Vocational Advent

Days go by and most of my time is spent in steaming milk. I wear a headset on my head while answering “beep” after “beep” with: “Good morning and welcome to Starbucks. This is Monica. How can I help you?” People completely underestimate the complexity of this job. You’ve got the 27,000 options of drink choices. You’ve got the computer. You’ve got the marking of the cups. You’ve got the taking and receiving of money. Most of my transactions last about 20 – 50 seconds. Add this up, and you have one fun filled day of doing this routine approximately 400 times. More if “snow” is in the forecast. Don’t even get me started on the frappacinos – which lately have been renamed “crapaccinos.” (It was a mispronunciation the other morning by a colleague of mine. I had no idea at the time how fitting it was to my true, deep, feelings concerning blended, frozen drinks.)
Every morning, there is still this ONE lady that refuses to acknowledge my presence. She refuses to give me the dignity and respect I deserve as a human being. Instead, she prefers to snarl at me while talking on her phone pretending that I somehow didn’t get a freaking coffee of the day brewed right. She even pulls about two feet away from the window so that I must literally climb halfway out the window to reach her with her cup. Which untucks my shirt and causes me 10 more seconds of readjustment. Which shaves 10 seconds off my 30 minute goal of completing over 35+ transactions. What infuriates me more is that she has NO idea how much I hate doing what I do every day. She thinks I enjoy taking her crap. As if I am in a position to which I must take her shit.
Well. I am. Seven months later, I can’t get a job that pays enough for me to even consider setting up shop. I’m starting to think my nice journey of the nomadic life has now come to bite me in the ass. No, I’m not lost. I’ve quit wandering. I’m now stationed in the corner of a building where most people enjoy my company and I theirs. One guy even tracked down the jeep owner that had “The Dude Abides” on the bumper. That day was a good one. Now we make Lebowski references most mornings. NO ONE around us even gets what we are talking about. Classic. So Dude. But most people are genuine with their inquiries about my future. Except that ONE lady, of course.
I think I reached the point of exhaustion about two weeks ago. The daily inquiries were killing me. I wanted to make a t-shirt that said: “Dude. Seriously. When I know – you will know.” One customer a few weeks ago said, “So Monica. Is this it?” Meaning that Starbucks was going to be the conclusion of one of the greatest journeys of my life. I shook my head and almost cried. I looked up and asked him to say a prayer. Then he replied, “Well, in my opinion, God never gets in a hurry about anything.” I could not agree more.
The highlight of next week is on Wednesday. There is a Muppet holiday special on NBC. I can only think of one person who is more excited than me. Mere. Ma-na-ma-na. Then I get to preach again on Sunday – which is always a treat. I’ve decided that Advent is somehow taking on a deeper notion within me this year. This birthing process is painful. Waiting is…well, it just sucks. Many a promising poet has penned the beauty of waiting. Many have penned the woes as well. For too many reasons I feel it applies explicably to my present life situation. I am waiting to be born – into what I am convinced I am called to do. Merton would tell me I am already doing it. I don’t like him right now.
This week I really started to question if I have been a complete idiot for the last three years. Had misguided committees. I questioned if ministry was something I wanted to do – and not what God wants me to do. It seems odd really. That in waiting to be born, I have stopped living. Stopped hoping for moments at a time.
Then I put in my ipod and play Cath…by Deathcab. Or listen to McCartney wail “Maybe I’m Amazed.” Hear Radiohead jam out “All I Need.” I’m usually mixing mocha when this happens. Or doing dishes. Lately I have violated “policy” and defiantly left one ear plug in as I work the bar. I need it. Some IV/I chord will brighten me up. Some Major Major VII will surge me to revisit why I hope at all. For anything.
For those who are way over due for a phone call – I apologize. Those calls just bring up the obvious. I am not doing what I want to do. What I have endured to do. I suppose that there is some part of me that doesn’t want you to see the utter despair I wake up in most days. It’s ugly. I find no consolation in a silent God right now. Even if I am under her wing.
The good news is that there are a few promising things within sight. It’s not about being forsaken. It hasn’t been long enough to go there yet and I doubt I ever will. It’s about reminding myself to breathe. 1200 times a day. Kaci’s existential map has kept me grounded. And that’s okay for now. But on my knees, I cry, “Birth me Advent!” Can’t you feel me kicking to get out? Start the contractions already. Let the water break. This kid is ready to rightly cry as she gets spanked into a new world.