Our Work Matters

No longer a Sugar Momma. What does it mean?

Hubby used to call me his “Sugar Momma” and I liked it. We have both always worked outside our home in some form or fashion throughout our life together. Sometimes that has been both of us having full-time jobs, but more often it would be one of us working full-time while the other picked up gigs here and there to bring in some money to balance the books where one full-time job fell short.

For a decade, I was the “bread winner” in the family. I was the one with full-time employment (in addition to a couple of side gigs) and Hubby focused his attention on our children and his writing. Of course, he had part-time jobs too. But, for a while it was my income that paid the bills and my employment that covered our insurance. My work mattered.

After I interviewed for the position but before I had said, “yes,” I was asking God for a sign of what I should do. I was serving as a part-time pastor of a congregation at the time. I had been as honest as I could with the leaders of the church.

“I feel called to be your pastor. You need to decide if you feel called to hire me as your pastor.”

I envisioned being the first full-time female pastor of this church. I had worked there for a couple of years, but it was from a distance and part-time. Oh, the work we could have done together if I was closer and full-time! And, I honestly believed that was where God was leading me. The elders of the church were afraid that making the relationship official would mean losing the checkbooks of too many members. Still, I believed my work mattered.

Then, I got a call encouraging me to apply for this other position at a seminary. (A seminary is a school for those seeking to be leaders in the Christian church, most often ordained clergy.) I figured, “What the heck? May as well see what happens.”

And, probably because I was exactly that invested in it, it all went really well. I was so relaxed in the interview that I was completely myself with “the big wigs” and apparently I charmed them right into the job that I didn’t even know I wanted.

I lay on my bed one day with all the “What ifs” swirling around in my mind. The position was primarily planning worship and providing pastoral care for students. “But, I want to be a PASTOR!” (Never before had those words come out of my mouth!) I heard that voice that is so difficult to describe. It is inside of me. It is me. But, it is not me all at the same time. The voice said,

“This is what you were made to do.”

When I informed the church that I had accepted another position and would be leaving, many of the leaders were flabberghasted. I guess they (and they were men) thought I should wait quietly in the corner until the church had figured out how to push past that glass ceiling. I guess they thought I should continue to work like I was their full-time pastor until they were ready to actually give me the title.

Shortly after I announced to the whole congregation that I was leaving, one of the church members (a woman) wrote me a long letter. I didn’t keep it. And, I can’t quote it. I only know that it was expressing her gratitude to me for stepping aside because she KNEW that there was no way in hell that I was called to be her pastor. I imagine there were many reasons, but the fact that I don’t have a penis was a big one — even though she didn’t come right out and say that.

So, I left that work and started a new kind of work. AND, I LOVED IT. Like any work, there were things that I didn’t like about my job. There were co-workers who were not easy to get along with. There were decisions made by the “powers that be” that I couldn’t agree with. But, planning worship and counseling students (and faculty and staff) was like breathing fresh air for me. Through that decade, this only became more and more true as the confluence of theology and arts came together in the position I held. When I met new people in town, I loved telling them my name and title. My work mattered.

The recession came. Poor leadership of the institution didn’t help. The work got harder and harder because everyone was scared all the time that this day may be the day they would lose their job. I wasn’t in the first wave of lay offs, but I was in the second.

When the president of the institution called me into his office that day, I knew two things. I knew that half of my position was being eliminated and I knew that my sweet and wonderful assistant for that half of the position was losing her job.

He was a nervous wreck. I don’t know if he thought I was going to throw furniture or what. It did take me off guard. He told me that my entire position was being eliminated along with the assistant’s position. I had to make him repeat it because I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It seemed to almost kill him to have to say it again.

The institution in which I worked was a seminary. One-half of my position was as the chaplain to the seminary community. I was the one who went to the hospitals when our students had heart attacks. I was the one who planned memorial services when our students died. I was the one who listened to the staff express their fear of losing their own jobs. And, of course, I planned worship for them all. It never occurred to me that a seminary would find it appropriate to eliminate the chaplain’s position.

It should have occurred to me. I was the first “mostly full-time chaplain” they had ever had, but I had been doing it for ten years. I knew the parts of my job that had grown over time were in danger. I expected to be told when I went into that office that day that I would be cut back to part-time. I was already freaking out about how we would live as a family of four on that.

“We are eliminating the position of chaplain.”

The most ironic part of it all is that they had just recently announced a multi-million dollar building campaign for a free-standing CHAPEL! A chapel with no chaplain. Of course, that chapel was never built. The institution continues to struggle financially. The irony continues. The point is that my work no longer mattered.

I was no longer needed. And, my family would no longer have the “bread winner” I had been. Our insurance was gone in a flash. Hubby hasn’t called me “Sugar Momma” since.

I couldn’t have shared this story a year ago. It has been almost four years since I was fired. And, I’m just now finding myself able to articulate anything about it without breaking down or getting so mad that I could throw furniture.

I always say, “I was fired” because I know the people who fired me would prefer I say “downsized” or “scaled back” or “phased out.” There is no doubt that the people in charge were in a tough spot. I acknowledge that. Unfortunately, their leadership was one of the reasons they found themselves in that spot.

If you have ever been “let go,” then you know it feels personal no matter what the circumstances. We can use prettier language to make others feel better about it, but I felt fired because I was fired. Other choices could have been made anywhere along the way that took us to that place. The simple and difficult truth is that my work didn’t matter enough to those who got to make those choices. And, I had no choice in the matter at all.

It has been almost four years and I’m still asking, “What am I if the work I thought mattered so very much doesn’t matter anymore?” Like most things I write about, it becomes clear to me how cliché all this is.

We so often believe that we ARE the work that we do. I’ve had over three years to sit with the knowledge that I AM. I am simply a child of God regardless of the work I find myself doing. Sometimes that work is hard and pays little. Okay, all the time that work is hard and pays little!

But my work matters.

And, my work is not what I get paid to do. My work is to be the best person I can be while trying to make the world a little better along the way. That is the work that matters. That is the work of us all.