Going Home

On Sunday, January 27^th, I was at St. Matthew’s, Fairbanks, the church I attended from age six until I graduated from high school and left Alaska.  It was Annual Meeting time, just like at St. Mark’s.  The St. Matthew’s folks held theirs in the middle of the church service.  They stopped after the Ministry of the Word, had a lively meeting, took a break so everyone could go to the bathroom and start their cars (it was -50 below), and then continued with the Eucharist.  My mother and I were recognized during the Peace and received little bags of candy attached to information about St. Matthew’s with a tear-off sheet that we could’ve filled in (we’re still on the mailing list, however, after 24 years). I won a can of Spam for travelling from the farthest distance (that competition is not as stiff in January as it is in June).

St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, Fairbanks, Alaska

 

I loved being back at St. Matthew’s because church seemed magical again. I didn’t have to do any of it, just like when I was a child.  All I had to do was show up, sit there, and take it all in.  I was able to be present in a way that is harder when I’m at home in my regular life.  When Stew and I moved to Waterville in 2000, church became more real, less magical, I thought.  I thought that being one of the “grown ups” in church meant that I had to help make things happen, and I wasn’t sure how to do that.  I didn’t feel obligated necessarily, but I had a sense that I couldn’t just show up anymore, not because other people would expect more from me, but because I did.  I suspected that, as deeply fulfilling as my childhood church experiences had been, there was more.  Church was good because the grown-ups had made it so, and making it so has its own magic.  It’s about being part of the knowing that helps people understand that they are known.  It reminds us, in our darker moments, that we are, too, and have always been.  That’s the kind of magic that is real.  We go to church, we make church happen, to be physical, tangible reminders for each other that God has always known who we are.

At St. Matthew’s there were familiar faces, faces of people who were the age I am now when I left; softer, aged faces of people who had probably already retired back then; and there were the unseen faces of angels. I was known; it was good to be Home.  But there were many more new faces than old.   It wasn’t exactly the same, and that’s why St. Matthew’s is still there, still vibrant.  In twenty-four or so years, if Maggie and Sally come back to St. Mark’s after a long absence, I hope they will be welcomed by old faces and inspired by new ones.  I hope they’ll have happy memories of being at church with their friends, of being loved by grown-ups other than their parents, so that they will understand that they have always been known and will want to help with the knowing. 

 

“…Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.”  1 Corinthians 13:12.

Faith

Faith is a tricky thing.  We’re asked to believe without seeing, trust without proof.  But the reality is, we do this naturally, from a very young age.   We know that love is real because we feel it; we believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy because we really want to; we know we are taken care of because we have food to eat and clothes to wear and a place to sleep. And then we’re tested: bad things happen; we discover who Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy really were the whole time; we realize that we need to learn how to take care of and provide for ourselves.  

When we’re young, if we’re lucky, we have grown-ups in our lives whose faith in God or something unseen (my favorite expression of this is the Athabascan Indian word for God, which translates to “the Great Mysterious”) guides them.  Many times as a young adult, when I was struggling to find or hold onto some sort of faith, when I was dealing with setbacks, when I did not yet know how to take care of myself very effectively, I let the people I knew whose faith was strong and real carry me.  I suspected that believing wasn’t always easy, that everyone who truly believes struggles, questions, gets angry at God/the universe/whatever (a friend of mine in her seventies says that she and God are not on speaking terms at the moment).  I didn’t think much about it; I just knew that the church was there, that people who loved me, people I respected and admired were there and lived their lives in a certain way because of it.  For me faith was, and is, basically a yes or no question, and I don’t always get bogged down in the details.  Yes, I believe there is more to this world, this life, than we can see and touch. That idea can be expressed in myriad ways, and that’s often enough for me, and if that’s what I’m able to pass along to my children and others, that’s a lot. 

That’s why I think providing a safe and happy place for children to attend church is so critical.  When they are tested, when they are not there for us to hug and kiss every day and we’re not putting presents in their stockings and under their pillows anymore, when they are making their way in a world that is often cold and hard and full of pain, they’ll know that they are loved, that we believe for them when faith may not seem quite real or relevant. 

I have the very great fortune of being able to travel back to Alaska this week, to the seat of my faith, to the place I was first loved and cared for.  I will see people whose lives taught, and teach, me about the power and magic of love.  Despite all my crankiness and impatience with this world, I hope I can be for others what they have been for me.

Bess

" I Believe in God. "

A few days after the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary, I read a reference to them as having “traumatized the nation.”  I found these words comforting because they helped me feel less alone, helped me realize that I wasn’t the only one not able to sleep much, not the only one still quick to tears, not the only one bewildered by people who could smile and laugh and talk about other things so soon after such a horrific tragedy.  I won’t call it unimaginable, because I know I’m not the only parent who is able to conjure up just about every possible danger or threat to one’s children.  The skill with which I am able to do this borders on the pathological, though, in part because I struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, from things that happened to me both as a child and a young adult.  What that means for me, and for many other people with PTSD, is that events like Sandy Hook can trigger debilitating anxiety and irrational behavior like not sending my children to school the Monday (and Tuesday) following the shootings. 

I had an “out”:  our older daughter, Maggie, is homeschooled, and she and Stew were away on a trip.  Our younger daughter, Sally, is likely going to be homeschooled next year, and I suggested that she stay home with me to get a taste of what that would be like.    She was more than happy to oblige, unknowingly, my absolute terror at the thought of sending her off to school, especially with Stew, the moderating force in my life, out of town.  I kept her with me the following day as well, simply not ready to let go, knowing I was indulging my fears, but also knowing, through years of therapy, when to push myself and when to be gentle. 

I just called Stew the “moderating force in my life” and he is one of them, a big one, but really, that force is my belief in God, in Jesus, in the Resurrection, and the fact that Love is stronger than Death.  When I heard the news on the radio that Friday, in my kitchen, I fell to my knees, gasping for breath, my heart shattering in pain for those families, in fear and desperation for my children. I called Stew, hardly able to speak.  “Tell me,” I choked out, “tell me I don’t need to go get them,” for Maggie was at school that day, too.  He reassured me, as he always does, and I prayed, stumbling blindly through the rest of the afternoon.  He picked them up, and by the time I saw them, I was under control, calm, greeting them without tears and able to look into their eyes and hear about their days without letting them know anything was amiss.

What did I pray?  The only thing that came through clearly was the first line from the Baptismal Covenant in the Book of Common Prayer: “I believe in God.”  I. Believe. In. God.  Over and over, that’s all I could say, all I could think, all I had to hold onto.   Sometimes life is stripped down just to that.  

And then Christmas.  Hope in the midst of all our terrible failings.  Jesus will lead us, if we let Him, if our hearts remain broken by what breaks God’s heart. 

 

Bess