For the first time ever, I was the one who knew how to get to our church of the week. Kirkwood Presbyterian is in my neighborhood, just a few blocks from my house. Usually my directional input consists of something like "I dunno. Wherever you go there you are." But this week I got to say "left up here" and "turn right!" Never mind that most of the turns were one way.
This church is very familiar to me; it has always been a part of my life, though I have never been inside the sanctuary. I learned to ride a bike in the parking lot, as did my brother. It is a big flat surface and always empty except on Sundays; I'm not sure what this says about the church. There is a small patch of woods next to the parking lot with office complexes on the other side of it. There is a playground in the woods, and it has always been my favorite. It is unlike elementary school playgrounds - all the equipment is old. I used to be convinced the place was haunted; now I just think it’s seen a lot, glimpsed a lot of stories. You can hang out down there and listen to the sounds of the shopping centers around you, but feel distant from them all the same. The playground is a half-way point between my house and one of my best friend’s house; for years we have started off long summer days by meeting there. At age 13 we would swing and speculate how much toilet paper it would take to teepee our orthodontist, whose office was visible if you swung high enough. Recently we swung and talked about our jobs and how he's leaving for college in the fall. I suppose this is the point where I should ponder, "Where has the time gone?" But why waste time speculating such things.
All those times I've been on the property I've never seen anyone who works there. Still, today as I walked into the church I wondered if someone would come up to me and say, "Hey where is the skater boy?" or "Well, don’t you clean up nice." Rachel and I were greeted only with smiles, though, as we took a seat in the elegant sanctuary.
The service was pretty much identical to the Methodist church. I have been meaning to Google the difference between Methodist and Presbyterian. The only difference I was able to observe was at the beginning two candle girls walked down the aisle instead of one, and they weren't clad in white robes. They were more like oversized Alice in Wonderland costumes. This place also had a stand with a peculiarly shaped empty bowl on it; neither Rachel nor I know what its purpose was.
The following-of-the-program was even more specific then the Methodists; I was surprised this was possible. At least this time I knew how it worked. Shut brain off, quit thinking for self, follow guide, chant like zombie. The program even tells when to sit down and stand up. The first time the leader guy said "let us pray" I bowed my head and started to close my eyes and was startled by the entire congregation chanting. I guess I forgot that these were Easy Bake prayers, already prepared with clear instructions for completion. "So easy a caveman could do it!" Throughout the service everyone would rise for a hymn, Rachel and I would frantically flip through the book, find it, and never quite figure out where we were. Finally I whispered to just mouth the word "banana" the whole time, and quit giggling before you pop a gasket. Rachel, I must say, was in the giggliest mood I have ever witnessed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining at all. It made the otherwise dull experience entertaining and enjoyable. It's a good thing this type of church doesn't practice the art of whacking people with switches though. At one point Rachel asked if I knew what the previously mentioned mysterious bowl was for. I told her it was for the severed heads of those who can't control their lol-ing. I said this with a little too much enthusiasm and my pen flew out of my hand and clattered to the floor. I felt like the speaking-guy on stage was looking right at me and thus was scared to bend over, so I retrieved the runaway writing utensil with my toes.
Rachel and I questioned who writes these things as the "prayer of confession" was chanted. When it ended and the room became dead quiet I looked around and wondered if somebody forgot their lines. Rachel had to point out to me (giggling, of course) the small words in the program which read "Moment of silence for personal confession." Right. Like the Methodist church, these guys also had children’s time, however the lady leading this one seemed more genuine and talked with the kids better. This was because she was young I suppose, unlike that other lady, who probably flipped on the switch when God said let there be light. The children's lesson consisted of the woman showing them a black bag and asking if they had faith there were hundreds of flowers in there. When they doubted, she opened it to reveal packets of flower seeds, giving each of them one as she talked about Thomas the Doubter from the Bible. As we all prayed I caught a little girl peeking, or she caught me, whatever. She was a scrawny brown-haired thing, fidgeting, trying to remove her shoes, and no doubt my kindred spirit. We exchanged smirks, then all the good people opened up their eyes and the kids left for children’s church.
