Let me back up. In case you’ve joined us recently, let me explain. For the last couple years I’ve held a volunteer position at my church that gave me the nifty title of “advocate.” It also gave me a small group of women who themselves led groups of other women (the groups are called “small groups”—inventive, no?—at our church, but other churches call them life groups or community groups or house churches, or whatever, because we Christians love to name things you know; Adam started it).

Back to the pod. I had this group of women and for about a year I didn’t do anything more than what was expected of me. And I hated it. Well, hate is a strong word, but it wasn’t enough, and I knew it, and they knew it. I knew we could do something big, and we were just doing something small.

So in October of 2009, I rebooted the group, gave them a new vision, had a couple dinner parties to launch the new pod, and set off to change the world (or at least how small groups are done at our church).

I don’t know if I really accomplished that. I don’t know that I said everything I wanted to say, or that I developed my leaders as much as I wanted to. I don’t know if I made any lasting dent in the system itself.

But at least I can say I shook things up a bit.

What a blast I had, shaking things up.

Our group bonded fast and hard. We were different, and we made it known. Every month when we met at the church, I brought a big blue comforter and set it up under a giant fake “tree” at the entrance to the kids’ area. I lit a candle, spread out candies, or opened bags of cookies. We lounged and talked. We brought up problems and proposed solutions. We laughed at often-inappropriate jokes. We talked about things women only talk about when surrounded by other women.

I got to watch these women (along with others who joined later) grow in their confidence, in their clarity of vision, in their problem solving, in their creativity. I watched new groups spring up and take everyone by surprise. I cheered them on. I observed their groups and gave them written evaluations. I met with them to brainstorm solutions and to think up questions we hadn’t thought to ask yet. I tried to challenge them, inspire them. I believed in them, and I threw myself into supporting them and pushing them to aspire for more.

Every time one of the girls had a birthday, I brought her a tiara to wear, and we gave her presents and flowers, and the rest of us wore birthday hats and looked insane and goofy in front of a crowd of people (none of whom were wearing crowns or hats)—which worked like a charm to cement the bonds within the group and to create and foster a group identity. We were the loud ones, and I’m sure we were often annoying, but I was willing to have a loud, obnoxious, and potentially annoying group if it meant that said group was also intensely bonded and highly effective. Which I believe we were.

This went on for about a year. During the summer of last year, I was on fire, and I was imagining a future that never materialized. I wanted to make this more than a volunteer position, I wanted to be more involved, I wanted to help translate the changes I had been implementing in my own group to the system at large. I began taking notes, making lists, assembling a dream team I might call on to help execute my ideas and plans.

But none of that happened. I was on the job market, and I got the teaching gig at the university. Then, I started the job and quickly fell in love with it. Teaching began to eclipse the pod and pod-related activities. It demanded so much of me—emotionally, logistically. And it was easy to give in, because I loved it so much.

I knew something would eventually give. I was exhausted after teaching, and being an advocate was emotionally and physically taxing. More taxing, however, than the actual advocate work itself was the odd drain of being the different one. Everything I loved about the pod, its challenging of the status quo, its demand that others take notice, its questioning, all those attributes were also in and of themselves an emotional and mental drain on me, a drain I hadn’t noticed before I was simultaneously working in another emotionally draining field.

I began to make exit plans—plans, again, that would not be realized.

At the beginning of this month, I found out that the church is restructuring the way they do small groups to a regional model that I actually think is rather brilliant and could eventually revolutionize the way these groups look. Along with the restructuring came a shuffling of pods. Also to a regional model. All my girls are from different parts of town, so I would be getting a new pod. A new group that would need to bond, a new group identity to recognize and shape. I would be starting from the ground up.

Normally, this would energize me, but I knew I didn’t have it in me, not this time.

