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In the fall of 2005 a former employer offered me a job managing a hotel complex in South Lake Tahoe, California. The job would be part-time, set-my-own-hours, plenty-of-time-to-write-my-book, and included a free four-room apartment. This was too good. I took two trips up to South Lake Tahoe to check it out. But alack, where's the ministry? The nearest ACN priest was 60 miles away in Reno, Nevada (a very lonely diocese for an ACN priest). Was this my new call? I checked my closet for a fleece to throw out. Didn't find one.
This was My World in Orange County, California:
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Three years in a nine-by-twelve room, bathroom down the hall. At this time I was hot and heavy into the research phase of my thesis, and needed a cart to lug books back and forth from the Vanguard library. The only thing that maintained my sanity was the window over my desk, looking out at the birds in the tree and the hummingbirds attracted to my feeder.
After Christmas, I went with the youth pastor of my church on an exploratory mission trip to New Orleans:
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My second job offer was from the rector of these church-folk in New Orleans: No pay, uncertain future, and a place to throw my sleeping bag. Sounded attractive. Still couldn't find my fleece to throw out
New Year's Eve, 2005 (never mind the date stamp):
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A busload of baptists arrived from North Carolina and I went with them and "Lance" from the relief center. Lance carried his 9-foot cross (with the wheel in the tail), all of us carried copies of A Letter From God to hand out, and we walked down Bourbon Street handing out tracts, praying with people, and singing hymns. On New Year's Eve. At Midnight. On Bourbon Street.
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