A memory of early days of curacy, getting used to wearing a clerical (dog) collar and the expectations which go along with that. A stranger caring about his work and the people around him and asking for help. A valuable lesson learned.
A self-conscious walk.
It was a bright summer’s day when I walked down the street. The sun highlighted everything and left no shadows to hide in. I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye and glimpsed a black tail disappearing beneath a blue transit van.
A pang of jealousy shot through me. Like that black cat, how could I make myself small enough to disappear? It was 2002 and I was dressed in a brand new clerical shirt with a shiny white, new dog collar which told everyone the lie that I was “a vicar” and knew what I was doing.
I wasn’t a vicar. I was a curate; I’d been ordained and dog collared for a few weeks. I knew a few things, but there was lots I didn’t know and lots that I wasn’t allowed to do.
I didn’t even know my way around the small town where I lived in the curate’s house, but I had worked out the way to the infant school, where I was going to tell a story at my first assembly. I wasn’t too worried about arriving at school. I’d told loads of stories before and I was prepared for that.
It was the time between leaving home and arriving that terrified me. I wouldn’t take the cowardly option of getting into the car and driving the short distance, but I was tempted, because walking down the road, feeling self-conscious and completely on show was excruciating for me. I never have any trouble thinking what if this happens and I imagined and expected umpteen interruptions with strangers asking me questions which I couldn’t answer and challenges which I would quail at.
As it happened, I was ignored by other people going about their own business. They’d got enough to cope with without bothering about a self-conscious woman dressed up as a vicar!
A surprise request.
So, I was left alone with my embarrassment, until that is, I reached a busy road junction. There, there was a hole in the road with barriers around it. I was wondering how I would cross the road when a head poked out of the hole and a voice spoke to me.
Will you bless the crossing please? The traffic lights are out, and I am terrified of someone getting hurt.
My mind took me straight back to theological college where a tutor had told me we should only bless people, not objects. Was a road crossing an object? Should I concentrate on the people crossing the road? What if they didn’t want to be blessed? What about consent? What words and actions were needed? Was there a book which would tell me what to do?
Anyway, it didn’t seem to be the time or place for a philosophical discussion.
The voice sounded more urgent.
Please, I saw your collar and I know we need blessing. I don’t believe, but my mum does. She really believes.
I repressed all the questions which rushed into my head about what belief is and does that make any difference.
The dreadful thing had happened. A stranger had noticed my dog collar and asked for help.
I stood on the busy pavement, with traffic streaming by, raised my hand and asked God to protect everyone who was working, walking and driving on that road. I asked God to bless them.
Thank you, said the voice before disappearing back to work.
I did get to the school and tell my story, but all the while that crossing was on my mind. I felt ridiculously responsible. What if I hadn’t got it right? What if someone had been hurt?
Checking in.
When I walked back, the hole in the road was still there.
I looked down and saw the man still working.
Hello, I called, is everything alright?
The man looked up, puzzled, before remembering.
Yes, he said, everything’s OK, then he carried on with his job.
A valuable lesson.
The matter-of-fact way in which he saw a person who could do what was needed, then asked for help, then took it for granted that the help had been given and it had worked was a surprise to me, but it was one of my biggest and best lessons.
He was doing his job, and he expected me to do mine. There was nothing special about what was going on, and gradually I would learn to shed any paralysing embarrassment and self-consciousness and just do what was needed.
I would love to be able to thank that stranger who cared about everyone around him and asked for a blessing.
What memories do you have of feeling self conscious, embarrassed or just out of your depth?
Wander well,
Mandy.
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