The image you seek out with your point and shoot after you spent the afternoon reading Sad, Irish Writer, coupled with a morning conversation of no more babies, kids growing fast and “Do you remember how we met?”
Do you remember how we met?
I remember. We sat on a sofa facing a large window. Beyond the glass, trees. Beyond trees, the valley, with the Delaware I can’t see due to distance and all the green leaves, but I know it’s there.
Me – not yet a mother. But I would be soon. You – a mother years ahead of me.
Today, I’m catching up. You with grandchildren. Me with almost two teens, two wanting to be; no more babies.
You make me think of what was long ago when we sat on the sofa – was it covered in a fabric with big, pink roses? I believe I don’t have people who know me in the Church. People who don’t pay attention or are too busy or don’t care. You make me think of experience as a mother, what I truly want, and the marvel of passing time. Perhaps I’m wrong about no one paying attention.
Fourteen years since that meeting on the flower sofa.
I’m different. My life is different.
Where will I be in another 14 years?
I’m re-thinking church.
The church I call home, and have attended faithfully for the past 12 years, is in the middle of a transition. Our Pastor is retiring. Witnessing the process of filling his position is revealing a side of our Evangelical denomination that I have never bumped into before. Last Sunday, an off-handed comment whispered in my ear shocked me. The only thought in my mind as I sat in the pew, brushing away the tears:
This isn’t a church, this is a business.
Thoughts on what a church should look like has been on my mind for awhile. Time traveling to the early days Paul describes in the Book of Acts is a fantasy of mine. I hear talk of home churches as I interact with believers across the web. I see others leaving for something new and I’m intrigued.
So this is where I am right now. Part of me got up last Sunday and ran from the building, vowing to never return. I fear the part of me that left was my heart. I love church, I do. The worshiping together, the fellowship of people who understand me. They are good people. It’s a place to go and belong.
But there is a lack that’s had me concerned for awhile. It’s mostly my own fault. I could reach out to people more; pick up the telephone. There is more to my dissatisfaction than not feeling connected to people, but I won’t share it here. Church bashing isn’t my style.
Now as I witness the process of finding a new pastor, I can’t bare it.
It’s a business.
I don’t want to worship God in a business.
I want my Book of Acts believers, gathered together, in one spirit, knit together in love, joy and desire to know God and each other.
I want. . .
I want . . .
What He wants.
Is that the building with the white steeple, with all the people? The Wednesday with Family Night and it’s Bible study, youth group and kids’ programs in the basement? The pews and the praise band? All the extras? Fellow Evangelicals will know what I mean.
Or does He want me and my family elsewhere?
Did you expect anything different, Monica?
We went to the Frenchtown Roller Rink today. Fun for the kids. Not much skating for me. The soft padding of the inside of my Rollerblades were missing, which made skating feel like I had tiny rocks in my skates. So either I remember extra thick socks next time or I stuff my skates with some sort of a replacement padding.
Who thinks I’m going to forget that fact between now and the next time we go?
Yeah, me too.
This is the same rink my church youth group went to when I was a shy teenager and desperate to find my way in the complex high school scene. I know this is the rink the youth group went to, but try as I might, I have no memories of skating here, which I think is rather odd. Maybe I didn’t go? Maybe I was too shy to attend? That’s the probable answer.
Know what I think now when I look at these pictures?
I’d hate to be the one to keep that floor shiny.
Ha. Such a Mom Thought, no?
Lucy’s first time at a proper roller rink. She had a blast. Good way to spend a winter’s day.
Life from the holidays is slowly returing to normal. Joe went back to work after being off for the past week. I decided to keep the Christmas decorations up until Epiphany. I’ve never paid attention to Epithany before, but I read an interesting article via Facebook and liked the idea of a proper 12 Days of Christmas.
Joe decided to start cleaning his home office last weekend. It’s that New Year affect (effect? I never know which to chose.) It’s “Let’s start things new because the calendar is clean and fresh.”
I have my old writing desk in our bedroom, the desk I’ve used since my teen years. It’s painted red and like a familiar member of my family. I can still find the tiny smiley face I carved into the surface as a tormented high school student. I think I was trying to convince myself I could be happy even as I faced yet another Algebra problem.
But our bedroom is cold. Joe’s office is closer to the living room. The living room is where the wood stove cranks out heat, keeping us comfortable for these cold, New Jersey winters. Since I have yet to master typing with gloves, I’ve given up the red desk to use the spare desk in his office.
We’ve never shared space like this before. Bed? No problem. Creative space?
Um. . . hurry up, spring.
I can’t talk to myself without him saying, What? What? because he thinks I’m trying to make conversation.
Joe lets the music fly free out the computer speakers. Random selections from his digital library, which is fine, we mostly agree on music, except this music bounces from rock to rap and whatnot in between. When I listen to music as I sit at the computer, especially when I’m writing like I’m doing now, music isn’t the point. Music is background. It’s noise to block out the activity of a house with six people. Headphones are my friend.
To block Joe’s Toby Mac, I need to turn up the volume in my ears. But then I can’t write because the lyrics stifle the voice in my head.
The worst part is when he walks past my chair. The office is not completely finished and little piles of important papers are arraigned on the floor between Joe and the door. Joe has gotten into the habit of using the back of my chair as a handle/leverage as he tip toes through this paper minefield.
Distracting much?
So this is the start of my new year in a new office space. I wonder if I can set up private office hours?
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