Grief Is Like Breathing
I sat in a pew today in another church and worshipped.
I know my lines, I know when to sit and stand, when to gesture to my children that it’s time to go up for the children’s sermon, how to look up the hymns, and bow my head to pray.
It’s been three years since I last preached a sermon.
I sometimes wonder if the seven years I spent leading churches were part of a long, strange dream. Since leaving, I’ve witnessed a lot of life; gratefully alive, present, and awake for moments in my children’s lives that professional church work kept me from physically or spiritually with distractions like stewardship campaigns, bible study planning, or hospital bedside visits.
I have a good job now. It helps me provide for my kids, gives me flexibility with my schedule, and sets the table for my creativity and passion to grow (hence why I haven’t written here much). But it’s different.
For one thing, it’s over at 5 pm on Fridays.
Sometimes in my small town, I see people I used to pastor — people whose ancestors I buried, whose loved ones’ unions I blessed, and people who knew me as a church lady who wore all black. I wear colors now, and blue jean cutoffs. I’m home for dinner.
I miss writing prayers and liturgy. I miss wrestling with a story from the Bible for the…
