Never a dull minute, thankfully

Over these years, as I’ve learned more about my job,I have merrily passed on that knowledge for the benefit of those who come after me. Discovering tasks that a churchchick is expected to do flavors the work.  The  list grows, even now. File this under job description/miscellaneous….possibly staff support.

I got a call from my boss. He was in the car with his wife on their way to a funeral.

“ Church chick, Bobbie- the -mailman stopped us when we were pulling out of our driveway. He frantically waved us  to roll down our window and he had a tight grip on a hand full of mail. He was so up set, and worried. He said he had just delivered mail to a house that had a strong and peculiar odor. He’s afraid something very bad has happened there. He’s terrified. I told him not to worry and that I’d take care of it.”

“Hmmmm”, 14 years on the job said.

“So, you saw Bobbie-the-mailman and he’s afraid something horrible has happened there? The odor reeked of treacherous: scary, awful?”

“ Very, very bad. He was panicked!”

“ And you told him you’d take care of it?”

“Yes, and that seemed to calm him right down.”

“And so why are you calling me?”

“Well, I was wondering if you’d maybe go over there and…..”

“Take care of it?”

“ Well, yeah.”

“Ok,no problem, I just want to be sure I’ve got this right. Our mailman (who is a strong and stocky guy who walks miles every day so his stamina is also pretty fit) is freaking out over a possible crime scene across the street and you want me to risk my life to check it out?”

“Yes, and can you call me when you find out?”

I loved the trust.

“ Of course I will.”

I walked across the street to said house. I noticed no sinister wafts. I went up the front steps and there on the ground beside the steps lay a mountain of used doggie bags that were in full sun, and covered with flies and other worse crawling creatures.

“That’s probably what it is.” I said to myself. But what if it wasn’t that?

I opened the mail slot in the door and peeked in. The mail that Bobbie-the-mailman delivered in a mad rush was still half way stuck in the slot, but I could still see through. I didn’t notice anything out of order, but of course, I’d never been there before.

I pushed the mail over and stuck my nose into the mail slot and took a sniff. ….another….Nothing.

“Well, I guess it’s nothing.” and I headed back across the street to work.

Bobbie- the -mailman was just coming out of the church.”Did you notice anything? Anything at all? I mean people can be hurt or die and be left there for days and I don’t want anything like that on my route.” 
His heels clicked sharply. “I’m a mailman who cares.”

“You sure are, my friend. You sure are. I didn’t really notice anything other than the dog poop, but if it happens again tomorry, we can go together to check. That troubling odor might be coming from the vacant house next door that is for sale, or maybe even the house on the other side.”

There we were standing with our heads together looking at the houses in question, when the door of the poop house opened and a woman's head appeared. Crazy gawking eyes looked around, crackling with suspicion.  Her hair was mussed and messy, stressed. She stepped out onto her front porch holding the wrong end of a broom. 

“She sort of reminds me of Gladys Kravitts.” I crossed my hands genie style.

“Yeah, she does.”

" Oh, wow. She's looking pretty freaked out, man"

We turned our backs to her. “Okay, Bobbie, listen. If a Police car pulls up in the next few minutes you may have to bail me out of jail. She’s going to say,”I know it wasn’t the mailman, because he already delivered the mail. It was someone else, I saw a nose. I heard a distinct sniff.”

“ Okay, I can do that. No problem.” We parted ways.

I called my boss to let him know the neighborhood appeared to be safe again, and not to worry. “I knew you could do it.” Such faith. or such something…

No sign of police cars later that day or since, but I have noticed an ADT security systems van out there the last couple of days. 

Zambinis

We had a group from work church fly off to Zambia for a couple of weeks. They worked with children and although they did much to help the children they spent time with, I imagine they brought back many unexpected treasures of heart from those kids. I can see it in the eyes of the few returning travelers I have seen.

Okay, the trip was long. one leg here, a longer leg there, under conditions I can't and don't want to even imagine.There is no question that those people are heroes. They are God's worker bees. I can't wait to hear the stories as they are able to release them.

But, let's be real, people. Even worker bees have family- and sometimes family ties that are stretched millions of miles ( or so Zambia seems) can be in need of strength, guidance and support.
That's where I come in. You, know, God may have needed to look over the travelers, but I had to manage the fam and friends hotline here.

I realized I was out of my comfort zone when the first questions showed up in my inbox.
" When did they arrive?"
" Did anyone lose their luggage?"
" Did my loved one remember his toothbrush?"
" Any messages for me?"
I rattled the tin can phone that was supposed to connect me to our Africa travelers, and I even jiggled the string, but alas it was a good while before I actually had confirmation that our group had arrived. The info was sparse and short syllabled when it did come, and I knew the families and friends were disappointed. I was sort of expecting viewmaster verbage- colorful descriptions of every moment. WEll, when you are in the depths of another culture, such is not always possible.

I sent out messages as I got them, but they were as received- short and sweet.
Message number one said something like: They arrived.

It didn't say WHERE they arrived, or Who arrived? or How. I mean, Did they get to the place they intended to or did they make it to the continent? Did the entire team finish the trip? or did some stop off for Starbucks somewhere along the way? Did they make it with all their gear? or did they end up with other people's stuff? My info feed was warm, and well received, but short.

I started making up my own messages, just to have something to send.
One such message went something like this:
They arrived
They have noticed the terrain is a bit different than here
The stars shine brighter away from the Raleigh City lights.
They have eaten something.

