Transition Tension

So, I sit here, having successfully made the move to Florida, and waiting for my first introduction to the congregation at this evening’s worship service. I have to echo my colleague Rachel’s response to my Facebook status of “I’m now a vicar. Holy. Crap.”: “This. Is. Terrifying.” I’m not sure what to do right now, oscillating between unpacking some more; staring off into the deep blue yonder, pondering my place in the cosmos; or simply vocalizing my transition-tension with blood-curdling screams. I think my new neighbors will appreciate that.

I won’t be taking part in the service tonight; I’ll most likely just sitting there and doing some form of looking pretty. I’m okay with this.

I have the largest amount of space I’ve ever had to myself, complete with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, AC, and a washer-dryer unit. Nobody else lives here except me – I might have to resort to having conversations with myself in different rooms in the condo.

I now have a bedroom and an office. That’s right – two separate rooms in which to do two separate things. I don’t really know what to do with all this space. It feels like I’m staying in someone else’s place, and any moment they’ll show up and demand that I explain myself. I’m working on my explanation right now.

Umm…yeah. Maybe I’ll have more to say about something other than my apartment soon. You know, vicar-like things.