Photo by Jessica Rockowitz on Unsplash
Today, I started my new job as an associate pastor.
Me.
The gal who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that when she entered seminary she definitely wasn’t called to be a pastor.
The gal who grew up believing women shouldn’t be pastors.
Yet, here we are.
And I have no idea what I’m doing, but don’t tell anyone. No, go ahead and tell them. It’s best that we set accurate expectations up front.
Right now, I’m sitting in my office feeling like I’m an actor in a play. Or a little kid playing dress-up. Even though these are my own clothes. It still hasn’t hit me that I no longer live in Texas. That I no longer work for Baylor University. That I no longer attend Truett Seminary. It feels like I’m just on vacation. Nothing is real.
But it is. And I’ve never felt so unqualified in my life. Yes, I have been called by God and by this church. And that’s all fine and good, but I still struggle with what that looks like in everyday life.
So far, I’ve proofread the church directory, cleaned out a drawer in my desk (the drawer doesn’t close now so I’ve upset the balance of things already), and emailed my pastoral care professor about asset mapping. I’ve committed to get the church library in order (Lord, have mercy) but thus ends my to-do list of actual tasks.
The pastor is getting ready to go on an international vacation for the next three weeks. No biggie. What could really go wrong?
Note to self: don’t let the church burn down.
The Clumsy Pilgrim 
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