Back in the Neighborhood

Last week I engaged in an American ritual that was blazed by many before me. I moved back in with my parents. (Well, parent actually, my mom passed away last year.)

The reasons for my move are not particularly interesting nor are they completely within my control. Last December I finished classes for a Master's of Divinity. I am a rare breed these days. I want to become a pastor in a mainline denomination. Fifty years ago that would be similar to saying I want to be a doctor or a lawyer. Fifty years ago someone could graduate from seminary and have little trouble finding a job in a neighborhood. They would welcome a pastor as a trusted and vital part of the community. This is not 1963. I wish they would have told me from the start that for everyone person looking for a position there are about 20 applicants. It also doesn't help that the church in general is in decline and saying you work for a church usually invokes some kind of pedophile joke. The congregations are getting grey haired. People would rather go out to the park on a Sunday morning then spend it inside a church building. All this to say, finding a job and embracing my calling is not going to be a simple task. Until I do, it is the Derus homestead for me.

Home is in West Los Angeles. It is a tiny apartment just south of the affluent communities of Brentwood and Bel Air. My dad is a handyman by trade and for the mean time so am I. Most of his clients live north of us. We are a team. Together we fix plumbing, roofing, and even paint the occasional house. The pay is good and my cost of living is low so it appears I will be able to keep ahead of my bills in the immediate future.

I mention earlier that my mom died. It has been about six months. If she were alive the title of this blog would have inevitably been "The Derus Family." But her sudden heart attack has left a whole. Both my dad and I feel it. As I was moving in my dad and I had a conversation. We talked about what it meant for me to be moving back in. "We can look at this two ways," he pontificated as he laid back on the couch glass of scotch in hand, "You could sulk in the fact that you have to move back in here. In the process you will hate yourself. But the way I look at it I am getting older. I don't have the spring in my step that I used to. Most people do not get to spend their last good years with their kids. They have usually moved on by then and have kids of their own. It seems to me, your being here is a blessing. You will get a job, you are amazing at what you do. Let's make most of the time we have together before you move on to whatever adventure waits for you next."

Those were the right words at the right moment. It re-framed why I am in the place that I am in right now in life. It gave me a new focus and appreciation for what could otherwise be a tough journey.  In short this blog is about the privilege of checking things off the family bucket list with my dad. It is an extra inning, an encore performance, a beautiful epilogue.

If you stick with me on this journey you are in for a treat. My dad does not sit around all day spouting wisdom from behind a glass of scotch. He's a colorful character. He has his own table at the local comedy club because the manager loves it when he comes to heckle. He knows the name of every homeless person from our apartment to the end of the Santa Monica Pier, and for some reason there are 50 pounds of potatoes on our dining room table. All in all, it is going to be a very interesting ride.

Here he is with his sack of potatoes. Somethings I still do not get about my dad. :)