All Saint's Day

Treading softly into the sanctuary during Wednesday lunchtime prayer, I was, as usual, awed by the immediate rush of the Spirit of God. Settling in to the red velvet pew, I kept my coat on. The church was cold and my hands still throbbed with the iciness of the fall wind outside. Wrapping my jacket tightly around me, I snuggled in as I pushed out vaporous breath, centering myself.

It is good to be this unusually quiet with God. Slow, like things tend to move about during the wintertime. Mind resting in pensive stillness. Prayer offered up in peace with the everydayness of life.

Eyes closed, lost in the black void of my blindness, my ears could take in the warm, needful requests of the other children around me. Our prayers, rising up together, seemed to converse, agree and listen to each other in this solemn time.

I could feel the humanity of God swirl about my head like a consuming fog.

At some point in praying, it was apparent how clear and focused my hindsight has become through God’s cleaned up lenses. The past has opened up beyond my mind’s nearsightedness. Some days I’m able to see purpose glimmering like gold flecks in the ashes of past decisions.

I smile to myself. God has most certainly found a lovely way to harness my overeager, imaginative mind. Our conversation is riddled with vision, imagery and eureka-type discoveries. This day is rich.

Lost in myself, I half-hear one of the men pause to remember that Wednesday is All Saints Day. I stiffen, mind snapping to attention. Saint? Where is he going with this? Is it Catholic-bashing? Will he get all “Evangelical” on me?

The questions burn in my gut. My brow furrows as he pauses,

…

then continues in a slow and deliberate prayer.

“Father, we remember the saints that have gone before us. They, who prepared a way for our faith. They went about, teaching us with their lives. We stop, recall them, and pray for those people in our lives.”

It was as if those words provoked the church doors, flinging them open, icy air flooding into the room. Images of the dead and forgotten danced across my mind. I shivered.

At times, I have been afraid to call these people by name. They are the shapers of my faith. The sum of my parts. My past and present intersected.

They have nurtured, holding me to their breast. They have stung with a scorpion’s venom. Their words have dripped like warm honey, and been far more sour than the tartest lemon.

Their shadowy negatives roll through my mind. Here, in this modern time, as this secure and confident woman, I quietly acquiesce. Gripping the back of the pew in front of me, I clench the wood for strength, and recognize them before my safe, understanding Father.

***

Grandpa. You were a man of steadfast Catholic faith. You revealed the beauties of mysticism and ritual. I was moved by the depth and devotion of your prayer life. I clasp tightly the sacred holiness with which you regarded your family. I treasure it. I miss you so much that it hurts.

Father Witt. You faithfully sent a questioning, scrupulous 13-year-old cassette tapes about God. I was in Des Moines and far too lazy to keep up with lessons on the catechism of the Catholic church. I often wonder about the tapes and books and what my adolescent questions were.

Grandma. You have such fine Baptist strength - like the trunk of a tree during a windstorm. I adore that you cry every Thanksgiving while thanking God for gathering and protecting us. I will never forget how tightly you hugged me and understood when I became a Christian.

Barb and Missy Rosberg. You seemed to my 16-year-old brain like lighting bottled up into the human form. You brimmed over with Evangelical passion for the Lord. Delicately, you cradled and encouraged me in the infancy of figuring out the mystery of Jesus. I am eternally grateful for your hope and guidance and the warm, safe place that your home and hearts were.

***
I hear someone else begin to pray now. The others are moving on without me. The chill of the past still lingers, so I decide to keep waiting it out with God. I return to our conversation, the memories becoming darker, staining my fingers like charcoal as I pull them out of my pockets.

***

Jennifer Edwards, Lindsey Newman, Kate Gibbons. I sigh slowly. This was my first holy community of “Christian friends.” We fumbled about in our adolescence, trying to understand our burgeoning womanhood in concordance with Christ. I believe that we earnestly wanted to serve and learn about Him. Unfortunately, I largely remember that we wanted to be right and know who was wrong.

Valley Evangelical-Free Youth Group. My mind races through our volleyball games. The rigidly OUTLOUD prayer time. The odd and hormonal boy-girl dance of my high school years. Your benefit is still hard to sort out. I remember learning from your smiley-faced leaders that I could read the Bible on my own, but only if I understood it literally. I was relieved to stop trying to conform to your ways when my parents were a upset that I might be leaving the Catholic faith.

The UNI Navigators. Your name makes me suck in air in a quick sharpness that hurts.

Just give me a second.

…

…

The UNI Navigators. I believe you meant well - that you meant to save the soul that the good Lord already owned and was working with. But you couldn’t grant His time and patience the sovereignty it deserved. You were the first organized community of faith to reject me. You sent me running away from the church’s oppression for a long time. I was not “good enough” to be with you…or God in your sight.

But, you are a part of my story.

Becca Pagan. I doubt you’ll ever know how much you saved me. You were instinctively the first person I called at the end of my four-year blue period. You showed me the face of Christ in your smile. Your kind hand out of the quicksand wasn’t just one phone call, but an entirety of collegiate moments.

Kim Urbanek and Stacy Watkins. You were my first friends in this new faith I re-owned. I knew I was now mature, adult and capable of making my own decisions and owning them. You both nurtured my returning heart like the crippled thing that it was. Your genuine compassion couldn’t push, judge or admonish.

The Heartland Community/The Gathering. In you I found newness. God looked like the loving force that He is. Your hospitality healed the wounds it had found in other churches. Your sincerity eroded my immediate cynicism. You provided a safe harbor – a place where I could learn about God again. You pushed me so intimately close to God that I could allow him radical access to my heart.

Cassandra Newlin, E Sue Young, Kelli Christman, Sarah & Julius Were, Courtney Jeter, Alicia Towns, Kendra Kluck, Dave Sandell, Ben Russo, Andy Danks, Nicole Spinelli, Kelly Elbert, Kari Conley, Matt Siepmann.

My eyes brim up.

They have saved this beat-up woman. At one time or another, they pulled me up from the dirt, wiped my eyes clean and told me I was beautiful.

The newest and closest ones are the embodiment of a true, adult, raw and thriving Christian community. I trust them implicitly. The oldest ones preserve my past and prove that all is not lost on the threshing floor.

We hurt and are hurt, and return to each other just the same.

***

These ghosts have been called up to live with my present. I could not escape their icy breath in this room today, nor could I ever separate them from me. I stand up, knowing I’ve let enough blood drain from my face and in to my Father’s hands. It’s almost time to hustle back to work anyway.

Back in the stinging wind, my cheeks feel like they’ve been slapped. Once I rub my hands back and forth quickly over their dull ache, the life re-emerges.

My car’s heater whirs. I turn my radio off. I think.

I think that each piece of these people weave together like a rich tapestry, covering me like a blanket. It is a piece of fabric that is inescapable, indelible, knit together with the loving thread of my creator God.

In some spots this patchwork is neatly attached, the seams almost invisible. Still, the material feels heavier in places. The fabric overlaps oddly. The seams are jagged. Almost inexplicably, some of the seams are half-ripped-away.

My jagged little blanket. How familiar I am with you, even in your irregularity.

I shake off the heaviness of my lunch hour, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun in my eyes now, awakening my mind to the pull of mid-day normalcy.

It’s time to put the blanket back up around me and pull away.