The main sermon was also about Thomas the doubter, though alas we didn't get any flower seeds. If the pastor at Family Worship Center was Clinton, this dude was McCain, Rachel and I concluded. McCain explained how just like the Resurrection story is taught on Easter, the story of Thomas is usually presented the week after Easter. This is because the account in the Bible took place exactly one week after Christ rose. Here's that account: "Now Thomas, one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord!" But he said to them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it." A week later his disciples were in the house again and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you!" Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe." Thomas said to him, "My Lord and my God!" Then Jesus told him, "Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed."" (John 20 24-29)
McCain managed to take an interesting look at the story; he pointed out how Thomas gets a bad rep for being a doubter and not having faith. A lot of people don't realize Thomas went on to cross the largest area as a missionary, and was believed to be the only disciple to leave the Roman Empire. Just because he once doubted and questioned it didn't mean he couldn't have strong faith later. We can get through times of trial and agony and move on to do great things. We are all going to have times of doubt. Christ will always be there to prove himself, maybe not in a physical sense, but he makes himself evident. The reason we break the bread, take communion, is so we have something tangible to remind us of that.
Rachel said the entire service felt like a graduation ceremony to her. I agreed. It was lovely and wise things were said, not to mention a lot of a people were wearing robes. But it was so formal. I appreciated the intelligent speeches that were made, and though they were meant to motivate, I left no different. Well, it did bend my mind that the church I've been hanging around for so long had an interior which held something nearly as intriguing as the ancient playground - the mystery bowl. *Insert giggles here.*
P.S. I regret to inform you there will be no entry next Sunday, as Rachel will be on a retreat and I will be attending the Appalachian State University open house. You may now proceed to mourn.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter Break (A Re-cap/Rambling of Sorts)
-WARNING: This gets obnoxiously close to sounding like a diary entry. Due to a jellybean overdose, probably.-
Last night I was babysitting some kids who live on my street. They had been in bed about an hour and I was happily curled up on the couch reading when Molly, age 7, ran into the room with a panicked look; I thought her 4 year old brother had disappeared or lit the house on fire, or both. "What is it?" I asked her as I quickly shut my book and hopped up. "I didn't leave out the eggs for the Easter bunny to hide, or my Easter basket for him to fill!" she gasped. "He's not gonna know where they are!" I took her by the hand and we strode to the kitchen, where freshly decorated eggs sat in the fridge. We stuck them on the front porch and proceeded to search for the baskets. They were nowhere to be found; I assumed this was because they were already filled and waiting. I only had to promise Molly several hundred times I'd make sure her parents found them and put them out. As I tucked her back into bed she asked me when exactly the Easter Bunny came. I told her not in the middle of the night, Santa hogged that time slot, though rabbits prefer early morning anyway, so right when the sun rises. "Why does the bunny have eggs?" She questioned next. "Because he is trying to keep his relations with the chicken on the down low." I informed her. "What?" She looked frustrated. "Don't worry about it." I gave her pillow one last fluff then walked out. I thought I'd made an escape when the little voice spoke again. "Sally?" I sighed. "Yes, Sleeping Beauty?" "I'm glad you know so much about Easter." I turned in time to watch her drift into sleep as she said this, and thus the child was spared a sermon on The True Meaning of Easter. I will spare you one as well, because gosh, we all know it right? We all know Easter isn't about bunnies and colorful eggs and baskets lined with paper grass that makes my cat barf...it's about much more...like jellybeans. Joke.
Today Rachel and I both went to Burke Community Church with our own families. It felt strange this morning, making my single cup of coffee and leaving my nearly half full notebook called "Church, for lack of a better title" behind. I felt my thoughts on this one would be too tainted. I cannot look at the place with fresh eyes. I don't dwell on the past, which is exactly why I don't love returning. It smelled like junior high in there. I already have a strong taste of the atmosphere and an impression of many of the people. It wouldn't be fair to those who I don't know or have changed for me to make any observations. Though I imagine they too see me, "girl with the bizarre sense of humor," as I was called once, and can also assume only what they know from before. Sure I've changed. I've made some (okay a lot) of mistakes and learned and never regretted. I've mastered controlling my temper and telling the truth, (THAT’S A BIG FAT LIE) and I don't have braces anymore. But essentially, I'm the same.
Johnny, a good friend and one of my favorite people, is always saying, "Sometimes the same is different, but mostly it's the same." This sums up my returning-to-my-original-church experience. This is not the church or its peoples’ problem; it's mine and my incredible fear of "the same." I know I can't keep going to a new church every Sunday forever; I have to at least attempt to fit in somewhere, and the fact is, I think I may want to. But no worries, this isn't the end of the exploration, just a re-cap. Besides, I may not live until next Sunday, I ate so many darn jellybeans.
