Artisanal Pulpits

The other day, a dear one shared a thought with me about his memorial service for when it is time to have one. Mention was made of two people who had studied journalism and labored happily and with fulfillment in the writing life - and who both, in midlife or thereabouts - went to divinity school and, coming out the other side, now serve in ordained ministry. 

Not me. 

Wait. I'm really not describing me - these are two other women - but it's also my story. 

I have a theory. (As often I seem to.) Many people who labor in the craft of journalism describe it as a calling, usually with cynical humor about the low pay and the bomb it drops on one's social life; how they can be real friends mostly with others in journalism; but most of all, how they cannot imagine themselves doing anything else. Journalism is both an art and a craft. I speak here not of infotainment but of journalism, the craft of making and shaping something new and vital from the raw materials of fact and narrative. 

I learned that journalism is both an art and a craft, the artisanal life of journalism and narrative, from my father, now in his eighties. As a young adult, he seriously considered entering the path toward ordained ministry. His path led instead, by way of circumstance, to journalism and then to journalism education. 

How much of it is chance that I know of at least three women including me who have, in moving from the newsroom to the narthex, moved from one artisanal craft to another? From one form of narrative as relationship, legacy, and future ... to another? How much of it is God, the Divine Tour Guide, the kind of guide who keeps saying, "Ooh, look! Oh, over here. Hey, this is a lot like that other thing we saw earlier!"

Once again, God is relationship. Once again, God is connection. Once again, God keeps inviting you and me to marvel, as God marvels, at paths and journeys and narratives and callings.