thing many of them needed most—God. Sometimes I did it anyway and it got me in trouble. Once it got me fired.
In my heart, I knew it was coming but, even so, when the principal, Janice DeCarlo, called me into her office and told me she had to let me go, it was a shock.
“You know I hate doing it, Phil.” Janice always called me Phil. “You’re the best social worker we’ve ever had, but I can’t keep pretending to look the other way ….”
“I know. You’re right. I’ll be more careful.”
Janice smiled and shook her head. “No, you won’t. You were praying with Brent Ragozine right outside the library. Don’t say anything. Or make promises we both know you can’t keep. Your instincts are good,” she said, handing me a letter of dismissal, “but you’re in the wrong place. Go do what you’re meant to do. Be a minister.”
I took the letter, folded it in half, and laid it on my lap. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I am,” she said, rising from her chair and coming around to my side of the desk. “You may not realize it, Phil, but you’re actually having the best day of your life.”
Janice was right. The calling to ministry had always been in me. Finally admitting it came as a relief.
But why did the call to my first church have to come right before Christmas? And why to Bob Tucker’s church? I’ve heard him speak. He and Dad go way back. The man can preach the paint off the wall. He’ll be a hard act to follow. As the only child of Reverend Philip Clarkson, I already know all about bringing up the rear.
I wondered if the search committee knew about my dad. Probably. I’ve met with seven pastoral search committees since May. In each case, the first thing they said to me after “Please, sit down” was “Your father is a wonderful speaker!”
Translation? “Your father is a wonderful speaker, so we figured you must be too. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right?”
Yes and no. There is so much I share with Dad—a love of the outdoors and good music, a tendency to tear up during sad movies, and a deep, abiding love of and desire to serve God. But I am not an apple from the Clarkson tree. I’m adopted. My parents, Philip and Joyce, look like an ad for Scandinavian Airlines—tall, blond, and Nordic—whereas I am short, dark, and Hispanic. My birth mother was Puerto Rican. Judging from the tight curls in my hair, my father may have been African American, but no one knows. Every adoptive child grows up wondering why their birth parents gave them up, but I was able to work through most of that. My career in social work helped me understand that, sometimes, the most loving and sacrificial choice a woman in dire circumstances can make is to release her child to the care of someone else. And, growing up in a caring, stable, faith-filled home helped too. My parents and I do not share even one drop of the same blood, but they love me like their own, and that has made all the difference for me.
Another thing my parents, specifically my father, do not share with me is exactly what all those search committees were looking for—an inspired gift of oratory. He has it. I don’t. That’s why I’ve been passed over for so many pulpits.
But finally, I’ve got a church and six months to prove myself. Dad assures me my preaching will improve with time and practice, but Dad is a very reassuring sort of guy. Very supportive. Almost too supportive, if such a thing is possible. Dad and Mom always told me that I could do anything I set my mind to. It’s a totally appropriate parental response when talking to a five-year-old, but after her teens, a person is looking for a more realistic assessment of her abilities and talents. It’s simply not possible for everybody to be good at everything, is it?
They’re good parents. The best. I’m lucky to have them. And I’m lucky that this position opened up without time for the folks in New Bern to take me for a test run before deciding to sign on the dotted line. If I’d had to guest preach before getting the offer, would I have found myself driving south just two days before Christmas, my car-top luggage rack loaded down like Santa’s sleigh, carrying everything I would need for a six-month sojourn in New Bern, Connecticut? I doubt it. God moves in mysterious ways.
But as I popped another cough drop into my mouth, I couldn’t help but wonder what God had in mind, giving me a cold just before my preaching debut? Then I remembered Second Chronicles 12:9, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
I looked in the rearview mirror, caught sight of Clementine, who was half-asleep, head lolling against the backseat, and smiled, the way I always do when I look at her, the last gift Tim gave me before he died. I wonder if he knew how much she would come to mean to me? That the necessity of caring for Clementine would be the thing that would roust me out of my mourning and force me to rejoin the human race. I bet he did.
“I know what he’d say if he were here. He’d say, ‘Gee, Pippa, if God is looking for a way to display heavenly strength through human weakness, who better than you to demonstrate the principle?’” I laughed, hearing his voice in my head, and looked in the rearview mirror again. “What do you say, Clemmie? Think he’s right?”
She opened her big brown eyes, yawned, and sneezed, which, in Clem-speak, means she agrees 100 percent.
I made good time. In fact, I arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
It was tempting to park my car downtown and stroll across the snow-covered Green and the sidewalks, peer into the shop windows of my new community and the faces of the people I had come to serve, but I decided to save that for another time. The bathroom situation was getting urgent. It was a charming little village, though—picturesque, homespun, and frosted white, a picture postcard for Christmas in New England. I was sure I was going to like it here.
I pulled up to the church, tempted to park in the spot that said “Reserved for Pastor,” but that seemed a little presumptuous, so I found a spot on the street. I pulled on the parking brake and turned off the ignition before climbing out of my red 2001 Jetta convertible, one of the few components of my original life plan that survived more or less intact. Of course, my fantasy car had sleeker lines, fewer miles on the odometer, and a more reliable heater, but I like my car.
And I like my new church!
It’s a beauty, a tall and typically New England structure, simple and symmetrical and covered in white clapboard. It stands at the western end of the Green, a solid and constant presence, built to withstand age and the winter blast, inviting without being intimidating, roomy enough to admit all who care to enter, just as it should be.
I stood on the sidewalk and craned my neck so I could see all the way to the top of the steeple, then closed my eyes to offer a prayer of thanks for my journey, a plea for blessings upon my new congregation, and for strength made perfect in weakness. It was, of necessity, a short prayer. I left Clementine asleep in the backseat while I searched for a bathroom. The church doors were locked, but the parsonage was open.
No one responded when I carefully opened the door and called hello, thinking Margaret Whatever-Her-Name-Was might have arrived first. It felt strange to enter without being invited, but I was desperate.
The foyer had wide pine planks on the floor that led to a narrow hallway. The first door I opened was a coat closet, the second a guest bathroom, recently remodeled with white subway tile. After washing and drying my hands, I decided to take a quick tour of my new home.
It was as pretty inside as it was out. The kitchen was compact but serviceable, with white cabinets, black and white linoleum, and a tiled backsplash that looked original but had new white grout that made it look fresh. The paint throughout the house was pristine and the carpeting smelled new. I would have to keep a close eye on Clementine.
There was a lovely formal dining room I doubted I’d ever use. The living room was nice too, but the furniture was more casual with big overstuffed chairs and sofas upholstered in cabbage rose chintz. A little fussy for my taste, but pleasant enough. The study was lined with painted wooden shelves filled with Bibles, concordances, commentaries, lexicons, study guides, and various theological works as well as a good selection of novels, biographies,