As for the service at Burke Community Church, I can tell you it was nice and well done. Though I am not allowed to say much more, I reckon. As we were driving home I innocently compared one of the songs to a scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and was told by my mother, "No. Just no. My church and I like it." And to give it a rest or something of that sort. But I mean it, it was a nice service. A usual Easter one, do you know what I mean? Honestly though, that's alright. It is good to hear the resurrection story, to sing praise, remind and revive your heart, mind, and soul of the simple yet life-changing/saving news. Right, no preaching. I am not here to preach; you can go to church and hear all about this news I speak of. That's right, I, Sally Grace, am suggesting going to church. Don't write it off because of one (or several) specific ones and experiences. As I counted flowered dresses and khaki guy pants today, I thought about the different churches I've been to. It continues to wow me how utterly different each is; I can't help but marvel at the beauty. All so different - the people, the music, the atmosphere, the customs, the traditions and etiquette, the vibe, the presentations. But boil it down, and they are gatherings of human beings trying to discover a God, follow a Savior, and understand The Why. "Sometimes the same is different, but mostly it's the same."
Much as I actually didn't mind attending the service and pondering over my newly gained perspectives on God's fan club, I still am not sure if I am part of that group. Indeed I am a fan of God, but the club part? Not so much. After I got home I changed out of the high heels and red dress (oh man that’s a Jonas Brothers lyric, just shoot me now) into jean cut-offs and a Converse All Star tee. We went to Great Falls and I went on a long walk through the woods, mostly barefoot, peace love and granola man. Call me a grape nut, but it's out there I feel the most grateful for God's gift of eternal life; in all that natural beauty I see that he is real and good. It is there my heart really sings praise. Not to mention my off key little voice box. I want to leave you with my number one favorite praise song of all time. I find it good to sing when walking along a breezy mountain ridge, chasing waves into the sunset, searching for all natural shampoo in Wal-Mart, you name it I sing it. It is from some commercial a few years back on the Discovery Channel. I suppose it's called Boom De Yada, though in these parts we call it "Sally’s Song" or "SALLY SING SOMETHING ELSE FOR ONCE." Enjoy, and Happy Easter. Oh, since I'm getting all sappy and sentimental anyway, let me say thank-you for reading. Don't get me started how much it means. I honestly didn't believe anyone would read this. I figured it would help me organize my thoughts and keep track of each, and I just like to write, hone my skills, and attempt to semi-amuse Rachel. As she said, "People like us, they really like us!" So thanks, the comments and all mean a lot, such a blessing and encouragement. Now I will cease rambling before you decide to quit following. Song time.
Astronaut 1: It never gets old, huh?
Astronaut 2: Nope.
Astronaut 1: It kinda makes you wanna...
Astronaut 2: Break into song?
Astronaut 1: Yep.
I love the mountains.
I love the clear blue skies.
I love big bridges.
I love when great whites fly.
I love the whole world.
And all its sights and sounds.
Boom De Yada!
I love the ocean.
I love real dirty things.
I love to go fast.
I love Egyptian kings.
I love the whole world
And all its craziness
Boom De Yada!
I love tornadoes.
I love arachnids.
I love hot magma.
I love the giant squids.
I love the whole world.
It's such a brilliant place.
Boom De Yada.
Last night I was babysitting some kids who live on my street. They had been in bed about an hour and I was happily curled up on the couch reading when Molly, age 7, ran into the room with a panicked look; I thought her 4 year old brother had disappeared or lit the house on fire, or both. "What is it?" I asked her as I quickly shut my book and hopped up. "I didn't leave out the eggs for the Easter bunny to hide, or my Easter basket for him to fill!" she gasped. "He's not gonna know where they are!" I took her by the hand and we strode to the kitchen, where freshly decorated eggs sat in the fridge. We stuck them on the front porch and proceeded to search for the baskets. They were nowhere to be found; I assumed this was because they were already filled and waiting. I only had to promise Molly several hundred times I'd make sure her parents found them and put them out. As I tucked her back into bed she asked me when exactly the Easter Bunny came. I told her not in the middle of the night, Santa hogged that time slot, though rabbits prefer early morning anyway, so right when the sun rises. "Why does the bunny have eggs?" She questioned next. "Because he is trying to keep his relations with the chicken on the down low." I informed her. "What?" She looked frustrated. "Don't worry about it." I gave her pillow one last fluff then walked out. I thought I'd made an escape when the little voice spoke again. "Sally?" I sighed. "Yes, Sleeping Beauty?" "I'm glad you know so much about Easter." I turned in time to watch her drift into sleep as she said this, and thus the child was spared a sermon on The True Meaning of Easter. I will spare you one as well, because gosh, we all know it right? We all know Easter isn't about bunnies and colorful eggs and baskets lined with paper grass that makes my cat barf...it's about much more...like jellybeans. Joke.