Sadly, I had to admit that my time was up. The exit plans had to be abandoned. Our last semester of work left undone. I submitted my resignation and knew it was the right decision, but in the week leading up to our last meeting I was quiet, melancholy. This was the end of a little era, a time of my life I enjoyed ardently, recklessly. This was months of work, of thinking, of imagining, of challenging and asking what if and why not. This was a group of women who loved one another, a group of women I loved deeply.

Our last meeting was Thursday, and I didn’t light a candle under the tree, but I did have chocolates on hand. And after our last meeting was over, I picked up my stuff and put it in my car and left, knowing it was the last time and also knowing that I had shed the last tears over it. It was time. It was time—these were the words that had made me cry when I said them to my “Pod People,” not because I hadn’t known the group would eventually end, but because I knew it had to, because I knew we had accomplished everything we needed to, and because all the things that went undone were not meant to be done, not by me anyway, and not yet.

The day before it happened, before the pod ended, Jesse ran across this quote by Lao Tzu: “When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.”

It was time to let go. It’s time to see what’s next.

And so, the beginning of a new year, the ending of a good thing, but I am no longer sad. I am hopeful. I am excited. I am letting go.

Daisies from the party

Last night was our pod dinner party, summer edition. I spent all day preparing for it, cleaning the house, shopping for the food, cooking. The menu:

Appetizers: caprese salad (mozzarella with tomatoes and basil from our garden), crusty bread with roasted garlic, and yellow teardrop tomatoes from our garden.

Main: Chicken with roasted garlic cream sauce, rosemary red-skinned potatoes, green beans with lemon and almonds.

Dessert: chocolate torte, recipe compliments of my wonderful mother-in-law.

Jesse came home early from work to help me move some heavy things out of the dining room and to return two of the dining room chairs he’d borrowed for something in his office. On the way home, I had him pick up a few things from the store I’d forgotten. He saved the day! Then, he spent the evening holed up in his office while us ladies gabbed nonstop and laughed uproariously, sipping green tea Ginger Ale out of champagne flutes.

I gave the girls an optional “assignment” if they wanted to further develop their leadership skills on top of what we’re doing in our pod meetings. They teased me unremittingly for how teacher-ish it was of me, and I grinned. Then I forgot to tell them my good news—I’ve been given three Intro to Lit classes at UNCW for the fall!

Sometime after 9:00, the girls left and I washed the dishes and Jesse ventured out of the office for the slice of torte I’d saved him. He gave me a sweet card congratulating me on my new job. After the china was put up and the serving platters dried, I ran myself a bubble bath and started Anna Karenina and felt very very happy.

Lately, all I can think about is advocacy at Port City. (If you need to get caught up, here’s what I’ve said before about my Pod) I had a meeting with Jennifer Leech last Thursday, and since then I’ve felt like a live wire. Like, I’m pulsing. Thinking about the possibilities, the potential. Ah. I feel like something huge could happen, and I have ideas about how to make it happen. And the ideas just come in waves, one right after another, and I’m talking about it constantly, testing my ideas on Jesse, Sharon, the Paschals, Jasara. Anyone crazy enough to let me jabber on for a while.

There are a few things in life that wind me up like this. Writing something I think could be really good. Leading groups. Thinking about ways to change the world. It’s very physical, when it happens—I get jumpy with the energy, like there’s something in my body that’s going to burst out, like the idea is energy itself, pushing through my veins.

And when people hear the ideas and they seem to get it, when they see the possibilities I see and their eyes light up, oh that’s crack to me. That’s addictive.

Poor Jesse, it’s like how I listen to music. I get a new album and literally play it constantly, on repeat. Right now, the music is advocacy, the ideas, and Jesse has to hear it constantly. I know it’s not his passion, that it must bore him, so sometimes I don’t say what I’m thinking, I just sort of space out and think. And sometimes he asks what I’m thinking and I just smile and say guess, and he knows.

The last two days, I’ve woken up before the alarm, thinking about small groups and advocacy, and I can’t go back to sleep, I have to let the thoughts play themselves out, I have to rehearse it, turn the ideas over and around and examine them from every angle, trying to see what I’m not seeing yet, trying to think what I’ve not thought yet.

