I’ve been a Central Jersey resident for nearly a year, but I don’t much act like it. I may be here during the week for work, but my weekends are mostly spent elsewhere—visiting friends, or family, or old locations in the north (that is, Jersey) because I haven’t found another hair stylist I like or an IKEA. Not that I’ve looked too hard.

I’d planned to only stay in my apartment for a year, but then I wound up with a renewed lease. It seemed a good time to start planting roots.

The local parish—which is so close, I can walk to it—was starting a six-week Bible study. It seemed the best start for someone who doesn’t plan to stay nearby forever. Besides, I hadn’t been part of a Bible study in the Catholic Church yet. I do love new perspectives on things. It’s been a few weeks now, and it’s good. I’m finally meeting people in the local parish. I can go to Mass and say hello to someone, because I know them, and we’ve bonded over the Gospel of John.

I still kept some distance, though. They all go to dinner together beforehand, but I haven’t gone yet. A part of me still thinks this as temporary (“only six weeks”), and I don’t want to get connected. But they do go to a great local Italian restaurant, so I’m missing out on more than just good conversation.

Then there was the ministry fair. They talked it up during Bible study, and I’ve wanted to be a lector since I knew lectors were even a thing. But would they let me do anything, if I wasn’t officially a member of the parish? I didn’t even tithe there—my money went to my Confirmation parish—and my attendance had been spotty with my summer travels. But I attended the fair anyway to scope out what’s available for this part-time Central Jersey resident.

No one asks of your church membership. They don’t even expect you to be there every week. When I approached the lector table (where I knew someone from Bible study, too), she pushed me toward the sign-up sheet.
“I don’t even like public speaking,” I said, despite my obvious interest.
“Neither do I!” she laughed.
So I signed up. And then she directed me to the music ministry table, because she knows I’m a flute player. There, too, I was enthusiastically welcomed. The music director dragged me around the room, introducing me to the handbell choir director (of which I’d expressed interest) and showing where they rehearse before Mass. He pulled out the C instrument folder, which was looking a little dusty, and flipped through all the hymns for the season like I’d be learning them that very moment.

I remembered the excitement of newness, desiring to be part of something you didn’t even know you wanted to be a part of. I remembered the nerves, too, because God has a tendency to guide in directions you never expected—and are sometimes afraid of. Here’s me, prone to performance anxiety, volunteering for two very performance-centric ministries. But these are my gifts, even if I break out in a cold sweat and my hands tremble. It gets easier with time. It’s less scary when it’s for God. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I’m not abandoning my roots. I can still attend Mass in North Jersey, and wave to people I know; I can still text the priest at odd hours of the night with bizarre questions and revelations. But it doesn’t get more local than a seven-minute walk, and we’re instructed to be part of a local community. I know I won’t stay in this area forever. But I see this now as the stepping stone that it is: the place where I begin to learn how to use my gifts and talents for God and the Church. The next leg of the journey, if you will.