One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)

Photo I took in 2016 on my way to my ecclesiastical council held in a small country church outside of Clarksville, IA. Spoiler: It went well and I was approved for ordination pending call.

The final episode of “The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson” aired 34 years ago. (Side note: I'm not sure how 1992 is actually 34 years ago but here we are). I was 12…just months away from a tumultuous 13. And I got permission to stay up later than usual to watch Johnny's very last show. 

Bette Midler was his final guest. And after participating in the interview portion of the show, she came out on the stage and began to sing, “One for My Baby (and One More for the Road).”

The moment was intimate. Tender. A little melancholy, and deeply human. And I'm certain that at least somewhere during that number all of America–including me–shed a tear. Not because someone died or because something failed. Simply because something meaningful was ending. And because endings—even good ones—deserve witness.

As we approach this sabbatical season, that scene keeps coming back to me. I know and you know this isn’t goodbye. But it is a pause. A breath. A stepping away after years of “being in the room where it happened” (as they say in the musical Hamilton). And there have been so many rooms filled with preparing, preaching, planning, responding, carrying, loving, building, and always becoming. Rooms heavy with grief and light with laughter, and often some measure of both.

When we come to the edge of a season like this, one can't help but look at the road that led them there. This has certainly been true for me. As I look back I recall that it took me a long time to understand God’s call into ministry. Longer still to act on it. And longer than that to reconcile that call with my sexuality.

I tried to think my way out of it. Reason my way around it. Delay it. Negotiate with it. Explain it away. Maybe some of you know what that feels like too? Maybe not necessarily about ministry, but about a truth that will not let you go. That quiet thing in each of us that keeps nudging us toward honesty, courage, healing, or wholeness. That thing that calls us forward and asks more of us than we think we can give. Sometimes threatening the life we thought we were supposed to build. Sometimes letting go of certainty entirely. 

And somehow, through all of that negotiating and delaying and explaining away—grace just kept showing up anyway. Persistent. Patient. Stubborn. And time and again I was asked to trust that the old hymn lyric was true: 'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home. I'm being asked to trust that again…so are you. 

And we know we can. Because we have shared so much. We have shared baptisms and funerals, hospital rooms and fellowship hall laughter, hard conversations and holy silence. We have shared ordinary Sundays and extraordinary moments. We have shown up for one another in grief and celebration, in exhaustion and hope. We have tried to be Church–not perfectly, but faithfully. And through it all we have become more than we ever knew we could be.

One thing ministry has taught me is that God rarely works through certainty. More often it's through willingness. Through presence. Through people who say yes while still carrying questions. That's been true of me. And from the conversations we’ve had, I know it's been true of you too. 

So even though I don't know how this part goes–and likely you don't either–we can lean in. Trusting that that same grace will be there. The same grace that led me to pulpit supply at St. Paul long before I was ever your pastor. The same grace that allowed me to say yes to submitting my ministerial profile for the open pastoral role here at St. Paul after my predecessor retired, even though I swore I would never serve as a local church pastor again. The same grace that led us through a pandemic, and through a music program rebuild, and through devastating losses, all the way through to glimpses of a hopeful tomorrow.

I am SO incredibly grateful for this community. For what we've built together. For the ways we have grown each other. For the grace that has carried us this far.

My almost 13 year-old self, watching Johnny Carson listen to Bette Midler sing him out on that May night in 1992, could have never dreamed that grace would lead me here. But the tenderness and the ache of that transition feels very similar now. Not because everything is ending. But because something meaningful deserves to be honored before the next thing begins.

So before I step away, allow me to take a moment to honor this first 6-year chapter with you by saying thank you. Thank you for the trust and the laughter. For the hard conversations. For letting me speak a bit of what I hope has been truth into your lives week after week. Thank you for teaching me what a handful of loving, determined people can do together. Thank you for showing up and simply being Church with me. As the song goes: "Thanks for the cheer. I hope you didn't mind my bending your ear…"

Grace really has brought us safe this far. And I trust grace to lead us forward through this sabbatical summer, and onto what God has in store for us next. I have a feeling we’re just getting started. 

I hope to see you this Sunday as we consecrate this threshold moment with a Blessing of Hands. And together, we’ll make it one more for the road…that long, long road.

On the journey with you,  
Pr. Melissa

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