I find myself seated on the floor of our master bath, equipped with a bucket of warm water, a rag and a scrub brush. I’m wiping down the baseboards that reveal that no deep clean has happened in a very long while. Since no guests or strangers use the master bath, it’s an easy space to ignore. I wouldn’t judge you if you’ve never thought of cleaning your baseboards! I blame my mother for the awareness that this foundational part of the home sometimes needs attention. She was a committed homemaker and made sure the six of us did our chores on Saturday morning before going out to play. We dusted the surfaces of our room, ajax-ed our bathroom sink and put our things in their proper places. I don’t think we resented this weekly workload, viewing it simply as a routine aspect to childhood. It’s probably good we didn’t know how little our friends were contributing to the cleanliness of their homes! My father was stationed in Taiwan for a year without us. My mom was left alone to manage a household of five little girls, ages two months to nine years. When the time neared for his return, she needed to sell the house since we would be leaving Omaha, Nebraska and moving to Washington, D.C. She mobilized her team of good little housekeepers and I learned how to scooch on my butt (it helped that I was lower to the floor anyway), swiping the baseboards in record time. I’m not sure if I can take full credit but she (we?) sold the house in record time. For several weeks, we moved into a seedy hotel (six of us!), awaiting my father’s return.
So I blame my mother for my baseboard sensitivities.
Truthfully, I haven’t had time for even the most basic housekeeping demands. Having worked full-time my whole adult life, I could only dream of getting far enough down my list of desired domestic accomplishments to focus on accumulated dust and grime on bathroom floors and baseboards. I have been grateful to be able to pay someone to clean the main floor of our home monthly. But a few hours per month doesn’t allow for a deep cleaning. So I have always had a running list going of what I would like to sort, scrub, polish or vacuum. But, returning home after a day’s work, none of that seemed terribly important. So what led to me purveying our master bath from the vantage point of the floor, scrub bucket in tow?
I had my last day of work nearly a month ago. This ending was involuntary. I experienced what countless Americans have endured in corporate America: the summoning to The Office, the news that your position is no more and the invitation to (quietly and quickly) pack up your things. My position was being outsourced. A decision that seemed financially sound, I’m sure. Corporate vision often lacks insight on what is needed at the branch level so decisions are handed down as if one-size-fits-all. Those in the branch office immediately feel the negative impact of an inappropriate change in SOP. Those in corner offices, far removed from the labors of hard-working employees, engage in a prolonged game of bumper bowling, needing to hit up against the ramifications of poor decisions repeatedly before moving toward needed change. Certainly there are companies whose intentionality to communicate regularly and deeply with their team leads to healthy business policies. But, far too often, corporate America ignores individuals, axing folks in cruel and abrupt ways to feel better about the company’s bottom line.
I liked the job I was doing. I worked for a hospice organization as the Bereavement Coordinator. My work was not directed at the patients but to those loved ones who requested bereavement support after the patient died. I made phone calls shortly after the death to see how these family members or friends were doing. If requested, I met with some in-person. When I perceived that they needed extra support, I touched base with them more frequently. I prayed with those who claimed a faith perspective. I met with staff at care facilities who were grieved to have lost beloved residents. I led memorial services at some residential living settings to lift up the names of those who had died: a roommate, a close friend, a spouse, a table-mate. In one case, we read some 40 names because the staff had not yet had the occasion to mark the losses that began during and since the COVID pandemic. Tears flowed and hearts were healed as we said their names and entrusted them into God’s eternal keeping.
This bereavement support was not “depressing” work, as many assume. I was privileged to hear countless love stories from those who had lost someone they loved. To walk alongside of them—whether it be on a regular basis or in one singular phone call—was my job description and calling. Offering compassionate pastoral care as an expression of my Christian faith has always been my passion. I was sorry to close the door on that ministry. The cost-saving measure was to eliminate Bereavement Coordinators at the branch level and replace them with employees working at “bereavement hubs.” In the case of our branch, a person living 500 miles away will make the phone calls to the family and friends of our patients. While these workers may have the pastoral skills to bring comfort by phone, the impossibility of responding in-person to our bereaved constituency is a terrific loss. I wish the company well as they try out this model of accompanying those who are weighed down with grief.
So that is how I find myself sitting on my butt, scooting around the floor, giving the bathroom floor a long overdue scrubbing! I am a list-maker and derive unhealthy pleasure from crossing things off my list. With no vocational duties presently, I have a long list of home projects that I am tackling day by day. I have learned that, just because I’m finally getting to a particular task, does not mean that I enjoy doing it! The initial fervor with which I accomplished and crossed off chores on my list has diminished and I am learning to find new balance in this strange territory of unemployment. I have savored long-overdue conversations with friends I have only been able to see sparingly when working. I am spending precious time with family members at home, at the lake, and on vacation. I have been blessed by preaching in several settings this summer and offering care by officiating at a couple of funerals. While this stage of my life feels like a foreign land, I am finding my footing and certainly enjoying having time to pursue some of the things I treasure in life.
Oh yeah. I start each day with a time of devotion and reading. With coffee. On the back deck. With two newly-adopted dogs chasing each other as I look out on the lush green of our backyard. In three separate instances, beginning with a prayer offered on my last day of work, folks suggested that I would be surprised by what God has in store for me next. I have always believed that God’s calling card is surprise so these comments stood out to me. I am living into the words I offered so many parishioners over the course of more than 30 years: Trust that God is at work even in this unexpected chapter!
I believe, God. Surprise me!
Preaching Life 