Remembering Who I Am

I'm a second-career pastor.  I spent several years as an elementary school teacher then I did some part-time work when my kids were little.  I started seminary at 37.  The first time someone called me "Pastor," I giggled.  I thought of myself as a lot of things, but pastor wasn't one of them.

Fast forward fifteen years and now "Pastor" is the only way I think of myself.  I'm a mom/pastor, wife/pastor, friend/pastor.  See the pattern?  When I started this blog, I wrote in the description that I'm taking this sabbatical to "remember who she is when she isn't a pastor."  Honestly, I didn't think much about that when I wrote it.  But I had a great chance to live it this past weekend.

In going back to Des Moines, my childhood home, for my family reunion, I had several unique opportunities to connect with people who had known me most of my life.  In addition to my extended family - who all knew me as Laura long before they thought of me as a pastor (if they think of me as a pastor?) - I was able to spend time with a former babysitter/family friend, another friend I've known since middle school, and some friends who were married just months before Clif and I were married (Clif and Mike were in each other's weddings).  These were people who knew where I grew up, knew my sister, went to the same schools I had gone to.  They had known my mom.  We talked about the places we used to hang out and we laughed at old memories.  Not once in all those conversations did I think of myself as anyone's pastor.

The biggest thrill for me, however, was getting to see some very good friends of my mom's.  These were women from her "Bridge Club."  I think the story goes that they never played bridge but they had monthly get-togethers and our families spent many holidays with each other.  Their kids were the kids I grew up with.  But since Mom's death in '94, I had not seen nor spoken to these women.  Once we sold Mom's house, I was done with Des Moines.  The memories of her illness and death, of selling off her possessions and losing our childhood home were all too painful.  So I lost contact with all the people who had been such a big part of my growing up years.

And then my sister moved back to the Des Moines area.  And her son made local news when he earned a perfect score on his ACT and SAT.  And one of Mom's friends recognized the name and sent Amy a letter and they started a correspondence.  And when my nephew had his graduation party on Sunday, four of Mom's Bridge Club ladies showed up.  I had no idea they were coming.  Amy had invited them but she didn't know for sure if any of them could make it.  There were tears and hugs and lots of laughs and memories and catching up with how everyone was doing.  It was as if time stood still and those ladies were sitting in our kitchen laughing with Mom again.

They say you can't go back.  It felt that way when we pulled out of the driveway of Mom's house for the last time.  But hearing the familiar voices and seeing the un-changed faces of some of Mom's closest friends, I remembered what it felt like to be Laura. Just Laura.  I had forgotten her, the child I used to be.  I think it takes time and space to remember who we are.  This sabbatical has already given me both.