get my hooky fix

My freshman year in high school two of my friends suggested we skip school to go see Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I had no interest in the movie, but for some reason I agreed, and discovered that--besides the unpleasantness of sneaking on and off campus--skipping school was entirely my cup of tea. Having gotten away with it once, I began to skip school often, justified in my own mind by my good grades. Being a rather risk-adverse teenager, my outings were fairly tame: I rode the light rail to the large downtown library to browse, walked quietly by the homeless punks hanging out in Pioneer Square, sat in on my friends' classes at MLC (Portland's alternative public school where the teachers apparently welcome stray children into their classes). I wasn't a good liar, so I made it a habit to tell my mom when I cut class--setting a stellar example for my younger siblings whose subsequent school skipping activities were more likely to include shop lifting, pot smoking, and train hopping.

Playing hooky has become a life-long vice, or love, depending on how you look at it. I delight in stealing time for myself when I'm supposed to be elsewhere, doing something serious and official and un-fun. Time becomes more precious and satisfying, it's like getting the extra daylight savings hours year round. Of course, skipping as an adult lacks the glamour it had in my young adulthood. It's not really fun to stretch an office lunch hour when going back late just means I'll have to stay even later. And now, as a mostly stay-at-home-mom, I can barely find activities from which to play hooky. But I do manage: for example, there is church.

This past Sunday, as Charles was getting ready for liturgy, I lingered in bed. Charles doesn't like arriving late, and so he had dressed Isaiah and headed out the door with time to spare. I heard him loudly bless our apartment and his journey (a five-minute walk) to church as he left, and I wondered if this was in the hope that his wife would soon follow him. For awhile I entertained thoughts of arriving before communion, but even that was making me feel confined, so I gave up pretensions of going altogether. Instead, I did nothing, mostly. I took a long shower. I sat wrapped in my towel in the streaming sunlight and slowly applied lotion. I thought. I thought a lot. I made coffee. I read a little. I did the dishes and slowly tidied up the apartment. I even made the bed. I felt absolutely wonderful.

When Charles returned with Ike, he suggested that instead of missing church I take Saturday mornings for myself. This seemed to be a good idea, and I agreed. But later I thought it's skipping church that makes the time so delicious. And it's not that I don't like church--I do! I love our little parish, my friends there, not to mention our world-class coffee hour. The draw of missing church is that I'm playing hookey. I remember sitting in the sun outside the chapel at St Vlad's, late for liturgy as usual, talking to Jenny. Jenny, of course, had come out of church because of baby Anna--a completely legitimate excuse. I, on the other hand, just liked missing church. Our conversations were all the sweeter because the church, a few feet from us, was packed with praying people.

But maybe I can find other ways to get my hooky fix. Yesterday I hired a sitter to continue some urgent freelance work. As I was trudging through the snow to my little office, I passed a coffee shop. I felt annoyed that whenever I have a sitter all I do is rush rush rush to work, to the store, and rush rush rush home to feed Ike. I swung around and headed back to the coffee shop. I sat in a window seat for an hour, sipping chai, reading The New Yorker, and leisurely watching the snow fall on my neighborhood. Ah, it's so delicious.

I believe in the absurd

Yesterday, at church, my mind drifted. I wonder if the man to my left noticed when I sang "thee" instead of "you" just now? and Does that woman have cancer or does she like the shaved-head look? Meanwhile the priests wandered around in the alter, swinging things and burning things and generally rearranging objects. I tried stand straight and wondered what my hair looked like from behind.

And then we came to the creed. I tried to concentrate just the tiniest bit. I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth and all things visible and invisible...

And, as happens once in a great while, a joyful little tingling accompanied my words. Like the sudden resurgence of a crush you thought was well over, or the way a joke you've heard too many times to think is funny manages to make you laugh. You think "this is absurd" and yet you blush or break into laughter. I stood there repeating for the millionth time "... Son of God, the only-begotten, begotten of the Father before all ages, Light of Light, true God of true God, begotten, not made, of one essence with the Father..." And I think, It's ridiculous that I believe this. And it makes me sort of joyful that I believe something when it's utterly ridiculous.

Later that night on the phone, a friend was quizzing me about my faith, particularly my understanding of animism and how I understand it given faith in one Metagod--the creed's Father Almighty. I was hard-pressed to say that I believed God wasn't perhaps a stone or a river god, or my friend on the other end of the line. Maybe She's the shaved-headed woman at church. I don't know what I believe. It's absurd.

I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth... and I smile.

punishment, coffee hour variety

Being single isn’t exactly a “vocation”—although some people may feel called to it, may even claim it as their “vocation.” But it’s not particularly nice to claim it for others, especially strangers you meet at coffee hour after church.