So if you see me spacing out, you know where I am, you know what I’m thinking about, you know what questions I’m asking—what if the impossible were possible, what if the right idea is the one that seems wrong at first, what if everything is backward and upside down? What if? What if? What if? Oh, my favorite question in the world.

The blog I thought I was going to write today was full of enthusiasm, my typical gushing, my typical excitement. Because things really are going quite well. Another draft of the book is finished. I watch several lovely children who are growing and learning things. I lead a group of amazing women I absolutely love, and they are going to change the world. Against all odds, the checkbook stays balanced, and we are in the black. I’m going back to Congo in t-minus ten weeks and four days.

But, right now, everything is just so heavy. I’m not doing anything that I can let slide. Everything is important, and everything has implications that affect other people. This is going to sound stupid, and probably painfully lazy, but I wish I had something I could just slack off on. Not because I want to do a so-so job at something—but because I feel, especially after last night, the weight of what I’m carrying, and there are days when it feels particularly heavy.

Last night I stood in front of a room full of people—of advocates, leaders—and told them I believed that small group leaders are the leaders of the church. Which makes us—the advocates—the leaders of the leaders. So, it’s our ship. And it’s either going down, or it’s going to sail. And I don’t know if anyone else heard it louder than I did, the level of responsibility and authority in that. I’m not even twenty-seven yet! I can’t lead a church! I don’t know Greek! (Actually, wouldn’t it be kind of cool to know Greek? But unfortunately I don’t think that gets you any closer to understanding, because most of us can barely understand things written in modern English, so I’m not even sure that knowing Greek really means as much as we think it does.)

I posted on Facebook a line about pod stuff, and I think some context is appropriate. Our church has groups called “small groups”—they’re meant to be little communities where people can love each other and challenge each other. They’re supposed to make a big church feel small. And each small group leader is put into a “pod” with other small group leaders. And those pods are led by advocates. I’m an advocate, so I’ve got a pod, four women who lead groups, and my job is to make sure they’re the best leaders they can be, that they’re constantly growing, and that their groups are as healthy as possible.

We meet once a month as a group; we eat together, we listen to a message, we talk about the leadership book we’re studying. If it’s someone’s birthday month, she wears a tiara (a real one—no plastic tiara for my girls! Okay, but they are rhinestones, not diamonds, but I’m going to say that’s not because I’m poor but because I don’t want to put a bunch of conflict diamonds on one of their precious heads. Ha!) and the rest of us wear birthday hats and bring her presents. Everyone else looks at us like we’re crazy, but we know they’re secretly jealous. (Is that okay in a church environment? Probably not. Well, I’ve never claimed to be a role model.) One of the things that works best is we have a group identity. The pod is its own character, and we love the pod. We’re committed to the pod.

I’m currently doing evaluations on their groups and their leadership, something I’ve never done before, and I think it’s going to be another game-changer for our group, because we’re about to get real specific, real intentional. The proverbial rubber will meet the road. I’m excited because I’ve never felt like I had the authority to come into their groups and intentionally observe them as leaders. But that’s changed in recent months, and here we are. And I think it will work because I think they know I’m on their team. I so desperately want them to succeed, and when that means telling them the truth, no matter how brutal, that’s what I’ll do. Because I want their success as leaders above everything else, including my popularity or “nice girl” image.

And I told the group of advocates that I spoke to last night that I feel I have yet to reach the level of “bare minimum” of what an advocate should do and be. Heavy. But that’s how big I feel the job is, and I slacked off on this job for a year and a half, and I’m not going back, not ever. I’ll quit this before I go back to not really leading the group, to being a “facilitator.”

Which brings me back around. Look at that. There really isn’t anything in my life that I can slack on. Part of that is because I’ve jettisoned—or am in the process of jettisoning—the commitments I could slack on. The outliers, the ones my heart wasn’t in. But the unintended result of that is a night like last night, a morning like this one, where I feel the weight.

