Tired

My, there's a lot to love about these places and people. And a lot of challenges, as we begin to know one another well enough for me to begin hearing what my Pastoral Care professor used to call "kitchen stories." These are not the the tales one tells when putting one's best foot forward, rosy images cleaned up for company. Those are "parlor stories." No, these are the Let Your Hair Down, Tell It Like It Is tales. They are good and bad, joyful and heart-rending stories of saints who are sinners, and sinners who are saints-- and even More Complicated Than That, because of the inherent nature of human relationships.

My reflex, of course, is to want to "fix" stuff: right the wrongs, heal the relationships, and tidy up the kitchen, all before suppertime. Yes, I know I can't do that. And though I do believe that God can, I also know that it won't happen overnight.

And so I listen, and learn, and pray. And that is exhausting work, sometimes as much as any physical labor.

Of course, other demands on my time continue:

• Visiting shut-ins and hospital patients (thus far, a uniformly delightful lot!).
• Meeting other local clergy of various stripes and traditions.
• Digging through closets and cupboards and files, finding parish records and supplies.
• Pushing around the piles of paperwork required to sate the powers and principalities of this world, all of whom want their pound of flesh Filed In A Timely Manner.
• Phone calls, phone calls, phone calls. . . 'nough said.

Additionally, the sermon for Sunday is proving to be stubbornly elusive this week. Ephesians, swirling around with John, and nothing speaking clearly. Tomorrow is supposed to be my day off, but I think that part of it will be spent seeking some focus.

But not tonight. Tonight, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is approaching catatonic.

All done now.