This Sunday, on Christmas Eve, I accompanied Fr John to a little parish in Minneapolis. The people and the service were nice enough—as one would expect in Minnesota—I even met a kid who claimed a career as both Batman and Spiderman. After the service I wandered to the church hall with curiosity and low expectations. A friendly man offered me a mug of coffee and various people approached me, mostly under the impression that Fr John was my husband.

A middle-aged woman in a corduroy jumper with braided blonde hair, beamed once she realized I wasn’t attached to the priest. “You’re a single person?” she gushed. “So you’ve chosen the vocation of a single person too!” I was at a lack for words. I had no interest in mentioning divorce or a recently broken-off engagement, much less to argue with the idea that being single wasn’t my idea of a “vocation.” I mumbled something about New York being a great place to be single.

I was rescued by an elderly lady and her son who wanted to know how long I was in town. I explained I was staying with Fr John’s wife’s family, that he and his wife were long-time friends, and that I was in Minneapolis for another few days. The son, who must have been in his fifties, asked after my family. I explained that my Mom was in Mexico, my brother in Denver, and my Dad and sister in Oregon. “We seem to scatter for Christmas,” I said smiling.

“But you get together for Thanksgiving,” he asserted.

I smiled politely, “No, not really,” hoping to leave it at that.

But he wasn’t giving up, “Well, then Easter? Or do you just all get together every few years?” He looked at me hopefully.

Sheesh! What is this? How much personal information was I required to fork over? “No, we don’t really get together,” I said. “My parents are divorced. My brother and I do see each other from time to time. I live in New York and I can’t really have them all there.”

He seemed stumped, “That’s sad,” he said after a second.

I looked over at John imploring. People should be trained on how to interact with each other, not to mention strangers, at coffee hour. Church bulletin boards and bland religious pamphlets are preferable to this kind of communication.

I called my Dad later that day. He was building a fire in the woodstove in the kitchen and his back was hurting. “Your brother never answers the phone,” he said. “Does he answer when you call?”

“Sometimes, Dad. How are you?”

“Well, besides my back, I can’t complain. God is good. And I’m talking to my eldest daughter.”

lent

Yesterday, over tea and chocolate, Xsenia asked me why I haven't been going to church lately, "You're not pulling an Adriel on us? You're not having a faith crisis?" she prodded. Xsenia manages to be both fierce and playful at once.

"No," I replied thoughtfully, "I'm just being lazy."

Nostalgia sipped her tea slowly and said nothing. After a pause, she smiled, "No, Lucy's given up going to church for Lent this year."

driving to church

This story is about me. About me sitting in Mary's sunroom looking at the sun shine through the leaves of the golden pothos vine and thinking about about driving to church as a kid, and smiling.

Mary wants me to make new stories so that my body remembers my past differently.

I smiled because when Mary asked me to change a childhood memory of my father, I immediately thought about our family going to church. Of course the trip to church. I recalled that awful ride and all the dread associated with our Sunday morning spectacle. I remember our car, old and beat up, and fighting with my brother and sister about window seats. I remember pulling into the parking lot at church and circling around to park in the back. Other people's fathers drove up and dropped them off under the awning to protect their Sunday best from the rain. I don't think Dad ever did that for us. I remember cringing and hoping nobody would be getting out of their car when we got out of ours. I remember walking across the blacktop, looking down, dreading. I remember the glass doors under the small awning that led into the vestibule. I remember the stale smell of the unused building, the striped upholstery on the bench next to the door. But I remember most clearly wanting to hide. Wanting to avoid everybody, their gaze, their implicit judgement, even their friendly greeting.

Our whole entrance into the church was uncomfortable. Our position there apparently without dignity, at least in my Father's eyes. Yes, we were poor, but more importantly, Dad felt slighted. He put on a stern, self-righteous act which became the context in which we walked. Entering the sanctuary was as difficult as arriving at the front doors. Dad chose back rows, or when he felt particularly ill-at-ease he skulked off to the balcony. He said it was because he did not want to be asked to pray.

I felt so unentitled at church, so second-rate, so much the daughter of my unhappy, grudge-bearing father.

Sitting there with the sunlight I tried to imagine us lightly getting into our car amid good-natured bickering, to ride to church peaceably, with space in our movements and ourselves. To imagine pulling into the closest parking spot to the door, like a normal family. Or getting dropped off under the awning. To imagine entering and seeing my Father smile and shake someone's hand warmly, engage in conversation without an edge or grudge. To see my Mom walk with dignity, not hiding her husband's angry inadequacy with smiles or sweetness. To hang our coats with pride. To run and find my friends and not slink away somewhere with a book to read. To enter the sactuary with my family comfortably, casually sitting in a pew near the middle of the church. With space and dignity in all our movements.