Little White Church

A snow globe should have a little white church with modest but lovely stained glass windows.  Mine does not.  It does however have a red brick First Baptist church with a spacious and carefully tended lawn lying serenely beneath shady trees.  Miraculously, the lawn remains serene even when absorbing the joyful squeals of children, Baptist and not, who congregate there to play football or tag.

 I’m not a member of the congregation that gathers inside the church walls, but I’ve always felt it belongs to me just the same.  It was the site of my bus stop on brisk back-to-school mornings long ago, and today I often take the daycare children there to romp in the Crayola green grass.  But during the week leading up to Easter Sunday (Holy Week if you’re Roman Catholic, which I am), I was forced to examine the possibility that maybe I shouldn’t consider it mine.

This sad thought came to me after a conversation with my youngest son. “I don’t have a problem with anyone else’s religion Mom, so why do people have to have a problem with mine?” he asked me after school one day.  Apparently a friend has been asking him questions about his faith, but when he tries to answer the questions his answers are dismissed as wrong.  This friend fervently believes in the teachings of his own religion and has an admirable understanding of those teachings.  In fact, it’s a sincere desire of mine to have a better understanding and respect for the spiritual beliefs of others, and I don’t think I’d hesitate to ask this youngster to give me the official low-down on his.  What I wouldn’t do, however, is ask him to explain mine to me.

Having grown up Catholic in the snow globe, I’m not surprised by the usual misinterpretations.  I can even understand where they come from.  My son was caught off guard though, a little upset to be told he’s not a Christian (huh?) and can’t pray directly to God (say what?), far more upset to feel suddenly different and distanced from his friend.  We had to have a string of long talks. 

Don’t worry—I’m not going to dust off my copy of the Catechism and give you a lesson as well.  You don’t need it because you have your own beliefs, and while they may offer a clearly marked road for you to follow, as mine do for me, the truth is we’re all going cross country on this journey.  Sometimes we get lost, sometimes we take the long way by clear-eyed choice, sometimes the road is uphill for miles and miles.   Sometimes we rest where the water sings and the sun dances.  My son is walking next to his not-Catholic friend and sometimes on the path the wind is nudging them shoulder to shoulder and sometimes it’s blowing them apart.

The important thing to me is that simple fact--we are walking together.  We have formed our beliefs from our life experiences, from the influence of people we love, as protection against things that have hurt us.  The Catholic faith came to me through generations.  My tiny but bold Italian great-grandmother crossed the ocean alone at the age of fourteen and I’ve no doubt she was holding her Rosary close the whole way.  Brief personal experience and family lore have made it clear I wouldn’t have wanted to mess with her or her religion but that aside, my faith holds a comfort for me beyond debating and on a level deeper than any controversy.  And yet, I feel blessed to live right here next to those who believe differently, about religion, no religion, or which religion, beer or wine or caffeine-free Diet Coke, Chevy or Ford, Broncos or Vandals, and any number of other things large and small.

After this week of talking and praying my son through confusion and hurt feelings, I had to ask myself, why exactly do I feel blessed?  Simply because when I meet someone along the path and make a connection with them the feeling I get leads me to believe we are meant to connect.  That connections are made with people who believe differently than me assures me without question that we are all in this together.

Here in the snow globe it could be said there are so few of us floating around that we can’t avoid connecting.  True enough.  And sometimes it’s much more like colliding. Which is why it’s a blessing that we can’t help but be called upon to work together, and so we do.  When my son and his friend help the school counselor carry boxes of food to the food bank together, when I’m forced to acknowledge the great idea of the PTO member who usually annoys me,  or I share a laugh over an everyday thing with someone I’ve been uncomfortable with since 8^th grade, that’s when the sparkle happens.

We don’t have a little white church in my snow globe, but we do have a First Baptist church.  I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided it does belong to me.  I walked there yesterday with my granddaughter.  I showed her how the seed pods from the trees twirl gently down like tiny helicopters when you toss them in the air, just like they did when I was a little girl.  We waved at the folks who live across the road.  We took our shoes off and wiggled our toes in the grass, delightfully cool in contrast to the unseasonably warm spring evening.  It’s a resting spot on our journey, just as it is for the believers who sit in the pews on Sunday mornings, and I can’t help but believe we’re most likely headed in the same direction. 

