When was the last time I scooted over for Jesus to sit down? When did I stretch my hand out to hold his invisible one for the final grip? When did I stop assuming he was there and begin to wonder?
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Then Jesus
This year I elected to go to a Good Friday service because this year I am struggling with the faith thing, with the Christian thing, with the God thing. I thought that maybe going to a service intended to bring everybody to the verge of depression would fit me better than the Sunday mornings I’ve struggled to connect with for a while. I’m not sure exactly what I wanted to find there, but something in me pulled me to that service. This is my tribe, this is where I come from. In my searching for answers to all the Whys and the WTFs I keep finding that I can only start…
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How Marvelous
It smelled clean – cologne and clorox – and the adolescent pheromones ran high. Our carpet echoed our Sister Church in burgundy bold. The chairs interlocked and faced the altar where wide steps landed on a deep stage with room for the most important ones. We stared at the plexiglass protecting the bathtub under a comically tall, thin gold cross. We sang hymns projected on the screens between house-made graphics of giant hands and mountains and rays of sun through clouds. I preferred the hymnal and bobbed my eyes to the notes as we sang mostly on key to majestic piano chords. Home. I felt so at home. I didn’t know…
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Something Small
I wanted to be a missionary for a handful of years, did I ever tell you that? I spent a good amount of formative time in a culture which offered few acceptable options for young girls. I could choose between being a teacher in a Christian school, a pastor’s wife or a missionary[‘s wife]. Getting married was a given and it was tolerable to be the wife of a layman so long as we were faithful to our local gathering. There was an uspoken heirarchy of life choices and the most obvious were at the top. Even our language belied our bias – there were those who “served,” who…
