By Amy Butler
On my desk I have an old-fashioned pad of paper on which I write, every day, all of the things I must accomplish. My list is a list of those tasks that hang over me — reports or columns, phone calls or emails — all the things that have to get done or the world will end. After I compile my to-do list for the day, I get right to work completing each task. And when I do complete a task, then comes my favorite part: I take a big, thick, dark-colored marker and scratch out the task. Obliterated. Completed. Banished forever.
I’ve been saving my crossed out to-do lists for about a year now, thanks to the suggestion of an artist friend that I might want to turn them, eventually — in my free time — into a piece of art that would make some kind of statement about the substance of my work. So, I have a pile of these to-do lists in my office. I see them every morning when I come in to work. I relish their crossed-out state; I love to rip off the day’s list and add it to the pile.
Satisfaction.
Today, as I always do, I saw my pile of lists when I came into the office. But this evidence of my work looked different in the light of this particular morning.
Yesterday afternoon I spent some time at the hospital with a large, grief-stricken family distraught over the impending death of their mother and grandmother. During my time with them I stood around a lot. I hugged people some. I handed out Kleenex and quarters for the soda machine. I talked with the doctors and prayed with the waiting family. I handed out business cards and swapped cell phone numbers. I fielded questions about where we go when we die and listened to opinions about the ethics of life support. I answered questions about funeral homes and legal papers. I sat around. I was just there.
I went to the hospital yesterday because it’s my job to go to the hospital when people are in crisis. But I noticed that the entire time I was there I did not cross one task off any list at all. And while my marker lay on my desk, unused, I remembered that standing around and handing out Kleenex is some of the most holy and grace-filled work of the pastorate.
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Anybody can make a to-do list of critical items that must be accomplished then mark them off with a thick Sharpie. But how many people get invited into the most holy moments, where questions of eternal destiny collide with the swapping of cell phone numbers, where the profound suddenly meets the mundane?
I do. And, I never want to forget what a gift I’ve been given. In my wonderful, terrible job, I very often get to be there at deathbeds and births, help families say goodbye, remind people that God is present in moments that were leading them to forget.
I thought — and still think, sometimes — that the pastorate is mostly about designing stewardship campaigns and trying to think of something unique to say on Easter Sunday. But I am not so sure that whatever art project I concoct with my eternal to-do lists will adequately reflect my work as a pastor.
It’s really more those off-the-list moments of grace and wonder that keep me coming back to work. Because, just like everybody else, I so desperately need reminders of God’s call and the transforming promise of God’s presence in this world and in my life. And, there they are, often far, far away from that pile of scratched up paper.
I have a huge pile of scratched out to-do lists in my office. And I think sometimes that I have the very best job in the world.