The Curate is going to become a vicar very soon (10th March is his official start date, since you ask).
This means that we are moving house next week. We’re making the shift at half term to enable the kids to transfer to their new schools without too much of a break. Nanna is kindly taking them to stay with her and Grandpa for most of the week to make things easier at this end.
So we’re having an odd sort of week. Lots of ‘lasts’ as we say goodbye to friends and parishioners. As I write this the Curate is off visiting some housebound folk to bid farewell.
And I am still feeling like it’s not really happening. We’re moving just eight miles away, only twenty minutes away in the car. But it will be very different.
The Curate is going to be the Vicar. He will have to worry about the drains as well as his sermons. He’ll be responsible for the congregation – the buck will stop with him.
The children will be moving to a new school where they will finish their primary education and growing up with the folk they meet there. Their Black Country accents will be strengthened.
And I need to find my feet, my real-life ‘vicar’s wife’ role. How can I best support my husband as he seeks to tell our parish about how the cross of Jesus is good news? I don’t have a job description and will be making it up as I go along, blagging, as the Curate puts it.
But I am a bit of a blagger, so I should be all right. On everything apart from flower arranging I think.