The next morning I walked up to our church building with this heavy feeling like gravity was stronger than normal. Three little girls pushed past me in puffy costs that made their arms stick straight out from their bodies like stick figures. One of their moms chased them, and a Dad held open the door for me.
I wished I had the energy and happiness the little girls had. A happy middle-aged couple greeted me with smiles. I must have said hi and smiled to fifty people.
My greetings were quick and not particularly friendly, I especially avoided talking to the lady who always asks me if there were any new developments. She was referring to me deciding what to do, getting a job, hearing a calling, and deciding where to move. She meant the best, she probably even prayed for me.
The people at the Blue Route Vineyard Community Church are like that. They really pray, they really believe. I set my jacket down on a pew.
We wouldn’t have pews except that we bought this building from the Free masons and they left these really cool old pews that look more like benches from an old train station than pews. They are wooden with padding covered in rust colored leather that is nailed in place with big brass button like nails. When you sit down, you sink like in booth at a Restaurant.
My role in the service is receiving the tithes and offerings, greeting the newcomers, and highlighting the important items in the church bulletin. After I went back to the lobby to ask someone what announcements I was supposed to make, I grabbed a cup of coffee. That’s the kind of church it is: coffee, pews, and people who really pray.
When I got back to my pew the worship service had started. Dave, a guy just a few years older than me was leading the songs. He has straight blond hair that he tucks behind his ears and he plays a cool maroon hollow body Gibson guitar. Sometimes he forgets we are here and he sings his heart out and enters into another place. He never opens his eyes.
Mark, the pastor, doesn’t get a microphone because he is loud enough as he is and when he sings it’s what people might call making a joyful noise unto the Lord. But he stands in the front row facing Dave and the band with his head down, his eyes closed and his arms stretched out wide in front of him. From about ten rows back I noticed his hair was sticking up a bit in the back, but he was oblivious. He was not self-consciousness when he sang on Sunday mornings.
I looked around a little and I made myself sing. I thought, “Hadn’t God just come through for me the night before? Hadn’t Anna called me at the precise moment of my darkest thoughts?”
I put all of the intensity of grief, anger, frustration and rejection that I felt into singing.
This is the second part of my Spiritual Memoir: Chianti & Cloves.
Filed under: My Spiritual Memoir