I left our vestry meeting with a to-do list as long as my arm: drafting the letter to donors, creating a new staff evaluation form, finding volunteers for an upcoming event. Walking my dog that afternoon, I stewed with resentment and complained to Tango that I was the only one doing anything. But as I followed his careful olfactory investigations of sage bushes, rocks, and patches of dirt, I had to admit that no one pushed those tasks onto me. I had offered to do everything I was now whining about. I had believed it was all mine.
I am a part-time pastor in a rural, mountain community. My congregation is full of capable and committed people. The year before COVID, their priest was on medical leave and the members ran the church, including its four weekly community meals. When the pandemic hit, the church’s small food pantry grew by at least 500 percent and became the primary point of food access in our county; it now serves more than 1,900 people a month. This growth was driven by church and community members. The priest, unable to live at an altitude of 10,000 feet while she recovered, lived an hour and a half away. Eventually, she came to accept that she would not be able to return to Leadville, and the church was without a priest once again.
This is not a congregation that looks to the pastor to do everything. My taking on too much was not their fault.
