Turns out, the hardest part of answering God’s call is choosing a nightstand.
I am five weeks out from seminary, supposed to be preparing my heart and mind for formation — and instead I’m spiraling in the home goods section of the internet. I have an apartment to furnish. Not a dorm room. An actual apartment. With walls. With space. With responsibilities. And absolutely zero furniture.
Beginning seminary isn’t just about theological prep or spiritual maturity. It’s also about deciding whether you’re the kind of person who owns a real couch, or someone sitting on the floor with a bowl of cereal and a deep sense of overwhelm.
Ordering furniture while your life is in transition is a uniquely exhausting experience. Everyone talks about the spiritual weight of discernment and formation. No one talks about the logistical spiral of trying to furnish an apartment across state lines without crying over shipping estimates and “assembly required” warnings. Every item becomes a miniature crisis. Do I get the cheap bookshelf that might collapse under the weight of a single commentary? Or do I blow half my moving budget on something “sustainably sourced” that ships sometime between now and Christmas?
Somewhere in the middle of this chaos, I found myself genuinely typing “do I need a bed frame or is that capitalism” into a search bar. I still don’t know the answer. What I do know is that we are all victims of capitalism, especially when the reviews say “surprisingly flimsy for the price.” Jesus wept, and so did I, somewhere between browser tabs.
It’s strange to make decisions about a life you haven’t fully stepped into. I’m getting a pink couch — not because it’s wise, neutral, or practical, but because I can and I will. And frankly? Anything for the bit. At this point, if I’m going to spiral about assembling furniture and question my entire future, I might as well do it on a couch that makes a statement.
In the middle of all this, I’ve also decided to crochet an eight-foot rug out of recycled polyester sheets. Not because I have time. Not because it’s smart. But because I’m a glutton for punishment with a yarn hook and a dream. Honestly, if I’m going to unravel spiritually, I might as well be surrounded by literal handwoven symbolism.
So What Do You Actually Need for Seminary Housing?
Let’s be honest: the essentials aren’t complicated.
- A bed — because sleeping on the floor won’t help your spiritual development.
- Somewhere to sit — preferably something that won’t deflate overnight.
- A table — for eating, studying, and sorting out your entire life.
- Storage — for books, clothes, and the last shred of your sanity.
- A lamp — because overhead lighting is a moral failing.
Everything beyond that depends on how you function and what helps you feel stable. If having a rug makes you feel more grounded, get one. If you need a dedicated corner for tea and morning prayer, set that up. If a bookshelf helps you feel competent, even before your classes start, that’s valid.
My housing is provided through my scholarship, and that feels like an enormous gift. I come from a moderate to low income background and have chosen to be paychequeless for the next three years, which is… bold. Any help is welcome. And if God had been willing to cosign my student loans, I would have accepted immediately. Thankfully, the Episcopal Church is working hard to make seminary a more financially accessible path — not just for those with resources, but for those who are genuinely called. I’m not a Regency-era curate who comes from landed gentry. Though, if you ask my husband, I do talk as much as Mr. Collins.
I thought this part would feel more momentous — like a big emotional pivot into the next chapter. Instead it feels like backordered furniture, a lot of emails, and wondering how much bubble wrap is too much. This isn’t the dramatic turning point I imagined. It’s just the weird, messy lead-up to something I can’t picture yet.
I’m not in the space yet. I’m just praying the furniture shows up.
Stay pesky, friends.
In Christ,
Ericca
The Pesky Postulant 
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