When Leaving a Job Means Leaving a Community

My last Sunday on staff at church felt a little like attending my own funeral.

Not in a bad way. Just in a room-full-of-people-crying-while-I-stand-there-awkwardly-also-crying-and-accepting-love kind of way.

For months, I’d been talking about making the transition. The commute, the weekend schedule, wanting more time with my family, building my own stage, and starting a brand-new chapter. All of that was true.

What I wasn’t prepared for was how hard it would be to say goodbye.

One high school student took the microphone from the pastor and told the congregation she wouldn’t have been baptized if it weren’t for me. That one got me. An older man approached me with tears running down his face, saying my music kept his faith alive and reminded him of his childhood. There were tears from men, women, people older than me, people younger than me, people I’d known for years, and people I barely knew at all.

People shared stories about music, leadership, belonging, my sarcasm, and my tendency to ignore rules when the rules seemed dumb.

The fact is, I thought I was leaving a job. What I was really leaving was a community.

The church gave me a place to sing, lead, create, experiment, and push big ideas into reality. But the people were always the point. And over eight years, those relationships became much bigger than I realized.

Leaving the job was easy. Leaving the people is hard.

In the days after, I did what I always do when life gets overwhelming: I started planning my next show. Because apparently my preferred coping mechanism is productivity.

As Taylor Swift says, "I cry a lot, but I am so productive, it's an art."

That feels about right. I'm grateful for what was, excited for what's next, and still sad that a chapter I loved is over. I guess that's what happens when something truly matters.

— Sheila