Angela At-Large

Tag: old places

  • making hay while the sun shines

    Around this time last year, I was leaving behind notes for the next program director at the college I worked at. No one had been hired yet by the time I left — a symptom of a larger issue I was relieved to step away from. Regardless, I had been itching to move on from the higher ed world for a while; longer than I had even realized myself at the time. I loved my students, even loved much of the work I did. But when my position changed during COVID, it was no longer a good fit for me. So, I gave my notice and set my sights on other pastures.

    The plan was to strike out on my own. To freelance as a database designer (something I was skilled at and enjoyed as one piece of my multi-faceted job), travel around in my newly-purchased camper van, and live the digital nomad life. I would relocate to Indiana as a “home base” so I could help my parents out as needed, but be able to visit friends and see parts of my own country I hadn’t yet seen. Oh, and between all those things, I would also begin building something off the thesis I had written as the culmination of my master’s degree–ministry, resources, workshops. I was set to get started on all kinds of Very Important Things.

    Reader, only one of those things has happened.
    I’m here. In Indiana.
    Home base.
    Learning to shift my perspectives, plans, and ambitions.

    Plans always change, especially when we make a big move. We find that the needs and responsibilities in our new location are different than we envisioned. We find out certain skills don’t translate as well as we hoped. We lose momentum on things we were passionate about, because there are other needs to be met right in front of us.

    A year later now, and part of me (well, much of me, to be honest) feels like I’ve lost the plot. Snide, inaudible comments hiss their way through my brain and if I am not careful, into my heart. Things like You have to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps. God helps those who help themselves — you’ll never prosper or get God’s favor and blessing if you just wait for things to be handed to you. He’ll only bless you if you’re doing His will, so you must be doing something wrong, or not doing enough. If you don’t have enough faith, God can’t work in your life. No one says these things directly (although they might repost a low-quality jpeg of it on facebook), and they are a poor and disappointing interpretation of Scripture. But it feels like this “must” be what people secretly think when they look at me. Like I’m supposed to be making something of myself, doing all those Very Important Things, and having some kind of outsized impact for the kingdom.

    But good grief. What a lot of pressure, and from no one in particular; it’s just a nagging sense of dread, a fear of being exposed as some kind of fraud. Like a spiritual impostor syndrome.

    I mean, maybe someone will “find me out” someday. They’ll find that instead of building databases, I’m building compost bins and plowing dirt so we can grow our own food. They’ll find my parents are grateful for me to be back. They’ll discover that instead of making money for someone else, I’m stumbling my way through writing books and crafting things to sell on Etsy so I can support myself by doing things I love. They’ll find that yeah, maybe I’ve lost momentum on the #MeToo project for now, but they’ll also find that I refuse to let it fizzle out because I believe it’s too important for the Church to ignore.

    Ultimately though, as hard as it is for me to believe sometimes, those poisonous lies of God must be so disappointed in you are arrows from behind enemy lines. And what anyone glimpses on the outside is not the full picture of what God sees. People are only casual observers–He does the work in me, far beyond what even I’m aware of. It’s not their opinion that matters–it’s His. There’s only one throne before which I will stand on the Last Day, and it doesn’t belong to anyone who is in just as much need of grace as I am. Nor does it belong to that devil who was crushed forever beneath the heel of King Jesus.

    So, I do the best I can with what I have. For now, I’ll lead a quiet life, mind my own business, and work with my hands. Just make hay while the sun shines.

  • give us this day

    Spring comes a little earlier at my current Indiana latitude than the southern shores of Lake Ontario where I most recently lived. But, winter certainly wants to make sure we don’t forget about it too easily. The weather is positively gross today — cold, heavy raindrops slopping themselves onto the earth with no regard for how saturated the ground already is from last week’s rainstorms.

    Resting feels easier to justify on days like these, since it’s not like you can go outside and dig in the garden or chop up firewood, unless you like being cold and soaked to the bone. When the wind howls through the corners of the screen door and the temps dance erratically around the freezing point, your bones just know it’s a day for indoor chores and leisure. Wash the dishes, read a book. Pull freshly fluffed blankets out of the hot dryer and take a nap. This is the bread for today, and it is very good.

  • this pilgrim’s progress

    this pilgrim’s progress

    It’s nearly midnight on a Sunday night. I’m surrounded by cardboard boxes and crumpled newspapers and packing tape, once again putting my life into temporary containers in preparation for another move. (Indeed, this will be my seventh official change-of-address within the past 10 years.)

    As I’ve been saying to friends lately, this move doesn’t feel real–yet it doesn’t feel surreal, if that makes any sense. I’ve moved plenty, both within my own country and outside of it; I am no stranger to the barrage of feelings that can come with uprooting yourself and settling into a new place. But this move just feels different. I suspect it’s because I’m not moving to somewhere new, but rather somewhere old. Back to the place where I began. Back to the place where “home” means the town grew up in, rather than the place I currently abide.

    But although I’m going back to a familiar land, I know there will also be new things to experience. New people to meet. New opportunities to explore. New journeys to take with God. Hence, the new blog.

    If you’ve known me long, you might know I’m a writer–although it’s also likely you might not know, because truth be told, I haven’t written much the last several years. At least, not in this format. I took the plunge into seminary, so four years of my free time was spent writing academic papers and a Master’s thesis. I’ve filled personal prayer journals, scribbled a rogue poem or two, and even had a blog with like, six posts on it. This style of wordsmithing has either lay dormant by necessity or fallow by choice all this time.

    However, much like going back to old places for new reasons, I’m entering a season of life that leaves me space to write in a way my heart loves again. This coming week will be filled with more packing, errands, and shoving boxes into my van. But 450 miles from now, there’s new ground to rediscover. You’re welcome to come along for the journey.