Dating and the Property Committee

I live in a parsonage.

Most of the time I will tell you that love living in a parsonage. Especially in these days of historically low house prices, I am thankful that I do not have a piece of property that I might one day need to sell. I am thankful that I am able to have such a lovely home in a neighborhood I might otherwise not be able to afford. I am thankful that my congregation sees this as my home and not just their house. I am particularly thankful that when the windows start to leak, all I need to do is call the property committee and know that it will be taken care of. I'm thankful that you cannot see the church from the house or vice-versa. So, I will tell you that I love living in a parsonage. Most of the time.

This past week was an exception. Tuesday night I had a friend coming over to the house. Okay, I'll say it. A date. Given that I wasn't ready to be seen about town with a guy, the plan was to sit on my back porch, drink a beer and enjoy the garden and the lovely summer weather. It was a good plan.

That afternoon I was on the phone with the person who happens to be the co-chair of the property committee about a non-property related matter. At the end of our conversation he said, "Oh, by the way, "(uh oh) "we'll be at your house at 6 tonight. Don't worry, you don't need to be there." They were going to take out the dead tree behind the garage that was threatening the powerlines. Helpful, but... "Uh, how long do you think you'll be there?" I asked. "Oh, the other guy says it should only take an hour, but there's no telling." I emailed my date with the news.

At 6:20 pm I got home to find the lumberjacks (and a 6 year old assistant) hauling brush to the curb. They seemed to be making good progress. I helped them move the branches, made small talk with the guys. Helped the child cut a bouquet of flowers for her mom. Offered as much encouragement to the one chisling away at the tree trunk as I could. Looked at my watch. Checked my cell phone. By around 7:00, I went inside to take the call that my friend was on his way. While on the call I looked outside to see that the tree was now gone. Good. I told my friend the good news. Then I looked back outside to see the lumberjacks pulling a cooler out of their truck. Uh oh.

Twenty minutes later I've thanked the volunteers profusely for giving so kindly of their time. I've politely declined a beer (I mean, Bud Lite. Ick). I've answered their questions about the veggies in my garden. I've checked my watch and my cell phone several times. I've tried to subtly mention that maybe they need to get the 6 year old home for dinner. I'm feeling like an ungracious host. My cell phone vibrates.

Picture this: My date is sitting in his car in the parking lot of the corner store at the end of my street, sending me text messages, as the lumberjacks chat and drink beer in my driveway. This is one of those moments that people in other (normal) professions cannot fully appreciate.

Just as my date and I are working out where we might meet, I see the lumberjacks packing up their tools and driving away. Three minutes later my date pulled into the recently vacated driveway. And then it started to rain.