Anybody have the classifieds section?

On my weekly trip to the Stop n’ Shop to get soup supplies, I noticed something a little shady going down. I was walking out with my groceries when a couple of men in translucent pantyhose masks casually walked in, picked up the ATM, and walked out. The cashier started to protest, but I think he decided that it wasn’t worth it. Nobody uses that machine anyways.

This was the first week that I realized what quitting my job really meant. No money. Maybe I should have gotten in on the ATM robbery. I’ve got a fair amount of savings left, but I’m going to need to stop buying a new box of wine every week. I love volunteering at the soup kitchen, but I’m going to need to find a paying job within the next few weeks if I want to keep eating. I wonder what I could do?

Let’s see....

Real-estate? No. Nobody wants to move here.
Waitress? I’m too clumsy. I’d drop plates all over everywhere. I would definitely get fired.
Stripper? Ha.
Cop? Not here. Those cops didn’t even notice the masked thieves loading an ATM into their parking lot.
Cashier at the food vendor place? Nah. I saw Alice Taylor over there doing coke with Pastor Dan and some crazy guy that kept saying he was winning. That’s not my thing.
Desk clerk? Maybe. I’ll think on it.

I thought about scrapping a job completely and going on the road with my clown, but I had to break up with him. I don’t think I can handle all the travel. And I caught him messing around with a hot female fire-breather. Yeah... it was mostly the fire-breather thing.

I’ll need to keep thinking about a job. If anybody has any offers, I’m glad to hear them.

LIFE!

Do you know what freedom feels like? Freedom is the chance to run barefoot through town, dropping the F-bomb whenever I feel like it. Freedom is serving Campbell’s at the soup kitchen instead of making it myself. Freedom is reading any book other than the Bible. Freedom is wearing jeans. JEANS. And T-shirts. Hell, freedom is wearing tank tops that barely cover my naughty parts. For the first time in my life, I’m free.

I thought long and hard about my decision to put my life with Christ on hold. I’m sure it’s not a choice that God would be proud of, and I may one day regret it, but that day is not today. Last week, as I sat in the soup kitchen, horrified that I had somehow jinxed the carnival, I realized that I was stuck. My days consisted of prayer and cooking, and I was slowly losing my sanity. I don’t know if this break will go on for the rest of the week or the rest of my life, but I know that I need to walk on a new path for a while.

My first step in this new path? Going out on a date. With a clown. That’s right, a clown. It was the first date I had ever been on, and it was wonderful. He rode into the soup kitchen on a unicycle and stole my heart. He’s not the type that I would immediately bring home to my mother, but he makes me feel alive. Clowns don’t make much money, and neither do recently-unemployed nuns (I still volunteer at the soup kitchen), so we snuck into the fair after closing for our first date. We ate leftover pickled eggs and corn dogs, with some cotton candy for dessert. We ate  in the bumper cars, some of which were inhabited by other clowns. Brian Bunderson rolled through the carnival a few times as though he were lost, and he acted like he had no limbs. All four were clearly intact, but I wasn’t concerned about his apparent insanity. I was preoccupied by my date.  It wasn’t much, but it was perfect.

A new path?

I think I’m jinxed. The second I talk about how happy I am because of this carnival, it all goes to Hell (Maybe I shouldn’t have said “Hell.” God forgive me). A fire broke out in the food trailer, causing a great ruckus and freaking everyone out. People were running around, screaming words that should never be heard by any God-fearing man or woman. Anyways, it was bad. And I caused it.

I’m starting to believe that I’m not cut out for being a nun.  I don’t like wearing the same blue habit every day, I don’t like telling people that God’s word is the only way, I don’t like being single, and I don’t like having to watch my tongue. It’d be nice if I could just drop a cuss word every now and then like a normal person. Oh ... and nobody liked my cotton candy soup. How can I be a good nun if I can’t even feed good food to the hungry? Maybe I should retire.

Open your arms and welcome the joy of today!

Sun.

Finally.

The wet, slushy mess of almost-snow has cleared out, and I can actually look forward to going outside! People have stopped sleeping in the soup kitchen, and that has given me the chance to sit down and have some time to myself during work. I've decided to use this time to think of some more recipes for the kitchen. I've gotten tired of slicing tomatoes.

My first new recipe is sure to please. It's creative, tasty, and colorful. I think I'm going to win some awards with this one. The secret ingredient? Cotton candy. I guess it's not so much of a secret now that I've told you this, but this is just too great of an idea for me to hide! Soup that doubles as a dessert. Brilliant.

