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.