I tried to stick with the truth, as I guessed it. No one complained- I could have probably sent out my favorite recipes and they would have acted as bandaids in between fruitful info, but I didn't think of that tasty tidbit until too late.

I tried to be as accurate as I could with actual transfer of actual contact. When my boss was thoughtful enough to call me AT HOME on a Saturday afternoon, as I was leisurely working on a slipper-like-object, I about fell out of my chair. I mean, really- Who calls you from Africa on a Saturday afteroon? Well, my boss does. and my buddy work friend does. and I'm glad.

At the time, I was in disbelief. The connection was broken at best, but after 4 short attempts at talking, I got this out of the conversation: Elenie!! It's Ick. ICK!! Ambia NO, eally!!!!!.
After that delicious and very exciting conversation-ette, I rushed to church and sent out an update to the family. It read pretty much as I described it above. Somehow, it was enough.
The words really didn't matter. It was the fact that I heard the voices of our team that meant the most.

I don't know if I'm cut out to be the tin can connector, but it was fun while it lasted. The best part was when my boss called on their way home and wouldn't you know it? I was away from my desk. I heard the front desk receptionist's shrill voice calling me to GET THE PHONE!!! and so I quick quick like a bunny left the ladie's room, and caught the phone. Having my boss call or need my assistance the minute I am out of easy reach is as routine as birds feeding outside my window, so I knew in my heart things would be okay on that day. They all made it home safely, and the gaps- well they will be filled in by those who were on the Africa adventure when they are ready, and willing to share.

The job description

When one begins a job, one is given important documents to help them function effectively. There are forms to fill out for the government, promises to make regarding honesty and crime checks that hopefully will come back NOT having the applicant listed as one of America’s Most Wanted. One of the most important documents, however is the very understated job description. The importance of such a document is clear, I’m sure.
I mean, one cannot truly complete a job without said job description, now can one?

I write today to warn you readers to guard your job description. Hold tightly to its type. Watch its font and size. In my nearly two years here now, in a job I truly love and count as a blessing, the job description has proven itself to be a slippery eel. The type has rearranged itself many times, and always when I’m not looking.

I thought I was going to sit at a desk, answer the phone and send appointments in to see the Pastor. In truth, I do have a desk. And I do sit. But my chair is a bit bipolar and we engage in a constant battle of sit, no stand, no sit, no stand. The chair at times holds me tightly for hours on end, and other times, I can’t seem to aim right and find that at the end of the day, I have not ventured near my desk chair at all.

As far as sending appointments in to see the pastor, well, it’s a race. I’ve explained this all before. The chase is on when someone enters the building expecting to see my wonderful boss. I’m an Olympic jumper these days, my hearing is set for the sounds of foreign feet outside my office as they near the Pastor’s cave. We Try Harder should be on my door. I try hard to run interference for the sole purpose of accomplishing a job that was at one time listed in my job description. “ The Pastor will see you now” doesn’t get used nearly enough, though not for lack of trying.

Calendaring sounds a bit like gardening. Planting the seeds of events into the ever growing organic calendar so that they may prosper, flourish. Shoot, I read that and thought, piece of cake. I have come to learn that placing events on the calendar mimics the action of picking up marbles with greased fingers. The events roll around to different times and days, once they hit the day and date, there’s no telling where they might end up. I recall having a very special poultry event become so on-the-loose that we nearly gave up and changed to bologna sandwich dinners instead. A big annual chicken dinner, held in late winter began showing up in Spring, summer, or not at all. It became a joke at staff meeting. “So, where’s the chicken dinner hiding out this week?” I wondered if chicken dinner therapy might help. Or if DBT, dialectical behavior therapy might come in handy. Were the chickens chicken? Did they not want to be dinner? The dinner eventually settled into a spot and stayed there. This year it seems a little more stable. I’ve pretty much decided that it was all a matter of personality conflicts between poultry and Microsoft.

My point being that the job description of what calendaring is , well, it really isn’t. We have a lovely form called a facility use form, but for those of us in-house, well, we’ve come to know it as the BLUE SHEET. The sleepy soft blue sheet rules all activities. ALL. Plan a meeting- fill out a blue sheet first and hope we can put you where you want to be. Plan a bathroom break, good luck buddy. Schedule a practice, rehearsal, fill it out and go to the end of the line. The blue sheet rules this building .and sometimes, it rules my day. Let me summarize for you, simplify if you will-If you have a cold, and you begin a sneeze in room 328, you’d better darn well have submitted a blue form before you finish that sneeze, or someone who has scheduled the room will beat you to it. People are afraid of the blues. I mean the blues give me the blues sometimes, too. Sometimes I dream in blue, too. Sad, I know it is.

Calendaring doesn’t stop there, though. Oh, no. I get to dance with the maintenance team, too. Every day, and twice on Fridays we dance through the set ups and take downs. Sounds simple enough if you are dancing the same dance, right? Right. Most days, I’m foxtrotting, and the other side is hustling. Different rhythms, different directions. We make it work though. Let us not forget that when one has parented 4 children, one tends to continue to use successful parenting tactics when needed regardless of the age of the other parties involved. Actually, the team works okey dokey and we play well together the majority of the time. Once again, though, my point is that the original job description morphs. Take note, oh ye who are considering such a job as this.

Part II Money Matters