The End of The Year

I had planned all along to end this blog at the end of one year, once I'd written 52 posts and visited 52 churches.  What I hadn't anticipated, but should have known, is that sometimes when we plan, God laughs.

I had one blog entry all ready to write, about a church here in town, when I was about to head to my home town to visit my mother.  She had some house issues to settle, and I looked forward to visiting with her, just us.  I figured I'd be fixing some things, and perhaps helping her make some hard decisions about her elderly dog.  Surely I'd have time to write, and I could wrap up a church visit while I was there.

It was to be a 6-day visit.  I left one day shy of a month.

Mom was much more ill than I could have imagined.  The cooler was kind of a non-issue, taken care of in a stopgap way as I convinced her to go to urgent care, then the doctor, then the Emergency Room.  Rehabilitation followed.

My year finished up with some unexpected visits.

To the church where I first met Jesus, El Camino.  Some parts of it haven't changed a lot since I was a child, despite several new buildings and initiatives.  I sat next to friends and prayed for Mom, who I already knew was not feeling well at all.  She fell twice that night, and was unable to get to her feet.

To the church where I found comfort on Saturdays while my husband was away and we lived "at home" for a year, Pantano Christian Church. I checked three times to make sure it was even the same church at all; everything felt different. The pastor came and talked with me a bit before service, and I appreciated his warm welcome and friendly attitude...but even if I moved back home this would not be my church. It felt dark and club-like, instead of airy and filled with light as I'd remembered. At that point, she was already in the hospital.

To the chapel at St. Joseph's hospital.  I sat in the hushed silence, alone but not lonely, and breathed out prayer for Mom and her doctors and for anyone who needed it in that space.  Mom was already feeling better by that time, but I knew she couldn't go back to the house where I'd grown up.  Big changes were coming...was I strong enough to help her make those choices?

To the chapel in Villa Maria, where we sang hymns and people in wheelchairs rattled tambourines.  Mom's face lit up at the chance to sing, though her strength was not back quite yet.  I felt hope, and comfort.

To the small, unobtrusive chapel in the Atlanta airport, as I tried to build my business and rebuild my heart after an intensely difficult month.  There were three gentleman, boys really, saying afternoon prayers.  I've never known silence so utter.  Once I was home, we planned to help Mom move.

At the end of two months, we had moved my mother into a wonderful new apartment, and said farewell to so many memories that my heart is still healing.  I know she, too, was wounded by the summer and I wish I knew how to help her through.  She lost her home, her beloved pet over whom I whispered prayer and love as she breathed her last.  I lost my childhood, and the sense of comfort that is brought by being able to "go home".

Once home for good, I could only think of one church where I wanted to be.  One place that knew my name, knew my story, and welcomed with open arms anyone who came to visit.  I think anyone reading this blog knows by now that I'm talking about the Triple 7 Baptist church - and perhaps everyone else knew before I did.

I wanted a large, busy church.  I have somehow ended up in a mobile home in the middle of what seems like nowhere to this city girl.

I wanted boisterous, bouncy music.  And lots and lots of it.  I sit in church and hold a sweet blue Baptist hymnal that comforts me.

I wanted modern - I somehow have old-fashioned values shared over breakfast rolls and coffee.

At the beginning of this year, my list was long and my desires were plenty.  And then I was told, "You're staying, of course," to a birthday luncheon for a man I've begun to count as family.  If my heart is hurting, if my heart is happy, I think of this church first and I want to share with them my news.  I pray for them, and I know they pray for me.

In the end, it didn't matter what I wanted in a church.  It didn't matter what I thought I needed.  God knew my heart, as He always has, and He found a connection and a place for me.  He found me that second family that I had imagined would take years to create.

In the end, I thought I'd pick a church from the many that I'd visit.  I thought I'd read over my blog posts and remember the pluses and the minuses and the wonderful and sometimes bizarre moments of this year.

In the end, I thought I'd choose.  But in the end, my church has chosen me.

All Together Now

Praying all together, voices raised
The volume rising, rising
Rising to the ceiling,
Buoying me upward
Filling my heart
So nothing is there but prayer
Words, muted sound
Calling to God
Praising His name.

All together,
Voices woven as a tapestry of grace
And up, and out,
Growing and swelling,
Then dying down until
Only the breaths of the faithful
Can be heard.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I'll admit, when I went to the Potter's House, I really had no idea what to expect.  It was downtown, and from the website it looked like many other non-denominational churches. Lots of information about a relationship with God, and I felt like they understood that many of the people coming to the church would be wounded inside.

