it's only inspiration when I like it

At a quarter to seven last night, I returned a missed call and was asked to come to the Clark building in half an hour to meet with the bishopric. Obediently I walked a mile to the building and sat calmly opposite one of the counselors who after much smalltalk asked if I would accept a calling as a Relief Society instructor. I happily said yes and scampered home content: I've never had a teaching call, but have been wanting one, and RS instructor is ideal. I would only need to prepare a lesson once a month, and would be able to corrupt my sweet sisters with my version of feminism.

My phone rang again half an hour after I arrived home. "This is Brother Clay," the voice on the other end told me. "I have good news: I gave you the wrong calling." I listened politely to his jumbled explanation and was then informed that instead of being RS instructor, I would be a member of the compassionate service committee, which already has about half the ward on it. It was not good news and I briefly considered apostatizing. I certainly did not plan to show up to be set apart as one of a million members of a do-nothing-committee.

I mulled things over for an hour or two, and by bedtime I had made up my mind. I'm not going to apostatize. I don't believe my calling was inspired, but I'll accept it anyway. Not just with words the way I did on the phone with Brother Clay; I'll try to serve and to do so compassionately, even if my efforts only reach my roommates. Sure, I'm still disappointed. Lamer than getting a lame calling to begin with is getting a great calling and then having it replaced half an hour later with a lame one. On the bright side, this way my bishopric got to see me be enthusiastic. If they had asked me in the office to be on the compassionate service committee, they would have seen me as the slug I felt like last night. Maybe even that wouldn't have been so bad, come to think of it.

Even slugs can serve compassionately, right?