The Return of the Vicar

I am working as a church secretary these days. Yep, queen of the church newsletter, master of the weekly bulletin. Door locker, phone answerer, copy machine trouble-shooter, and occasional preacher. I will add this to my already-impressive repertoire of random church skills like thermostat installer, hardwood floor refinisher, and boiler expert. Being a pastor can be mega-glamorous. “MEGA!” she says with vigor.

Recent conversation I had with the church custodian over the phone:

Me: You won’t believe it. My car won’t start.

Custodian: Bummer! What’s going on?

Me: I don’t know. My battery is drained, or something. Can you come over and jump me?

Custodian: (slight pause) I don’t think you should ask me that.

Me: (lengthier pause) O, have mercy. Sorry…

Swear to God. That’s what I said. I asked the custodian to jump me.

In other news, I gained 6 lbs in Italy. Any day now I’m going to start running. Soon and very soon I will shed these delightful prosciutto and gelato inspired layers, but in case you had not heard, Seattle is in the throes of an arctic freeze. I am considering getting a pet penguin. Wee Penguin and I can take up arctic sports and together trim down. Could be more viable than running. I’ll keep you posted.

Unemployment

There are several strange things I have noticed thus far in this season of unemployment:

1) What happened to all the emails? I check my email account thinking, "Surely there must be more than this handful of junk messages."

Weird.

2) I have no keys. I currently do not have a car, apartment, nor job. So, no keys.

Weird.

Beyond all this weirdness I am actually feeling quite cheerful. I am visiting my friend Jessie today and all three of her children are currently crying (I'm a big help as I sit here at the computer). Today I go to my nephew Tate's 8th birthday, which feels pretty fantastic. Last time I was home to go to a birthday party was at his 1st birthday.

Wishing you a good day from the gray-sky-per-usual Pacific Northwest!

A Perfect Ending

One of the glories of vacation, and unemployment, is the gift of time. This morning after I stopped to get a cup of coffee in Suburban Station for the last time I sat down on a bench and lingered. I lingered on my coffee: not enough milk; lingered on the stairwells that belched out busy people crisscrossing one another. Magnificent bedlam it was, and I had a front row seat. For whatever reason, hanging out in the train station this morning felt good. Nowadays people spend so much time on those da%# smart phones we hardly take the time to greet one another on the street, or acknowledge one another's presence on the bus. I think I should make sitting in a train station a habit, employed or not.

My time in Philadelphia has come to a close and last night supplied the perfect bookend. Nearly two years ago I bundled up and met Stephanie Kleven near 21st and Locust, a Seattlite new to the area who was also adjusting to life in the City of Brotherly Love. Last night it ended nearly the same way it began. Very close to the same intersection, bundled up and full of optimism, Stephanie and I embraced for the last time as fellow Philadelphians. I cannot tell you how many times that woman and I cried together over ex-boyfriends, our own self-indulgence, the troubles of the world, and the strong, vibrant thread of faith runs through it all. Strength and wisdom are hard won and I think she and I have gained a little of both these last two years.

Off to Portland to hang with the fam for awhile. I am temporarily relocating to the Pacific Northwest while I look for a job. My boyfriend Clark may be joining me for awhile (yes, totally publicly acknowledging the fact that I am dating) and am feeling refreshed and ready to jump back in the game. Six weeks in Europe does a soul good. More on that soon. I have some good stories, people.

A word from Europe

I worshipped in a tall, wooden church in Stockholm tonight. Do not ask how I got from Italy to Sweden. Long story. I am visiting a friend I met in Zambia and though he claims to be a part-time atheist and part-time agnostic, he likes going to church on occasion.

As I looked around the room I was surprised to see so many crucifixes (Jesus on the cross). The Church of Sweden is Protestant, descendents of the Lutherans, and usually crosses are empty in the Protestant church (symbolizing Jesus´victory over death). I did not understand the words of the priest, so I had time to notice such things. I love being in church and it felt good to be nestled in tightly between two good atheist friends and listen to the strength of the congregation as they spoke the liturgy in harmony.

The priest wore Converse shoes.

I learned yesterday that 1 in 5 Swedes are in a choir. That is a pretty impressive statistic. Clearly this is what fosters greatness like the gift that Sweden offered the world: ABBA. And Roxette. I think the first CD my sister ever bought was a Roxette album.