This wonderful idea was inspired by the carnival that has come into town. It's not the most put-together of carnivals (none of the rides could really be described as safe), but I'm confident that God is keeping everyone intact. A carnival is what this town really needed – something fun.

Actually, my best experience so far at the carnival was when the ferris wheel shut down. There weren't enough cars for everyone to ride alone, so I paired up with the sweetest little old woman named Babushka. We didn't really acknowledge each other until the ride suddenly jerked to a stop. Turns out that old ladies aren't huge fans of danger. Babushka was pretty frightened, and let some Russian words skip that I'm pretty sure God wouldn't like very much. I put a hand on her shoulder to show that I was there to help, and she gave me a look of sincere appreciation. My gesture didn't really calm her nerves or her colorful language, but it was the first time since I've been here that I've felt genuinely appreciated. In my months of living here and working myself to the bone, all i had to do was put my hand on a woman's shoulder. Funny.

God has certainly resurfaced in this town. I was at the end of my rope a few weeks ago, but I'm climbing back up now. I don't know if it's the happiness that the carnival brought or the much-needed sunshine, but I'm starting to look forward to everyday here. Let's hope this lasts.

Are you there, God?

Miserable. This town, this weather, these people, everything. And I can't do anything about it.

It hasn't stopped raining in three days, and habits do not dry quickly. The soup kitchen smells like wet dog, and the homeless have resorted to sleeping here. It's not in my nature to deny someone a dry place to sleep, but this will simply not work for much longer. Who wants to eat in a place that smells like someone up and died in the corner? If this goes on for much longer, I'm going to vomit. And that simply is not sanitary.

On top of the rain, the last few days have shown me things that no one should ever have to see. On my way home from work, I heard a horrible crash just down the block. I arrived to see a young athlete spread along the pavement like a pancake that wasn't completely cooked. It took all I had not to break down right there. All I could do was try to console other onlookers and assure them that God had a good reason for this. I stayed there until the scene was cleaned up, doing my best to help. I couldn't help but notice Corbie MacIntyre sitting alone, watching the cleanup and talking to a bird. Tragedy can drive us all crazy sometimes. I thought about going up to her to offer my prayers, but it seemed like the bird was the only one who could help.

As if that weren't enough, I heard some talk of a severed head floating up out of a flooded manhole last night. Could things get any worse? Not only is a man hit by a bus, but another man is horrendously murdered and decapitated? I keep trying to tell myself that this is all part of God's plan, but I'm not sure I'm going to be able to convince myself this time. If God has a reason for this, it better be a damn good one. I didn't sign up for this.

If angels play harps, who plays sousaphones?

   It's been almost a week in this little town, and it's starting to grow on me. Well, something's starting to grow on me . It could be a fungus. Should I worry if my robe is beginning to grow green fuzz? It's kinda pretty. Fungi aside, this town is alright. People are a little odd here, but I haven't seen anything too over the top. Actually, I think the townspeople see me as the weirdo. They keep staring at me. It could be the habit (the standard issue nun robe), or it could be the fact that I've been hurrying around town, passing out pamphlets about the Lord. But that's part of my job. I didn't just come here for my own new beginning, I came for the beginnings of everyone here. It's never too late to trade in your stripper pole for a Bible. But sooner is probably better for some of these heathens.
   Anyways, I've gotten into a routine after six days here. I wake up at promptly 5:45am, do my meditation and prayer until 6:30, have a nice breakfast of eggs and tea, and make my way to the soup kitchen. I usually head home around 8 or 9pm, depending on how many hungry mouths I need to feed. Ok, I shouldn't lie. I wish I woke up at 5:45am. The Lord is just going to have to forgive me for waking up around 6:15 or 7. Nuns need their beauty sleep too. How am I to be a cheery soup-provider if I'm running on empty? Nevermind that. The point is that I have a routine. And it hasn't been disturbed. Until today.
   I headed home a little early today. Apparently, nobody was hungry. Maybe they were all having a party and didn't invite me (which wouldn't bode well for them in Heaven. Everyone knows that nuns can party with the rest of 'em). Anyways, I was about to go into Watershed Heights when I heard the faint sound of a tuba in the distance. Sousaphone, I guess you'd call it. I wandered around in search of the sound, when I saw a woman playing the giant instrument, her case set out next to her in hopes to collect a few dimes. Poor woman! That's no way to make a living. She'll throw her back out before she sees her first dollar! I sat and listened to her for a while, and she waved at me as though she wanted money.  I didn't have any. Habits don't have pockets (which is unfortunate, because that defeats the purpose of the pocket Bible I got when I left the Abbey). Perhaps I'll come back tomorrow with a few dollars for her. That'd just make her day, wouldn't it?
   On another note, this soup kitchen gig is going pretty well for the most part. This town is never short of hungry people, so I'm always busy. I'm going to need to come up with some new soup recipes. Tomato is probably getting old. I'll make a survey for my soup-eaters tomorrow. I really enjoy being able to feed these people. It makes me feel trusted. I mean, I could put anything in my soup, and these people would still eat it! I could slowly poison half of this town, and nobody would know until it was too late. Not that I would, of course. The Lord has had his share of mass murders (Noah wasn't the only one on Earth when he caused that flood, y'know. And those plagues didn't go away without claiming a few hundred victims either), but I was sent here to teach the word of God and feed the homeless, not destroy a city.
   Well, it's about time for bed. I'm going to do my best to wake up on time tomorrow. This town needs work, and the Lord sent me to get the job done. Who knows? Maybe people won't look at me so funny once they get a taste of my soup. Get your mind out of the gutter. I meant real soup. Heathens.