Today Rachel and I both went to Burke Community Church with our own families. It felt strange this morning, making my single cup of coffee and leaving my nearly half full notebook called "Church, for lack of a better title" behind. I felt my thoughts on this one would be too tainted. I cannot look at the place with fresh eyes. I don't dwell on the past, which is exactly why I don't love returning. It smelled like junior high in there. I already have a strong taste of the atmosphere and an impression of many of the people. It wouldn't be fair to those who I don't know or have changed for me to make any observations. Though I imagine they too see me, "girl with the bizarre sense of humor," as I was called once, and can also assume only what they know from before. Sure I've changed. I've made some (okay a lot) of mistakes and learned and never regretted. I've mastered controlling my temper and telling the truth, (THAT’S A BIG FAT LIE) and I don't have braces anymore. But essentially, I'm the same.
Johnny, a good friend and one of my favorite people, is always saying, "Sometimes the same is different, but mostly it's the same." This sums up my returning-to-my-original-church experience. This is not the church or its peoples’ problem; it's mine and my incredible fear of "the same." I know I can't keep going to a new church every Sunday forever; I have to at least attempt to fit in somewhere, and the fact is, I think I may want to. But no worries, this isn't the end of the exploration, just a re-cap. Besides, I may not live until next Sunday, I ate so many darn jellybeans.
As for the service at Burke Community Church, I can tell you it was nice and well done. Though I am not allowed to say much more, I reckon. As we were driving home I innocently compared one of the songs to a scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and was told by my mother, "No. Just no. My church and I like it." And to give it a rest or something of that sort. But I mean it, it was a nice service. A usual Easter one, do you know what I mean? Honestly though, that's alright. It is good to hear the resurrection story, to sing praise, remind and revive your heart, mind, and soul of the simple yet life-changing/saving news. Right, no preaching. I am not here to preach; you can go to church and hear all about this news I speak of. That's right, I, Sally Grace, am suggesting going to church. Don't write it off because of one (or several) specific ones and experiences. As I counted flowered dresses and khaki guy pants today, I thought about the different churches I've been to. It continues to wow me how utterly different each is; I can't help but marvel at the beauty. All so different - the people, the music, the atmosphere, the customs, the traditions and etiquette, the vibe, the presentations. But boil it down, and they are gatherings of human beings trying to discover a God, follow a Savior, and understand The Why. "Sometimes the same is different, but mostly it's the same."
Much as I actually didn't mind attending the service and pondering over my newly gained perspectives on God's fan club, I still am not sure if I am part of that group. Indeed I am a fan of God, but the club part? Not so much. After I got home I changed out of the high heels and red dress (oh man that’s a Jonas Brothers lyric, just shoot me now) into jean cut-offs and a Converse All Star tee. We went to Great Falls and I went on a long walk through the woods, mostly barefoot, peace love and granola man. Call me a grape nut, but it's out there I feel the most grateful for God's gift of eternal life; in all that natural beauty I see that he is real and good. It is there my heart really sings praise. Not to mention my off key little voice box. I want to leave you with my number one favorite praise song of all time. I find it good to sing when walking along a breezy mountain ridge, chasing waves into the sunset, searching for all natural shampoo in Wal-Mart, you name it I sing it. It is from some commercial a few years back on the Discovery Channel. I suppose it's called Boom De Yada, though in these parts we call it "Sally’s Song" or "SALLY SING SOMETHING ELSE FOR ONCE." Enjoy, and Happy Easter. Oh, since I'm getting all sappy and sentimental anyway, let me say thank-you for reading. Don't get me started how much it means. I honestly didn't believe anyone would read this. I figured it would help me organize my thoughts and keep track of each, and I just like to write, hone my skills, and attempt to semi-amuse Rachel. As she said, "People like us, they really like us!" So thanks, the comments and all mean a lot, such a blessing and encouragement. Now I will cease rambling before you decide to quit following. Song time.
Astronaut 1: It never gets old, huh?
Astronaut 2: Nope.
Astronaut 1: It kinda makes you wanna...
Astronaut 2: Break into song?
Astronaut 1: Yep.
I love the mountains.
I love the clear blue skies.
I love big bridges.
I love when great whites fly.
I love the whole world.
And all its sights and sounds.
Boom De Yada!
I love the ocean.
I love real dirty things.
I love to go fast.
I love Egyptian kings.
I love the whole world
And all its craziness
Boom De Yada!
I love tornadoes.
I love arachnids.
I love hot magma.
I love the giant squids.
I love the whole world.
It's such a brilliant place.
Boom De Yada.
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