On Having Keys
There is something cool and special about having the keys to a place, even if it’s the sort of place that has a hundred keyholders already. The most obvious is that it makes your life a lot easier. This is my second Methodist church home, and in both cases the architecture has been such that I’m pretty sure the denominational motto was originally “Open hearts, open minds, lots of doors.” (That’s a little Methodist humor for you right there.) It is pretty much inevitable that at any time besides Sunday morning, there will be at least one locked door between you and any place you want to be. This goes from being a hassle without keys to being an opportunity to exercise your tiny superpower. On a more mundane note, it lets me do things like get into the kitchen and the custodial supply room for the inevitable half-dozen runs to collect plates, napkins, and whatever else we’ve run out of.
The custodial supply closet is a trip, I tell you what. It’s not too far from the kitchen, but to get there you go down a dark hallway and up a ramp, then hook a sharp turn through an old Sunday School classroom that has since been repurposed into a half-dozen things, around a corner into a storage area, past our horrible excuse for a restroom that is perhaps the most embarrassing of the problems I have inherited with this job, till finally you arrive at a wooden door that says “Employees Only.” It uses the same key as every other one of the 2,475,381 doors in the church, but you really have to want it. It’s like picking a lock except with a key, and then when you open it, it’s like forcing your way into a wind tunnel because it’s also the HVAC closet. Almost pops your ears just walking in. You collect your plates or paper towels or whatever you came in for, contemplate what exactly that one old crockpot did to find itself consigned to purgatory amongst the paper goods, and head back out, where you’d better have left one arm free for the wrestling match with the door. Having opened once, it is now absolutely _loathe_ to close again, and must be fought into submission. This is especially good when there’s a little crowd of soup kitchen visitors standing around and waiting to use the restroom, because at least you’re providing some entertainment.
But really the best part of having keys is always the feeling of inclusion. Doesn’t matter how many keyholders there are in a church. If you’ve got a set, you’re in. You’re part of the club now, and you’ve got the rubber-ringed, poorly-labeled symbols to prove it! (In point of fact, I have three keys, but don’t know yet what two of them do. One of them could open a dimensional portal, for all I know. I used to have four keys, but then someone realized that Key #4 was for the church office, and though they all like me, they don’t _like me_ like me just yet.) And when you’ve got keys, it’s a reason for people to talk to you, even if it’s just to ask you to open stuff. For a slightly anxious introvert, any situation where somebody comes to you and initiates an easily-navigated social exchange is pretty great. It’s not quite as good as having a baby, but it ain’t bad. Plus, between working in the kitchen and working in the children’s ministry, I will probably have met and forgotten the names of everybody in the entire church within the next six months. Exciting!
