It was after a special Church Conference we held just before the end of the year. My District Superintendent stepped into my study at the church. She looked at my books. (Preachers do that when they come into the study of another preacher. I know I do.)

As she looked I said: "Well, yes, that's what's left."

I used to have a huge theological library. Some of the books I had read, some I only dipped into for reference. But, they were all friends and I knew them all to some extent.

When I was serving the small Weidman congregation (that's sort of near Mt. Pleasant, Michigan) the books spilled out into the hallway where newcomers, no doubt, thought they were seeing the Church Library. One of the members of that Church contributed the bookshelves out there to hold my large and always-growing theological library. That was a very nice thing for him to do. (I think he got tired of seeing me rummaging through the boxes where they were stored before then.)

Often during morning office hours, I would go out of the office and down the hallway to find the particular book I needed at that moment. I knew just where to look, though I'm sure my system of organization would have baffled anyone else.

But, they are gone now, most of them. I still have my commentaries and major works in systematic theology. I kept what would fit into the office here — which is not much. The rest I gave away. There was no place for them here. And, it was time to part.

I think my DS recognized this for what it was. People around here really don't understand. They aren't a community of scholars, after all. Their previous pastor (whom they dearly loved) was no scholar. So, for them there's no point of reference.

That's okay. I like it better that they don't know.

It's the beginning of the end. Some new stage of life that I don't know or currently understand lies ahead of me. And, I'm slowly letting go of what has been. The books were the first to go, but other things will follow — all in their proper time.

I never thought it would end this way.

As a young man, I had this dramatic call into the ministry. Really. It was. I was attending Macomb County Community College and living at home (I did college on the cheap). I loved science and I was studying chemistry. My dimly imagined goal was to be a chemistry professor and a novelist on the side (Dostoyevsky was my hero at the time). One of my evening Chemistry labs was cancelled. So, I was driving home when it occurred to me that I wasn't expected at home and that Midweek Prayer Meeting was being held at the church. (Yes, it was a United Methodist Church in Michigan, and yes, believe it or not, they had a Midweek Prayer Meeting. I imagine they don't any more, if that's any comfort to anyone.) We sang. I listened to my pastor speak. Then we prayed. I mean, they turned around, got down on their knees, and prayed in the pews.

And, when I closed my eyes there seemed to be some sort of light all around me. And, there was an impression so strong it was like a voice. I knew God was calling me into the ministry of the Gospel. And, it was overwhelming. It seemed to come at me out of nowhere. And, I could only pray: "Well, then, God make me a good one."

And, now after 32 years in the United Methodist ministry I find that I still don't know what that was all about.

I guess my Grandma Cartwright thought that my brother and I had responded to the pain and turmoil and tragedy in our home-life by becoming religious fanatics. She was a member of the United Methodist Church in the community where she lived. And, she believed that religion had its place — on Sunday mornings, for an hour, in a special building built just for that purpose. That's where it belonged and that's where it stayed. And, it really angered and frustrated her that I was suggesting throwing my life away to become a preacher.

I know that one evening she viciously attacked my mother for influencing me away from science and toward the ministry. It was all very unfair. My mother had not ever suggested the ministry to me. And, she couldn't have stopped me even if she'd wanted to. After all, I thought I had a call from God. And, I had to do what I had to do.

I am not altogether sure what I intended to accomplish exactly. It all seemed so grand and important back then. The Gospel was a message of hope to me. My early experiences in the faith were exciting and life affirming. I loved worship and prayer and witness and Bible Study groups, and the closeness I felt to other Christians. It was all about life and love and hope and direction and purpose. My youthful enthusiasm for the faith left me naive and ill prepared for the realities of pastoral ministry in the church.

Whatever it was I set out to do, I know I haven't done it. And, maybe in a strange way, that's okay. If it really was a call from God, it was bigger than me anyway.

And, it hasn't been all for nothing. My life has been enriched in many ways through the people I've known and the experiences I've had. God has been good. I could blame circumstances or the denomination or whatever. But, I'm sure much of the fault for my lackluster performance is mine.

Friends and family have told me for years that I ought to get out of the ministry. But, I've hung on. Many friends and colleagues have dropped out of the ministry over the years. But, I've hung on. I thought that at some point in the journey I would feel like it had all been worthwhile.

But, I now know that day isn't coming and it's time to begin to get ready to move on to the next stage of life — whatever that is.

So, those books just had to go.

— Craig L. Adams