I did, also, get the impression it was what I call a "Come As You Are" kind of church.  So I, feeling fatigued from a very busy week, wore a nice top and, yes, blue jeans.

I will not do that again.

There were two people in the church in jeans, and one of them was a teenager. Most women wore dresses (I saw only two women in slacks) and many of the men had blazers.  It wasn't formal, just nice. And I felt really out of place. It's okay, though, because not one single soul seemed to look at me sideways or in any way other than welcoming.  Even the usher at the door with his very nice Sunday-best suit.

The music was uplifting and energizing, and I knew many of the words to the familiar songs.  For the songs I hadn't heard before, melodies were relatively simple but nice to the ears, and it was easy to keep up and sing along. Acoustics were really, really nice and I had no issues hearing whatsoever without feeling deafened.

After the worship team had led us in song, it was time for prayer. We learned who was deployed, who had new babies, whose family needed prayer, who had health issues. I got a sense of community, listening to these unfamiliar names. And then we were invited to close our eyes and pray.

And that's when it started. This church prays out loud, as a group, voices rising and falling and filling the room. It was pretty intense. A week later, I am still not sure exactly how I feel about it. It was something new to me, and it is something I think I'd have a hard time getting used to. I grew up with the idea that prayer was an intensely personal and thus private thing,

But, writing about it here, the poem above just flowed. I have often felt carried along by the prayers others have offered on my behalf; there were entire years I am not sure I'd have survived if it were not for the intercessions requested by friends and churches. The Army is not an easy life. It was a unique experience to hear the prayers said aloud, and envision all of those friends and families and organizations being filled with the spirit as it flowed in that building on that Sunday morning.

Church is about coming together, and praying together felt a pretty nice addition to that community of souls. I, for one, still feel buoyed by it.

Not About Religion

A few things have happened over the last few weeks...  My G came home after an extended TDY (temporary duty), I attended a joyous family wedding, and we fought off a sense of malaise and exhaustion.

I've still been reading, though, and thinking, and deciding what to write.

And what I keep reading and thinking about has a lot to do with religion.  Not faith, unfortunately, but religion.  I read about Hollywood actors and famous people who are atheists; even people who call themselves "evangelical atheists" (no, I'm not making that up).  I talked to a coworker friend who said she had family members who would practically disown her for deciding to visit a church unlike the one in which she was raised.

And I really don't get it.  Maybe it's because of this project, but I'm thinking about God and religion and faith in a different (clearer?) light lately.  And it's not about the religion.

So far, I've visited Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, Missionary Baptist, Apostolic, Catholic and Non-Denominational churches.  And the overarching theme of the ones that make the most difference in people's lives has nothing to do with the whys and wherefores of the religion itself, and everything to do with the way God shines through the people in the church.

My coworker friend and I decided to visit another coworker friend's church, because B had been wanting to try something new.  Anna's husband happens to be the Pastor of their church, and she welcomed us with enthusiasm.  When we drove up, Pastor David was waiting for their daughter to arrive, and welcomed us warmly, even walking us over to the sanctuary and chatting with us a while.  We were greeted by nearly everyone in the church at different times before, during, and after the service, and it was a treat to see Anna in a different role from the one we see her in at work.  My favorite part was watching Pastor David with the children's time.  His message was timely and it made me think.  His ending question, asking what we are bound to, if it's not to God -- well, I am still mulling that one over in my head.

It was a really wonderful service.  I hope B continues to go there, as she met new friends and really seemed to fit in with everyone.

But even as we left, B was saying that she had family members who would really be against her changing churches.  It seemed they felt she wouldn't find or follow God if she went to a different church with different routines and rituals.  I remember hearing much the same thing, growing up.

Hogwash.

Religion, it is true, has been the basis for many a heartache, many a war.  But finding God isn't about religion.  Finding God is about faith.  Going to church is sharing that faith, strengthening and challenging that faith.  Bringing the message of God outside the church into our homes, into others' lives -- the messages of love and service.

It's not about the candles or the ways we pray or the songs we sing or the hair we grow or the length of the skirts or the kneelers or the wine vs grape juice...  It's about service and community.  And it's about love.

And I must say, I felt a lot of it in that church that week, with Pastor David and Anna.