I think I mentioned at one point feeling very sad at annual council because I kept seeing all these young people running around –in their late teens and early to mid 20s–and realizing that had my life not been seriously derailed in 1984 or so, that might have been me during the early 90s.
As it is, however, had that other life materialized, I would not have DS. And a great many other ifs would undo most of my life as I know it. So that isn’t productive.
But I have noticed that much of my extracurricular activity of late is centered around the 13-year-old me. During my early teen years, my mother lost her job at the church I grew up in, and we moved from that parish, which had a healthy, vibrant youth community and people I could almost call friends (I was a very awkward preteen and got picked on a lot, but I know now just how many of us share that lot) to a parish where I was the oldest child, not feeling very childlike at all, and forewent going to church proper in order to attend to the nursery, my first part-time job, where I dealt with a three-year-old with what at the time seemed to be Tourettes.
So, to add to the things I’ve reclaimed from my early teen years (such as swimming and knitting), I went back to that church we left in 1983 or so this weekend. Not only is my rector still there (as emeritus–he retired in 1988, but his life with that church has spanned more than 50 years), but the new rector, The Rev. David Teschner, gave a sermon that touched me deeply, connecting scripture to a call for peace and journeying onward to a story from the Hindu tradition.
He opened the sermon with a tale that I think will resonate with my revgalfriends–I’m paraphrasing:
Two fundamentalists from a lakeside town were distraught that a woman had been chosen as their new pastor. But opting to look like they were being good sports about it, they invited her, as they did every new pastor, on a fishing trip at a nearby lake. They were delighted, when they got there, that the fish were biting like they never had before. But as the afternoon wore on, the new pastor realized that she needed to get back to the church for an important meeting.
When she said as much to her two fishing fellows, they looked at each other and shrugged. “Sorry, ma’am. With the fish biting like this, there’s no way we’re going to leave until they stop. But you can swim back to shore–it’s not far to the church from there.”
She was horrified–she couldn’t swim! But her protests fell on deaf ears.
When it became clear that the two men were not going to take her back to shore, she said a quiet prayer, hopped out of the boat, and walked on the water to get back. The two men stared after her, astonished.
The first one turned to the second one and said, “You know, I can’t believe they sent us a pastor who can’t swim.”
You know, this is the same church I went to almost every sunday for close to ten years. I missed a few summer services, but this is the church I was confirmed at, soloed in the choir at, had every role in the Christmas pageant at, acolyted at, had my first crushes at (Rob Seward and Ed Pollard, where are you?), learned macrame at, and a whole bunch of other things that shouldn’t end in ‘at’. And it was everything I could do to not burst into tears at the beauty of the church, which I remembered clearly.
I went back to my other childhood church–which is even prettier because it has that amazing mid-19th century feel to it–only six months ago, and while it evoked feeling– i was married there, and the marriage failed; I was in the choir there, but the choir director was later charged with sexual misconduct; my grandmother’s funeral was there. Maybe that’s why I felt so full of sadness while I was there. It was my grandmother’s church and I associated its smell with my grandmother, while at C&G I associate its smells with growing up. The same sexton is there. The choir members of my youth, those that are still with us, are still there.
They even sing the same Sanctus.
My mom worked there for many years, and I remember clearly long hours spent exploring the balcony, the undercroft, the secretary’s office supply drawer (and the sound of her typing.) We used to scrabble up and down the hillside in the back at the foot of the large water tower–that you really can’t see anymore because all the trees are now tall enough to conceal it. We found great big rocks back there that we brought home and tried to break open to see if we could find fossils. My grandmother’s house was a short walk down the road, and the red doors I saw when I came back to faith in 2003 were those of my childhood church.
And I shared that story of my conversion with the rector. He told me he had something quite like it happen to him.
It’s really amazing when it does happen, but.. bringing it home is nothing short of astonishing.
Thank you, Fr. Teschner.
Meanwhile, my son is 13. And I wonder, when he grows up, what of this time will he want to reclaim? What can I give him that will burst out anew 20 years later?
We’ll see, but the fact that he listened to that sermon quite intently is a start.
And on that note, I’ll share with you a funny the DS came up with all by himself today.
Mom, there are so many kinds of Christians! Episcopalian, Methodist, Presbyterian, Catholic, Orthodox, Unorthodox….
I burst out into laughter, and he beamed. He’s been trying to land his own punch line for some time now, and I think there’s hope.
P.S. I have some pretty pictures up at My Empire of Pesticide-Free Dirt, one of my other weblogs.
Posted in Random by: Helen
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