A couple of nights ago, I was playing with my daughter in the living room when the phone rang. I stood up, tracked down the phone. The number on Caller ID was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"Hi Matthias, it's Barbara."

The night before, I'd gone to interview for a job at St. Mark's United Methodist Church, where Barbara is the senior pastor (see The Doves). St. Marks is a neighborhood church in a neighborhood that has undergone radical changes over the years. When the church was first built, in the fifties, its pews were filled primarily with families settling into what was once a cozy little suburb in postwar America. Many of them are still there--some of the people I saw at Sunday worship had clearly been attending the church since its inception. But the area--and the church--have undergone radical changes since. What was once a cozy suburb became a cozy pocket of tree-lined streets in a city that grew all around it. Property values fell in the eighties and respectable people found homes farther out. But in the late nineties, property values in Austin soared astronomically; suddenly this overlooked corner of the city became a magnet for upwardly mobile young techies and other professional types. In its current incarnation, it's something of a calico cat--the old homes still exist, many retaining their original owners. College students and artsy types have spilled over from more trendy but less affordable neighboring areas. When Barbara came, with her very winning and very singular personality, the church began to attract people from all over the city. Now it's thriving. It's been recently and extensively renovated inside and out; it's a very welcoming and pleasant place to be.

The interview was held in the church library on the second floor. The library could use some work; it contains all of about a hundred books, and an ancient copier huddles in one corner, a relic of less-well-funded days. But give Barbara time; she's only been there for two years.

The interview was utterly unlike any other job interview I've ever been on. There were no suits and ties, just Barbara and a few members of her Staff Parish Relations committee sitting around a table in street clothes. I didn't have a resume (and wouldn't have had anything to put on it if I had), and there was no talk whatsoever of hours or money or skill sets or any of the other things you expect to talk about during a job interview. They asked me about my kids. They asked me where I was from. Despite the friendly tone, I was nervous. I felt a little strange sitting in a church library telling these strangers about my childhood in the Episcopal church. I had no experience to relate this one to, and so I felt totally unmoored.

When I told them that I used to be an atheist, that piqued their interest. One of them asked, "So, you were an atheist seven years ago? What happened to change that, if you don't mind me asking."

To be honest, I did mind a little. Not because the question was in any way inappropriate, it's just that the answer to it is so weird and personal, and it involves a shower. But I thought, "What the hell?" He asked. So I told them the story. I briefly considered not telling the story, but a little voice said, "Go ahead and tell them."

I don't know what they made of the story. But it made me feel great! Something inside me had just let go; I realized at that moment that there was nothing stopping me from being exactly who I was. I didn't have to pretend to be anyone. So instead of continuing with the front that I'd been putting up for the first fifteen minutes of the interview--my impression of what the job candidate for a job in ministry is supposed to act like--I just . . . said stuff.

It felt great.

After I left, I drove home in a strange mood. What if, I suddenly wondered, the real me was in no way the person that they were looking for. Had I offended anyone? Jesus, did I unwittingly say "fuck" at some point? I mean, I didn't think I had, but who knows? I went back and reviewed the conversation in my head. Nothing too horrible leapt out at me. At one point I'd said something like, "It's especially difficult for men sometimes to open up to each other. We don't generally do it unless we're with really old friends, or filled with the holy spirit, or. . . you know. . . unless we're really drunk." That was probably the most off-color thing I'd said. But still . . . I had told them the shower story.

So when I picked up the phone a couple of nights ago and heard Barbara's voice, I wasn't as certain about the job offer as it might at first have appeared.

"Hi Barbara," I said. I started to feel the little worm dancing around in my gut that signals dread. I suddenly felt certain that she was going to tell me that it just wasn't going to work out. Some of the least satisfactory conversations I've ever had have begun with the words, "It just isn't going to work out . . ."

"You're good to go," she said. "When can you start?"

I blew out my breath. "What? You mean that's it? I got the job?"

"Oh, of course you got the job. Now, what I need from you is a photograph and a brief bio . . ."

"Wow," I said. "Wow!"

And that was that. We talked for a few more minutes but I had to get off the phone because I wasn't really following anything else that was said. I made a promise to call Barbara back in the morning and hung up. I looked at my wife.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"I got the job," I said.

"Hooray! That's wonderful!" She came out from the kitchen and gave me a hug. Then she said "Why do you look weird?"

"I got the job," I said, as if to explain. "I mean, it was all fun and games when I was just, you know, talking about it. But now it's real. Now it's out in the world and I can't take it back. I work at a church."

"Why is that so hard for you to accept? You're going to do a wonderful job."

"Honey, when I met you, I wouldn't condescend to set foot in a church. And now I work in one. I work at a church. It's just weird, that's all."

She gave me a hug. "Pretty weird," she agreed.

"What if nobody likes me?" I said.

"Oh, Gawd," my wife said, laughing at me. "Give it up already . . . nobody's going to buy this 'poor me' bit from a guy whose life is coming together so beautifully."

"Yeah, yeah," I said.

My wife picked up our daughter and swung her around. "Guess what, baby?" she said. "You're officially a PK now!"

"What's that?" my daughter asked.

My wife and I shouted in unison: "Preacher's kid!"

So I have a job at a church. A small, part-time job. It's a small step, but it's a step. Don't they say that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step?

So there's my single step. Just one step, and not even a very big one. But so then tell me . . .why does everything suddenly seem so different?