A New Day in a New Town

  It's not every day that you move to a new city. In fact, I've never done it before. So it's no surprise that I'm a little bewildered. Well, it may actually be a surprise to some of the people in this town. I don't know what it is yet, but there's something about this town that's just a little....off. But I shan't dwell on that now. The good Lord asks me not to judge those who I have not gotten to know. Don't judge a book by its cover, right? Unless it's the Bible. That's supposed to be a good read.
  Anyways, it's a new town, and I have a new job, so I need a new name. Sister Agnes is getting annoying. I never liked my sister, and that just makes me think of her more than I would wish (don't call me a bad Christian for disliking my sister. God tells me not to judge those who I don't know. And trust me, I know my sister.) So, since I'm dropping the Sister, and since I'm the new head nun at the soup kitchen on Kush, I'm going to go by Reverend Mother Agnes Monaghan. I wish I could drop the Agnes. That's a horrid name. I'm 24 years old; Agnes makes me sound like I'm 108. But Agnes is a good Catholic name, so I may as well keep it. Reverend Mother Agnes Monaghan it is. Reverend Mother should really be reserved for the head nuns of convents and abbeys, but I am the head nun of a soup kitchen, and I deem that worthy of the title. Besides, the title is kind of badass. But don't tell anyone that I said ass. 
  You may be questioning my devotion to the Catholic church and my job as a nun, and you have the right to. If I could, I'd be a doctor or a writer or a winemaker or something. But there was never any chance for me to be anything but a nun. It's like a family tradition. That, by the way, doesn't make any sense. Nuns aren't supposed to get married, and they're REALLY not supposed to have babies out of wedlock, so they're all crappy nuns too. Regardless of my unorthodox methods of nunnery (is that a word? who even cares?), I do believe in God, and I do care for the people who I will soon be feeding soup to. And whether or not I like this job, it has to be better than that teaching gig I had at Our Lady of Sorrows elementary school in New Jersey. I'm not much for wacking kids on the knuckles with rulers. I don't think God would like that very much either, as a matter of fact. I do, however, wonder why the nun who ran the soup kitchen before me was so desperate to leave. It probably has something to do with the fact that this city is sketchy. REALLY sketchy. But again, no judging.
  So this soup kitchen that I run now is on Kush. It's next to a clinic and a Church of God. That should be interesting. I mean, for all intents and purposes, I'm VERY Catholic. This should be fun. There's a graveyard and a homeless hangout behind the kitchen, so at least I know that I'm within spitting distance of the people I'm serving (not that I would ever spit. I'm a lady).
  Anyways, I'm in apartment 206b at the moment. It's tiny and smelly, but my stuff fits in it, and that works for me. I really should be living in a convent somewhere, but there's nowhere closeby, and this will give me the opportunity to get to know some of God's children who I would have never involved myself with before. It's time for me to step up and realize that I'm one of them now. I'm a strange, shady person living in a rundown little city that desperately needs a remodel. Or 8. But that's me now. I'm open to that, right? I'll get there. However, I don't think I'll ever be okay with the head shop that I found behind the drug store. I may not be the best nun ever, but I know better than to let that one slide. I will certainly be praying for their sweet little souls tonight. But then again, I'll need to pray for my own soul since I'm bred from rule-breaking, frisky little nuns who couldn't keep their large and unflattering robes on. Good Lord.
I better start praying now.