Life ... Only Better

The call of God is not just for a select few but for everyone.

Oswald Chamber

Date night.

Like many married couples, date night was an important part of our lives. Our busy lives were crowded with T-ball, ballet, gymnastics, and preschool field trips; taking care of the house, and the dogs and the cat, the laundry, the dishes, dinner, school lunches; and then our careers. My color-coded calendar looked like the command post of a general. Date night was a way to connect and take a deep breath. To remember why it is we fell in love.

My husband, Matt, and I met when I was in college at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. I was spending the summer of 1988 working for my dad, who managed Marshfield Airport. Matt was a flight instructor — making my dad, Skip, his boss. Tricky? Yes.

I laid eyes on a very handsome, smart young man — and the butterflies I felt were mutual. It was a spark — and I am certain God chose Matt for me and me for him. For both of us, it was definitely a case of knowing each other was "the one." We were engaged within months, at Christmas of that same year (with my dad's blessing, no less). We were young and in love in the season of joy and colorful lights on the tree, tinsel, and the magic of Christ's birth.

Now, years later, married with two kids, we were trying — like many marrieds — to keep that magic alive with date night. We were both busy career people; we'd moved for our jobs, dedicated ourselves to the vocations we chose, him to piloting, me to corporate recruiting. Even more wonderful, a chocolate martini was being shaken. I couldn't wait to taste it. But the bartender with his jigger, the music playing in the bar area, my silk blouse and freshly done hair, none of it could wash away my nerves.

I was jittery.

I had big news to tell my beloved husband. Big news. On a par with "the stick turned blue" news. I was not pregnant. But it was a miracle all its own.

God was calling me. She had big plans for me. In fact, they were bigger plans than I even could have imagined for myself — God doesn't think in limitations. God's visions are limitless. But what I knew that night, as I sat waiting for Matt, was that she wanted me to honor her calling. I was going to become an Episcopal priest.

Yes, I was not sure how I was going to spring this on my unsuspecting husband. Matt arrived at the bar. Handsome as ever. Smiling. He had no idea what I was going to drop in his lap. I didn't think it was going to go smoothly. God, how do I tell him?

Becoming a priest as a mother of two, a career woman, a wife, was not like saying, "I'm joining a gym," or "I'm taking up watercolor painting or ceramics." Being a priest is a calling. It is not a career. Previously, I had been a headhunter, though I sold my company in the economic downturn. Still, that is a job. A calling is part of your being at its most central part of your core. And it requires the sacrifice not only of the called, but of their spouse and family too.

Now, I sat fidgeting in a bar, awaiting the perfect opening.

Matt kissed my cheek just as my chocolate martini was slid across the bar.

"Are you OK?" Matt asked.

I exhaled. Was I OK? I was more than OK. I was filled with a grace I had not known possible. I was filled with a peace that surpassed all understanding. But would Matt understand? Being a priest would mean time away from my family. It would mean, if I passed through the various hoops and requirements, entering a seminary, studying, more schooling. It would mean financial pressures. No one enters the priesthood seeking earthly riches. We had already gone through tremendous financial hardships. In the post-9/11 landscape, being a pilot became an incredibly risky career. Aside from the obvious fear of being blown out of the sky by global terrorism, airlines were merging, pilot jobs were disappearing. Matt's employer, United Airlines, had declared bankruptcy. My business had dried up. Uncertainty was all around us. And now I was going to tell Matt I wanted us to take on loans and debt in order for me to become a priest. Unlike, say, paying for law school or medical school with the hopes of one day having a very lucrative career, I wanted to minister to the sick and the lonely, the poor and the hungry, the disenfranchised and the desperate.

The adage "as poor as a church mouse" says it all.

This call of mine would mean changes. It would mean sacrifices of our family and our bank account. Being a priest is obviously far more than salary, though. A priest, like an obstetrician, comes when you need him or her. Priests don't punch a clock. When someone is suffering and needs to be consoled, a priest can't put them "on hold" until a more convenient time.

But this call was like the clarion trumpet call, so clear, so certain. Clearly God had a plan. Of course God had a plan. God always has a plan. (Well, not as in a predestined plan, but God works through anything we do, to suit God's purposes.) We were living in Massachusetts, where my husband, for the first time in his life, was beginning to find true fellowship and family with the people of the congregation of the church we attended. Matt was changing. God was working in Matt, showing him that God was with us and love in community with church was possible.

But still I had the jitters. My teeth chattered, and I couldn't tell if it was what I had to tell him or the restaurant's air conditioning blasting down on me.

Matt smiled at me. "You OK?" he asked again, sliding onto the bar stool next to me.

I nodded. God, I loved his smile. But how do I tell him?

When you marry your best friend, sometimes they know you better than you know yourself. I decided the truth just had to be stated. Just lay my cards on the proverbial table. That simple. "I have something to tell you," I said. Then I took a big sip of my martini. A little liquid courage could be part of God's plan, right?

Matt looked me in my eyes. "You're going to become an Episcopal priest, aren't you?"

My mouth dropped open (after I swallowed). We had never discussed this. My calling had been deeply inner and private. It was not any one thing God said to me in this perpetual conversation I share with him as part of my spiritual life. It was many things.

When you are a mother, your children — when they are small — are there tugging on your sleeve at all times. You can't even go to the bathroom by yourself before you hear that familiar, "Mo-om," which all mothers of young children know is a two-syllable word. When you wake up in the morning, your children are the first thought in your mind. When you...