On a post about five or so months ago, where I told of my relocation up North, I ended by saying I got a job at a hospital near our house.
Maybe you wondered why I never mentioned this job again? Or maybe you never thought about it, which is completely understandable because why would you?
The reason I never talked about the job was because 10 days into said job, I quit.
Have you ever started working at a place and as you stood there watching the other employees do their thing, know deep in your heart it’s not your thing and never would be your thing and what in God’s name ever made you think it could be your thing?
Also, what I was told would be my schedule turned out to be more theory than practice. It might one day be my schedule, but for now it was anything goes. So I went.
What followed was a time of self-reflection, doubt, and existential malaise. Or, what is commonly known as, a job search.
I forget how many interviews I had. Or how many times Indeed-dot-com notified me with: “______ looked at your resume!” Without bothering to note that “_____” was in California or Florida or Guam.
I tried to stay positive.
Hey, with all this free time, I can write blog posts galore! Resuscitate its Facebook page, update the blog theme, tidy up the sidebar!
Gosh, maybe I’ll even dig out that novel I’ve been working on for… oh gee, I don’t know… 15 years? Hey, now I can be a full-time writer!
Oh, if only I had a smoking jacket! Or smoked!
But lo, this writer’s dream was not to be. I found that with no pressure on my time, I make sad use of it. I needed to get out of the house. I needed a sense of purpose. I needed—gasp!—I needed to be around people. (For an introvert, this is a startling revelation.)
Then Husband found a help wanted ad in the paper:
Administrative Assistant with desktop publishing and database skills; ability to write and format newsletters; creativity and good writing skills a must; knowledge of video editing software a plus. Please send letter of introduction with resume.
There was one peculiar addition:
Must be knowledgeable of Franciscan spirituality or willing to learn.
Forgot to mention, the job was at a convent.
So, yeah. I’m working at a convent now. Have been for a little over a month. It’s a fascinating place.
I don’t mean to put down men—honestly, I love you guys—but there’s something about women who choose to live without them. It’s like they come into their own.
Also, this Franciscan thing.
The couple I work for–they’re a lay couple who oversee two of the convent’s ministries–they give me books to read so I can understand their work better. They reserve a quiet room for me, I can get free popcorn at the convent’s top-notch cafeteria. We meet afterwards to discuss what I read.
It’s like I’m getting paid to attend a book club.
Things I’ve learned: St. Francis was a radical. And here I thought he was just a guy who liked birds.
These nuns can be pretty radical too. Never before have I worked with a group of people who are so focused outwardly. Even things like tossing a piece of paper in the garbage—Wait! That can be recycled!—Wait! Did we write on both sides first?
The woman I work for, let’s call her Mrs. Boss, said if anything were to happen in town—if some injustice was occurring—these sisters would be the first ones marching out the door, carrying signs in protest.
And I can see it happening, too. Though it would be a slow procession, given their ages and several using walkers.
Such is my life now. Living in a blue state, working among Franciscan nuns.
And here I thought the biggest change for me would be the weather. 😉
Featured photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash