Sometimes God will do odd things to get my attention.
I’ve been struggling lately through most of my work weeks. In addition to my usual angst related to “I-sold-out-to-The-Man” and “I-have-a-great-job-and-great-company-and-I’m-really-good-at-this-so-I’m-an-ungrateful-wretch” and “I-just-want-to-wriiiiiiiiiiiiiiite-full-time” and “I-miss-pastoring-and-doing-life-with-people!”. So add to that usual litany, the over-arching scream of my heart which is “I miss my girl!” My longing for Anne all day is almost frightening to me. I mean, honestly. People do this all day, every day. And they’re not still crying in the washroom two months later. I am in a constant state of prayer and connection with God to just do my job and maintain my perspective. The good news is that I’m the Queen of Compartmentalisation (also known as “The Art of Putting One’s Life into Compartments and, When Necessary, Ignoring a Compartment for a While”). It’s not necessarily what most would describe as healthy but hey, whatever gets you through the day.
Anyway.
I was in the midst of this week and on Thursday, I decided to go for a walk at lunchtime. The day was beautiful. It was a crisp, autumn day in the city with bright blue skies. I wandered around Burrard and then my eyes lit on Christ Church Cathedral at the corner of Burrard and Georgia. Without really knowing why, my feet carried me over to the historic Anglican church and I went inside. The Eucharist service had just started. I dipped my fingers, made the sign of the cross and sat down with the fifteen other people there for a respite in the heart of the city.
The church is beautiful. Probably the most beautiful I’ve ever physically been to. It’s the oldest church in Vancouver. The stained glass glowed in the darkness. There was a hush in the room but it wasn’t stuffy at all. Just quiet and …. holy.
A young woman was performing the service. She read through the Book of Common Prayer. I was surprised how much of it I had memorised as I recited along with her in my heart. We worshipped God together, prayed Scripture and enjoyed silence. We gathered in a semi-circle at the front of the church to receive communion together. As a novice to high-church rituals, I covertly spied on the other parishoners to see how to hold my hands properly to receive the host and then lift the communal cup of wine to drink. Then after the service, those who wanted prayer for healing were invited to the front to meet with the curate and rector. Really quite charismatic of them. *wink*
I sat in silence for another fifteen minutes, praying in tongues (hey, you can take the girl out of the charismatic church….), meditating and generally feeling, for the first time in a long time, quiet. Quiet in my heart of hearts. For once my internal monologue wasn’t running the way it usually does. There was just…space. And in that space, I felt the nearness of Papa, Jesus and the Spirit. I felt the calm and comfort of a Presence. My muscles seemed to unfurl and the tension in my neck relaxed.
I met with God there.
Afterwards, 83-year-old Gerry (short for Geraldine but as she informed me “who wants to be called Geraldine all their life? Honestly.”) and I had a chat. She informed me that getting old was a terrible nuisance so I shouldn’t bother. We talked about her careers and how she had been born in Kenya and what she would do with her car now that she isn’t driving anymore. She said she always comes on Thursdays so she hoped I’d return.
I think that I will. I’d like to make time for this in the midst of my week at least once, hopefully twice.
There is a passage of Scripture in the book of Psalms that says “Be still and know that I am God.” I found that stillness for an hour this week. I felt stregthened, focused and full. I didn’t return to work and revert to the hamster-on-a-wheel feeling of stress and go-go-go. Rather, I was calmer, centred and quieted.
I grew up in church but of the non-denom variety that usually met in old movie theatres, strip malls or cavernous stadium-style churches. I love the ease of those churches – playing hide-and-go-seek in the sanctuary, laughing loudly without feeling unholy, conversational sermons that readily use daily life as an illustration. It’s where I feel like church is family and the building is our living room.
But sometimes, I need some quiet. Sometimes I need the space for silence and tradition and history. I especially need it in the midst of the craziness of life. The dailyness of getting up early and rushing for the bus, commuting, working all day, meetings, email and phone calls, lunches out of a box, rushing home, handing off of Anne so Brian can go to work, hurried suppers, bathtimes, snuggles and stories, nursing and …. It’s beautiful and I love my life. But there isn’t much space for the Spirit alone. I’ve always subscribed to the belief that God is in the midst of the dailyness. God is as present in bathtime as he is the Cathedral. But just because God is there during diaper changes and marketing plans doesn’t mean He isn’t also there during Eucharist. It’s just in a different expression or way.
The ancient words of the Book of Common Prayer, the sense of connection with believers all over the world and back through time, the holiness and austerity of the service, the silence and other-world-ness, the Scripture and hymns. God is as present in this moment as He is in any other, yes, but on Thursday, this was where I felt enveloped.
