If the United States presidency can be occupied by a taciturn man with a unique oratorical gift who grew up in rural Vermont, then you could say I could be president.
Thankfully, however, that is where the paralells between my life and the life of Calvin Coolidge end. Where Coolidge experienced economic hardship in the rough and tumble town of Plymouth Notch, I have been graced with a rather stable homelife in a not so rough and tumble 21st century. Where Coolidge experienced the death of his mother and later the death of his sister, I have only experienced the death of four extended-relatives, two of whom I barely knew.
I wear it with a badge of honor, however, that I can even compare myself to America's most recent president from this Green Mountain State. More recently, the American presidency has seen a blemish in its reputation for holders of the office to have been of extreme moral uprightness, rigidity, and honesty, as much as cynics may believe that nothing a president says is truth. And it is of course extremely naïve to say that in Coolidge's time the presidency was without its moral blemishes. Warren Harding, the man with whom Coolidge served as Vice President is credited for operating one of the most corrupt and scandalous administrations in history, far surpassing that of Ulysses Grant, Ronald Reagan, or even Bill Clinton. Despite this, it takes someone who can at least seem decent to win the office---whether or not that veil is lifted upon entry into the office.
That, I suppose, is my life: seem decent. My parents, with whom I still live, raised me on what I can see as three points: don't be a burden on other people, be decent to other people, and be a decent person yourself. Ask my Mom and she may deny that there were "three points" she raised me on at all, but that is simply what I takeaway from my younger years, not that to many I am not still in my younger years.
I guess my introverted nature is easy to explain now that you understand how I was raised. In an effort not to be a burden, I stay quiet. That said, it would be irresponsible of me not to stress that I am not forcing myself to be silent, nor do I feel that consequence would result from my use of words. In fact, I prefer to stay silent; another parallel to President Coolidge.
Staying quiet has led me to develop extremely refined observational senses. Just as babies acquire the language spoken around them through purely listening, I acquire facts and information taught to me or simply spoken around me by listening. This trait has granted me the privilege of being unable to effectively sustain an argument unless I am given a long drive in the dark to ruminate on your counterarguments. A blessing and a curse, as I see it, especially when I'm trying to write a sermon. . . or even this "serious" biography.
I write best at the most inconvenient times. These include the aforementioned long drives in the dark, or even worst of all when I am trying to go to sleep. Despite my best efforts, the best way I describe this phenomena is simply that the words start coming. . . and they just won't stop. If I am not there with a pen and paper, or a laptop and working fingers, these words will be lost to the wind and I'll be stuck to wait for the next ones.
It was precisely this reservation on my writing ability that led to my first sermon.
The seed had been planted in my head by a local store owner, whom I would later work for (and still would be to this day had she not sold the bussiness). I had, and in many cases still have a habit of visiting said store, The Lincoln General Store, for the infamous ham and cheese with mayo sandwhich, a bag of chips, and most recently a Coke Zero every Sunday after church. It was this habit that led to her calling me Pastor, despite not having yet discovered my gift of preaching. I left the store that Sunday afternoon with homework: by next Sunday, write a sermon.
I laughed it off. "No way..."
Despite my exterior unseriousness, on the inside I had already been trying to capture a sermon for at least a year. Now couldn't be the time it would come to fruition.
Initially, my reservations were right. I made my weekly pilgrimmage to the store empty handed, and was gracefully given a 1 week extension. This continued, so on and so forth, for the next two or three weeks.
I had the opportunity to catch the words as I was on a ride home from an Open House with my mom. My fingers began furiously typing down the words as they entered my head onto my little phone. By the end of that ride, I would have a sermon.
Of course, none of this would ever have led anywhere had our pastor not moved on. Pastor Justin, who now works in Suffolk, Connecticut, had made the decision to leave the parish. Because of a rather nasty experience with an interim minister just four years earlier, the Pulpit Committee, of which I was a member, decided to open the pulpit up to the congregation. Each Sunday, a different member of the congregation would deliver sermons.
My grandfather was signed up to preach on November 6th. I had texted him the draft of my sermon, and his only response was, "When are you preaching?"
November 6th came, I did excellently (you can watch me under the "sermons" tab), and I was signed up for it again before I even knew it.
This is how I recieved what I have interpreted to be my call into ministry. If there has been something more obviously pushing me towards this, it is clearly not obvious enough for me. I have been gifted with the opportunity to deliver messages 6 times. One of those times I was not given the opportunity for that express purpose, but I took it anyway! ("The Mystery of Tomorrow").
Anyway, I've run out of words.