I’ve got the day off today. I’m going to write. I’m working on an essay I’d like to start shopping around (if it goes well, which we’ve yet to determine). I’m going to do yoga in my living room. I’m going to make biscuits. I’m going call Simona and lie around in my PJs and maybe watch a Rob Bell video. And I’m going to pray and read and just be at home, with my cats, with no audience but Oliver and Gracie, who love me no matter what…as long as I’m on time with their dinner.

On Thursday night, I met with my Pod People and implemented some ideas Sue gave me. On second Thursdays, we meet at the church, and as nice as the environment can be, it’s just not the same as meeting in someone’s house. Our dinner parties of late last year were loads of fun for me, and for them too, I hope. So, to work around the less-than-ideal environment, I brought an old comforter that I spread on the floor under a giant fake tree at the entrance to the kids’ ministry section. I brought a vase of daisies and poured out a bag of individually wrapped dark chocolates. I lit a lavender candle (that Sue gave me!). We lounged, picnic-style, and talked about their groups, the successes and the challenges. Much better, I thought, than sitting in chairs.

Today, I spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon preparing for our taxes, reading up on the self-employment tax, SEP IRAs vs. individual 401ks, deductions for business expenses, the endless debate on which is better, Vanguard or Fidelity (any ideas? I’ve heard Vanguard has lower fees…). When my brain could take no more, I crashed on the futon, fully intending to read but falling asleep before getting up the energy to crack open the book. I was covered with this fluffy robe my parents gave me for Christmas, and Oliver was curled up next to me, purring. Bliss.

Also, The Great Calendar Hunt of Twenty-Ten. I thought I’d be clever and wait until after New Year’s to get my calendar. Thought I’d get a good deal. Ha. Apparently, in a recession, everyone waits until January for their new wall calendars. The selection at Barnes and Nobel consisted of Betty Boop, Playboy, and Twilight. None of which I want on my kitchen wall. So, after a day of searching in what apparently were all the wrong places, I went home calendar-less. Which, for me, means: disoriented and slightly panicked, with no idea what she’s supposed to be doing the next day.

After much lament, I decided to give my computer’s calendar program another whirl. In the past, I just haven’t warmed to the digital calendar. But this year might be different. Twenty-ten, you know, it’s the future. Right? And of course, since deciding this and taking the time to set up my recurring appointments and obligations, I found plenty of calendars, all half-off, just lying around waiting to be bought by me. But I still want to give the (free) iCal a chance, a really fair shake this time. And paying six bucks for a wall calendar when January is practically over (okay, fine, almost half over) makes me feel I just won’t be getting my money’s worth. You don’t just get those two weeks back.

And there’s the Pampered Chef party I’m having next Friday. (If you’re in town, come over. If not, order kitchen stuff here: http://www.pamperedchef.biz/amydegler — just put in “Erin Bond” and buy stuff! I want free kitchen accessories! I’m poor!) Sending postcards and setting up online invites and realizing I really have to have my house cleaned up by then. Just tonight I finally did the last load of laundry from the holidays. Said load is still in the dryer and must be put away, but I’m nearly there…

Tonight was nice—easy, calming, a late dinner of bone-in chicken breasts roasted in garlic butter, and one or our favorites, corn maque choux, a creamy, buttery, tangy mess of deliciousness. Corn maque choux is comfort food at its ideal—even making it is comforting. Chopping the onion and the red pepper, slicing the kernels off the corncobs, stirring in the cream. While the chicken roasted, I prepped everything on the enormous butcher block that came home with me over the holidays. It’s so nice and big that I could push each veggie off to the side while I chopped the next one. When it was time to make the dish, I just scooped each new ingredient into my hands and dumped it into the waiting pan. Like a cooking-show host, just without the cool glass bowls.

