't feel like that creepy feeling you get from church members that really want to be your friend and know all your inner-most thoughts. (It's not just me that has those church members, right?)

She listened to me. She heard me. I listen all of the time in my ministry. It's why I do what I do. I love stories. I love how stories form people. I love the sacred space of allowing someone to tell their story in its full truth -- but I have to say, it's been a long time since that space was made for me. Tonight, I found that space. She asked me questions and she let me speak. She let me tell my story in a way that others have let me do for them so many times. Maybe it's because I don't really have a pastor now that I'm a pastor. I have wonderful friends who listen to me -- but it's been some time since I've told this part of my story and had it be truly heard. It just felt so good. And so, tonight, I go to sleep grateful for strange things I don't understand and the wonderful sacred space in so many places in my life.