Stockholm is buried in snow. The sky has been dull much like the snow that is old and tired, but I cannot help but pause in awe at such an old, magnificent city. Tomorrow I plan to go to a traditional Swedish spa with a girlfriend and supposedly we must dip into a frozen lake in our birthday suits. Eeek!

I could use some thawing. Perhaps most of us Northern Hemisphere folk are feeling the same way.

As my friend Bill Smith reminds me, "No matter your winter, Spring will come." Yes, indeed.

Italia

We don’t have hill country in the United States. Just north of Rome is the province of Umbria, a region known for its lush valleys and slow pace of life. There are hints of spring everywhere. Bright green shoots are pushing through freshly tilled soil and the olive trees are stretching and yawning in their fields. The mountains are old, rounded and tamed by centuries of farming. The tops are crowned by magnificent walled cities that burn gold and pink in the evening light.

I have been told that one must attend to detail in this country. Notice the finely crafted sculptures, churches, arches, and fountains. Do not miss the extraordinary detail. Savor each exquisite bite of pasta al dente and feel the unique density of the bread as you move from region to region. Wander the serpentine streets and feel the smooth roundness of the archway you lean into as you wait in line for a cappuccino, but do not rest easy in your languid reverie for too long. It is Italy’s discordance that makes it truly great. Take a brief jaunt through Naples, the birthplace of pizza, for a new perspective. Gritty and piled high with garbage and lovers, the fresh insult of mafia-fueled exploitation and embezzlement trickles straight down to the port, peppering the romantic coastline with dirty diapers and empty bottles, waves and trash rhythmically lapping the shore.

Remnants of empire may be found at every turn, but Italy’s historic decadence diverges from its decadence today. Italy truly satiates the senses. At times the food is so exquisite you think you’ve never eaten such a fine morsel. Espresso in a café off the expressway rivals the espresso found anywhere in the country. The countryside is almost painfully breathtaking, the people cheerful and warm, art and architecture so complex and wonderful that much beauty goes unnoticed by tourists and locals alike as we drape ourselves over ancient steps eating gelato while watching the clouds shift and hasten off the blue landscape above our heads. But flip on the television and watch an hour or two and you will find just as much foolery in life and politics as anywhere else in this blessed world.

This is going to be a good trip.

Arrivederci!

Good bye Philadelphia! Hello Rome! Getting on a plane in t-minus five hours. Check out clips from my "Best of Philly" farewell shindig courtesy of my friend Steph:

"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqu_pyzwsr0"

It has been a good year. Thanks pals.

C'est la vie

I had to shove a massive pile of clothes off my bed tonight to find my way under the covers. My room is a disaster. Moving boxes, strategic piles to be packed in various containers, and scattered letters of love litter the floor. Today was my final Sunday serving as the Minister of Evangelism and Discipleship at the Arch Street Presbyterian Church here in Philadelphia. In November I was told that the church could no longer finance my full-time position and the congregation learned of this news at the first of the year (this is rotten news by the way: El Rottino. No one likes to downsize and no one likes to be downsized. This decision makes you ask yourself, "Am I the downsizing type?" But soon you realize this is not a productive question, so you make plans to go to Italy -- or this is what you do when you are me).

More on Italy later.

Anywho, the last few weeks have been tumultuous. Philadelphia can be a course place, not without its unique prickles and stings, but man-o-man I have met some magnificent people and I will miss this lovely church community.

A generous crowd gathered for a reception after church and by the time the group dwindled most folks were exhausted. Good byes are the worst. The last of the emotionally sluggish crew decided to traipse over to the Bellevue Hotel and head up to the 19th floor where we sat next to a roaring fire and drank cocktails. Yes, cocktails. The view of the city was perfect this frigid winter day and I honestly could not imagine a better way to spend an afternoon: good friends, rich conversation, and mutual solace was to be found in some martinis and sparkling wine. Judge me if you will, readers, but I will heed you not. It has BEEN a big three weeks.

I just remembered you are never supposed to stress the word "been". My acting teachers from a thousand years ago would be annoyed.

I'll keep you posted, people. Major adventures will be had.



Thank you, Sandi for the wonderful poem. There is nearly no better gift than a poem. I leave you with Mary Oliver's words:

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.