And it was evening, and it was morning, the first day

It was just about fifteen years ago today when I had butterflies over the first day of seminary. I was finally crossing a threshold that I'd been longing for for at least eight years, but really since a magical evening when I was five years old. I was letting go of a lot of old stuff and walking toward something I could not even begin to imagine, except that I knew that it was God's voice calling me forward.

I was more anxious and eager than I had ever been on the first day of school. As an adult, I believe I had more of an image of what might come of it and more of a sense of my limitations than when it was first grade or ninth grade or even college. It has been an amazing fifteen years, and I have been blessed more than I was ever able to imagine.

And now here I am on the first day of sabbatical. I've been given the gift of three months and an insanely generous grant to restore my focus and my energies. And I feel a bit like a gerbil whose wheel has been removed from the cage. The patterns of parish life have been my auto-pilot for so long that it is disconcerting not to reach for the black shirt -- they are all laundered and hanging in my closet not to be touched for 90 days -- not to pack a lunch and drive the familiar route to church, not to touch base with people I care about who are hurting or deciding or questioning or rejoicing. I won't know who will show up for church tomorrow or what the guest priest will preach about. I didn't used to think I had control issues, but I am humbled to admit that I do. I think one of the reasons God created sabbath and commanded us to practice periodical rest was precisely to remind us that our sense of control is an illusion. And to have a sense of the immenseness of God's blessings.

And so what did I do today? A lot of hanging out with people I care about. Fairly random errands but with a spaciousness about them that is not my custom. And some creating order out of chaos. That seems appropriate. My study is recently repainted and re-carpeted, which meant that every book -- maybe I'll count them, and you will be shocked -- and every stick of furniture had to be carried downstairs and dealt with. And brought back upstairs and placed with care where it belongs.

As of tonight all the boxes of books have been unpacked and so far there are eight boxes to be given away. I still have papers to deal with. Do I really keep twelve years worth of sermons? Who will ever look at them? I found two short stories and some poems I thought were lost forever. I'm excited about giving my youth minister, who is beginning seminary, a pretty amazing theological library and offering a pile of other books to any seminarian who is willing to pay a quarter apiece for them.

I'm feeling rested and exhausted as this day ends. There is some satisfaction. I'm not under the illusion that I can go cold turkey after fifteen years, but rather I'll ease into a different pace. If I go back to church in December unchanged by the experience I will have failed at it. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm wanting to hear what God has to say that is new and surprising. I'm looking forward to time with children and grandchildren, with friends, with my sister and husband in Italy and alone in Wales and then home again to what is going to feel like a new house -- the kitchen remodel should be finished by then. There are no words for the state of chaos now.

So I'm feeling a bit like Wile-E-Coyote stepping off the edge of the cliff, but I feel peaceful and hopeful and extremely grateful about it. And there is a little bit of me that says just let me got to St. Alban's in the morning and give everybody one more hug. Then I'll let go....