Going back one more time

I don't go to church anymore because I still know too much. My father was my pastor until I left for college, and I'm overly aware of the behind the scenes drama and business required to run a church. Daddy is probably the greatest reverend I've ever known, though there is a strong bias. A life-long Democrat, excellent writer and public speaker, and gentle boundary pusher, he will always be a hard act to follow.

So I left all of that behind. Not just the physical act of going to services on Sunday, but most of the memories as well. But despite my best efforts, some of my good bits came from the time I served as resident preacher's spawn. I can't forget anymore, and shockingly, I'm beginning to want to remember. It must be the season, and the bravery of you people here at OpenSalon, for I've never had any desire to write about this before.

Christmas was always especially trying in our household. A minister plays so many roles in a church, and during Advent, those roles are intensified. But my entire family was busy alongside my Dad during those times. I want those stories to be passed to my kids. Unable to facilitate worship induced experiences outside of our own little home rituals, I want to remember enough of what I have learned to pull us all through.

I was a member of the Bell Choir, the Youth Choir, the Youth Group, a soloist, and usually a reader during Advent as a younger myself. Wednesday night was bell practice, and by the time I was in high school I was playing most of the upper octave alone. Sometimes eight bells in spastic coordination. It was exhilarating, and I loved the challenge. Christmas music was always enjoyable to learn and perform, especially with a director who pushed you and pulled out the complicated pieces. The youth choir always did a few songs when we had enough members, and I sang a solo because it made my parents happy. I can't remember the last one I sang, which is saddening, but I didn't really like the song anyway. My favorite piece was always "Breath of Heaven".

For a couple of years in high school the entire youth group did a Christmas play. Legendary for getting laryngitis during December, one year I lost my voice right before the play. I only had a small role, and it was mostly just funny facial expressions made at the right time. My one actual line that year was, "And then, the alien spoke!", and I barely croaked it out, with lost of laughter to follow.

After four consecutive Christmas Eve services, and the build up of weekly celebrations throughout Advent, we would all go back to the house. We never had a Christmas Eve meal, because once home we were weary and finally done. We did always read the Christmas story together around the tree, and from the time I could put a few letters together into words, that was my job. I took it very seriously, and it brings tears to my eyes to remember that little girl reading such a very big story, and understanding more than a little girl should.

My husband and I joined a church after we were married. I tried so hard to redefine my role with a new congregation. It was something I wanted badly, and we had discussed it at length. But sitting in the pew I could only think, "He should have proof read his sermon one more time before this morning. I wonder if he even wrote it before this morning!". "Can't they find a liturgist who can actually read?". "Alright, next comes a hymn, not a good fit with the readings for today". It was exhausting. I wanted to start fresh, be anonymous, and relearn what it meant to be a church member. However, when pushed to join the choir and bell choir I did it. Only 2 bells this time though, I had lost my touch. I was the youngest member of the choir, whose dedicated director was too shy to stand up for herself. When she left, we quit going. Relieved we had a validated reason to end my failed experiment, we've never gone back to another church since.

For A while I entertained the idea of trying a completely different denomination. But the semantics of United Methodism are too far ingrained, I cannot let them go. So my secret wish this Christmas is endlessly complicated and so simple at the same time. To walk alone through the doors of a Methodist church on Christmas Eve is my only desire. While my husband and children wait at home, I want the time and space to remember everything I've tried to forget. Recalling every song, every prayer, when to breath, when to stand. I long to try it one more time. I need for a stranger to bend their candle to mine while the lights are dimmed, and to stand under the protection of darkness and sing Silent Night.

After I learned to drive I would sometimes find myself in the church parking lot without realizing how I got there. If my mind wandered I didn't go home, I went to church. Another singular opportunity is all I need, just a place for my memories to go home. I know I won't be able to go back again any time soon, if ever. But then maybe the reveries I've forced out can come back to me in a way that doesn't hurt, but bolsters the mother and wife and child of God I long to be.

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