Where I was and Where I Wasn't

Yesterday where I was, was in the high school gym at the National Honor Society blood drive.  And during the time I was oh-so-calmly giving blood, I was focusing and breathing deeply; focusing on the gym and breathing deeply the memories of things I have done there.  I remember dreaming there.  An avid-reader child born to avid Pirate fan parents who never missed a game, I read in the stairwell during basketball games with the noise of the crowd a distant backdrop to whatever story I was lost in, dreaming about places yet to go and things yet to do.

I learned to appreciate skilled labor there.  That back-to-school shine on a gym floor does not just appear; someone painstakingly puts it there.  I learned from my father, who gave me my first summer job.  He took pride in his work and was very good at it.  The big bully of a scrubbing machine didn’t run away with him; He didn’t slip around in the soapy water.  When he poured the thick bead of golden seal down the floor the line was straight and when he spread it with the special mop pad, there were no bubbles or blotches.  He never accidentally stepped in the wet seal and then went to the bathroom leaving shiny footprints all the way there.  We finished despite my help, arms aching, eyes stinging from the fumes, and stood together in the doorway to survey our work.  I could see him remembering what it felt like to sink a perfect shot from a shiny gym floor.

During high school I learned perseverance there, running lines and stairs until I almost threw up on the first day of volleyball practice.  Doing the cheerleaders’ dance routine to Baby I’m a Star over and over until I wasn’t terrible.  I experienced unity, entrepreneurship, and risk-taking while singing the fight song with Pirates young and old, selling Jolly Ranchers, and defying death on the rolling yellow scaffolding in order to hang blue and white posters declaring “We’re #1!”

All kinds of life moments can happen in a small town high school gym, where I flirted, frantically finished homework during late games, was called beautiful by the last boy I expected it from.  Where I met my husband; He was the DJ hired to play music at the Tip-Off dance and I was the Pep Club officer in charge of locking up after he finished loading out his gear.  It was from a podium there that I learned how heartbreaking and exhilarating life’s transitions can be, as I gave a soft-spoken, teary-eyed Valedictorian’s address and walked out on shaking legs into the arms of my friends and the rest of my life. 

And my life led me, eventually, back to my high school gym, where I attended an assembly in honor of my dad’s retirement, watched my daughter cheer, saw my son sink his first perfect shot.  Where I cried with my town at the largest memorial service I have ever been to, because when someone has impacted the lives of an entire community, there’s nowhere else we’ll all fit when we come to say good-bye.

Yesterday where I was, was giving blood for the American Red Cross in my high school gym, and it’s a good place.  But at the end of my day I found myself thinking about where I wasn’t, which is Morocco.   Because right before bed I opened my internet homepage and my eyes settled on a headline which read something like “Peace Corps Encourages Middle-Aged Volunteers.”  Clear back to the time when I was reading at basketball games, I’ve wanted to travel into the world, so I clicked on the article and then on the Peace Corps website, and then on some YouTube videos by Peace Corps volunteers, and then on some information about Morocco, and then back to the article.  

The article talked about the valuable life-experiences older volunteers bring with them to their Peace Corps positions.  I was filled with the possibilities!  I’m older.  I have life experiences.  Don’t I?  I guess not really.  Doubt slowed the pulse of excitement and I logged off and went to bed.  But as I rested my head on my arm, the tender spot beginning to turn lightly yellow and purple reminded me of giving blood.  My memories mingled with thoughts of where I wasn't, images and words from the blogs of Peace Corp volunteers in Morocco.

I most likely will never join the Peace Corp; I have things yet to do right here.  But if I did go, I would indeed have valuable life experiences to take with me, simply because I’ve spent time in a small-town high school gym.  Where I learned how to dream, how to make every task you are given shine, how your heart can help your legs keep on running when your mind wants you to quit.  I learned how to get all of the day’s assignments done even when it isn’t convenient, how to give proud support whether winning or losing.  How to begin a lifelong love, how to say good-bye, how to move on, and how to stay.  How to appreciate both where you are, and where you aren't.             http://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=learn.whovol