It's finally time. For twenty three years I've languished in service to a Baptist Body Of Christ led by a tidy pod of cringing clique clackers. So, after asking him more than a few times, Hubby has finally relented and I'm frEEE at last. We're looking for a new church.
It's been a six week journey, visiting local and not-so-local houses of worship. They are all alike in how comfortable and familiar they seem, with exceptions like responsorials, communion queues, and, at the last one, a sermon that actually challenged us to fast during Advent. My, how refreshing! After twenty years of hearing sermons which, at their most profound, simply utter ". . . just stop it! Stop it!" over and over again, attempting to address some habit or sin, well, teachings on spiritual disciplines have been sorely lacking.
We keep a list of pros and cons on each one, but with so much to like, we're really scraping to find critical negatives. "...The pastor didn't sign this welcome letter! That's a CON!"
- - - - - - - -
Between the psychic scarring from the old church, and not being able to find my trusty box of Thanksgiving decor before our guests arrived, today's holiday observance felt like a misfire. Food was great --DH never disappoints-- and his prayer was somewhat packed with meaning; songs were sung with gusto, the company all cheery... but, still, there was a tilt.
Was it the alcohol? For the first time, an alcohol free-for-all was welcomed to our home's Turkey Gathering. (Beyond the token bottle of champagne or wine we've always indulged in, the kids bought spirits such as I've never before partook). I find that unnerving on it's face, but,
no.
It's the church thing.
LORD God. From whence cometh my help? Leaving feels like failure.
I go to the seasons and the colors and the outdoor chill; lose my shame in the beauty of Creation, and find solace in the certainty that a God who prized the simplicity of children when he bid them "COME TO ME" will coax me onto His lap and bid me to trust this new season. Little Zygote can grow up into someday adulthood while Phil Keagy's Pandora station sings What Can Wash Away My Sin. [Keagy's an ex-Catholic too. What a gift.]
The Blood of Jesus surely heals, but giving it time never hurts.
Thanksgiving was a misfire. But the Certainty-Of-Seasons is a promise. There will be beauty until Christ returns.
It's been a six week journey, visiting local and not-so-local houses of worship. They are all alike in how comfortable and familiar they seem, with exceptions like responsorials, communion queues, and, at the last one, a sermon that actually challenged us to fast during Advent. My, how refreshing! After twenty years of hearing sermons which, at their most profound, simply utter ". . . just stop it! Stop it!" over and over again, attempting to address some habit or sin, well, teachings on spiritual disciplines have been sorely lacking.
We keep a list of pros and cons on each one, but with so much to like, we're really scraping to find critical negatives. "...The pastor didn't sign this welcome letter! That's a CON!"
- - - - - - - -
Between the psychic scarring from the old church, and not being able to find my trusty box of Thanksgiving decor before our guests arrived, today's holiday observance felt like a misfire. Food was great --DH never disappoints-- and his prayer was somewhat packed with meaning; songs were sung with gusto, the company all cheery... but, still, there was a tilt.
Was it the alcohol? For the first time, an alcohol free-for-all was welcomed to our home's Turkey Gathering. (Beyond the token bottle of champagne or wine we've always indulged in, the kids bought spirits such as I've never before partook). I find that unnerving on it's face, but,
no.
It's the church thing.
LORD God. From whence cometh my help? Leaving feels like failure.
I go to the seasons and the colors and the outdoor chill; lose my shame in the beauty of Creation, and find solace in the certainty that a God who prized the simplicity of children when he bid them "COME TO ME" will coax me onto His lap and bid me to trust this new season. Little Zygote can grow up into someday adulthood while Phil Keagy's Pandora station sings What Can Wash Away My Sin. [Keagy's an ex-Catholic too. What a gift.]
The Blood of Jesus surely heals, but giving it time never hurts.
Thanksgiving was a misfire. But the Certainty-Of-Seasons is a promise. There will be beauty until Christ returns.
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| buddleia (bottom), anise (cntr), Mexican marigold (rt) |
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| If the TurkeyDay Box won't turn up, the T'mas linens will do. |
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| Box found by hero Dad. It was hiding in the Christmas Cabinet. Reunited with the orange, yellow and browns only after the last guest departed. |
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| Remains of The Day |
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