So, here I am, rector of a small congregation in a valley in Vermont. People think that a priest prays all the time, right? (Well, I do, but it is not on my knees in the church.) They think that when I am not doing sacramental acts, I am reading for and writing the next sermon.
Nah. Not here. They know better.
They know I have been on my stomach on Christmas Eve morning peering into the guts of the dead furnace, discussing with the furnace repairman how we can jury-rig the thing so we can limp through Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Christmas I, Feast of the Holy Name, and Epiphany. (If the vestry can get through four months without the word, 'furnace' on the agenda, then we are doing well... though 2/3 of the old furnaces have been replaced in my time). They know I have spent HOURS snow shovelling the ramp. And so forth.
Add to the list being sexton and garbage hauler.
Our sexton quit (though the letter was dated two weeks ahead of time, I didn't get it until one week ahead of her quitting) in late August. We still haven't found anyone for the job. That wasn't an issue during August and early September, but now that our nursery school is open, it is.
That means the parish house (one room) needs to be cleaned Sunday afternoons and Thursday nights after 9.00 PM because we have a 12-step group that meets there.
You know where this is going.
In half an hour, I will go over, take out the trash (last week, no one put liners in the garbage cans, so I had to clean out probably three pots of coffee grounds), clean the toilets, bleach (or whatever) the counters and sweep the floors.
If I don't, not only will the garbage cans explode but I will hear about the cleanliness or lack thereof from the nursery school (though since they know I am doing Thursday nights, they may cut me some slack).
As my roommate in grad school used to say, 'Oh joy, oh rapture.'
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