The slow evening was the perfect follow up to a blissfully productive day. I had a meeting with Sue, who has agreed to mentor me in leadership, and she’s just a brilliant woman. Girl knows her stuff. I’m doing this for the pod, because I want it to be incredible, because I want us all to grow, because I want twenty-ten to be transformative, to have an unstoppable momentum. And Sue was perfect; I left her place charged up and ready to go. We talked about vision, about leading with the end in mind, about scheduling, about communication, about flowers. (More on that later.) I came home and made a master task list and got to work, not allowing myself to get on Facebook until this evening. Tonight, before bed I’ll make my “six things” list for tomorrow, the six things that must get done (and no more, so I won’t get frustrated if I don’t finish the list).

Until today, twenty-ten has felt busy without being particularly productive, freezing cold with no snow, time passing both quickly and slowly. Is January not over yet? Memories of a rough January last year. But it’s supposed to be sixty-four on Friday, and tomorrow I’ll have six things that will get done, and disappointments will eventually fade into memories, and there’s a whole year of changes still in this story.

I was the overachiever, the over-involved, I was young and had no need for full nights of sleep. I had just come out of community college, where I’d spent most of high school taking dual-enrollment classes. There was little to nothing that ever seemed to happen at the tiny Titusville campus of Brevard Community College (the honors English class I hoped to take was eventually cancelled after I was the only one to sign up for it). So, when I got to UCF, I decided to do it all. I went to work, padding my resume as much as I could.

Sigma Tau was part of my push to be involved in everything, but the little club was at that time a lot like the Titusville BCC. Nothing was really happening. I was active in other clubs and had just interviewed for a fairly important spot on an executive board of an established leadership organization. I thought my involvement in Sigma Tau would stop at attending meetings, maybe participating in a fundraiser here or there, and so on.

So, I showed up for the meeting. As I remember, it was me, Sabrina, and the outgoing president. Maybe our faculty advisor was there. Maybe not. I’m fuzzy on the details, but clear on one thing: Sabrina and I walked out of the meeting de-facto president and vice-president of the club. Sabrina was a clear choice—she was the only one who was actually doing anything in the club, probably more active for the chapter than the president had been. But I hadn’t intended to be part of the Sigma Tau leadership; I had just showed up.

As we left the meeting room, the outgoing president said to us: “Don’t bother trying to do anything with Sigma Tau. No one shows up, no one’s interested, no one cares. My best advice is to put your energies into other endeavors.”

Well.

He meant to be helpful. And he was more helpful than he could have realized. What he did was pose a challenge. A dying, derelict club with no influence, no prominence, and no member activity. And the guy in charge, telling us not to waste our time.

What you should know about Sabrina—and I hope she doesn’t mind my talking for her; I’m sure she will correct me if I’m wrong—is that she was more of an overachiever than I was. Not in the negative sense. She was, and is, the most intensely productive person I’ve ever met, and it seems to be part of her nature to accomplish more than the average human being is even capable of. Maintaining a high GPA while balancing work, campus involvement, and a thriving social life seemed like nothing to her. She’s the consummate multi-tasker, is absolutely brilliant, is a risk-taker. I swear she runs on batteries that never seem to need much recharging. What she wants, she makes happen. And she does it all while looking better than the rest of us, too.

We started talking about what was, and what could be. I ended up getting the position I’d interviewed for. I turned it down. I wanted to devote all my energies to Sigma Tau. Around this time, Sabrina and I were in a grammar class with Zea, and she hopped on board with the whole Sigma Tau experiment. We were going to make it great. I knew we could prove everyone wrong, that we could accomplish what seemed impossible.

And we did.

Those were some of my favorite college experiences. The club went from nonexistent to thriving. We were landing in the school newspaper, we were organizing lectures with standing room only, we were having a blast.

I miss that. Here is something I’m going to put on my desk, or on my wall, or somewhere I’ll look at it regularly: “What do I believe is impossible to do in my field…but if it could be done would fundamentally change my business?” I don’t know where it originated from, but Andy Stanley quoted it in his book, Next Generation Leader. (This from the same author as Visioneering.)

It made me think about Sigma Tau. That’s what we had to do. We had no other option. Continuing with the status quo meant death for the club, and we weren’t interested in presiding over a dead club.

For a while now, I’ve felt like I’ve been in a rut. There is a whole lot of status quo and not a lot of thinking about how to accomplish the impossible. And now I’ve got this group of leaders I’m responsible for, my Pod People, and we had kind of been going along at a decent pace, but it was just exactly what was expected. And nothing that was unexpected. So, I’ve been thinking for the past few months—what if? What is, and what could be?

What I told them at the dinner party this week is that the worst danger facing their groups is mediocrity. So, time to start practicing what I preach. (Now, if I could just figure out how Sabrina gets so much done…)

I don’t know how it happened. He seemed fine last year. I’ve had him for a few years, but last year was the first I remembered him and actually put some salt in him in time for Thanksgiving dinner. This year, though, I remembered in plenty of time to be using him for a whole month. But I washed him yesterday, and as he dried, well…his face fell off. I feel kind of bad about throwing him away, but I don’t think I can use a faceless Mr. Thanksgiving saltshaker. A little too creepy.

The reason I brought out the holiday-themed salt and pepper shakers was I thought I might use them as a kitschy little accent for the dinner party I had with my “pod” last night. (I ended up keeping the shakers off the table, in case the leprosy was contagious and the others started shedding their faces.)

The pod is a group of church small group leaders who meet with me about once a month. I call them my Pod People. We talk about their groups, and they share all the brilliant ideas they have, and I talk about the ridiculously ambitious goals I have for them. Last night was the first night we incorporated food, and it was as we thought it would be—everything is better when there’s eating involved.

Oh, so the eating part: for appetizers, we had figs stuffed with blue cheese and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. (The easiest appetizer in the world, and one I always resort to. Split the figs from top to bottom, leaving the bottoms intact to hold them together. Cram in a wedge of blue cheese, do the drizzling, pop them in the oven until they’re bubbly and fantastic, and voila!) Thai-style shrimp with coconut milk and tomatoes over rice, and a salad on the side. We drank Italian sodas out of champagne flutes and followed it all with a chocolate trifle. My kind of dinner party: things that look and sound fancy but are ridiculously, fall-off-a-log easy to make.

I spent the afternoon cleaning the house and prepping the food (chopping the veggies, making the dessert, de-tailing two pounds of shrimp). At one point, I had the shrimp in a bowl of water, thawing, and I was chopping tomatoes and onions and garlic and ginger off to the side. Oliver thought it would be a fine idea to jump onto the counter, but there was some water where he jumped and he slipped—and before finding his footing, he knocked into the bowl of shrimp. Imagine it: I have a sink full of soapy water to the left of the bowl. I have vegetables to the right. Oliver jumps between the sink and the shrimp and clips the bowl, and I gasp and lunge—in slow motion, of course—for the bowl, catching it in time to keep about half the shrimp in the bowl. The other half flew through the air, onto the floor and into the sink of soapy water.

I quickly forgot how pitiful Oliver looked in his cone, how I promised never to be mad at him again, no matter what he did. There was shrimp and shrimp-water all over my kitchen. There were shrimp in my dishwater!

I scooped up the shrimp off the floor (gross) and fished them out of the dishwater (even grosser) and then set about to rinsing the heck out of those little guys. I had a bottle of veggie cleaner on the sink that I had just used on the tomatoes. So, I thought, it couldn’t hurt, and I squirted some on the shrimp as I continued to rinse, rinse, rinse.

After I got the mess cleaned up, I had to go apologize to Oliver for some of the things I said during the whole ordeal. Other than that, the dinner went off without a hitch.

Mr. Thanksgiving, on the other hand…