Breakup Blues

I've been thinking about it on and off for months. But it's finally time to do the deed. I'm breaking up with my church.

It's a huge weight off my shoulders, now that I've made the decision. But it's also tough to let go. The church was a safe place that became a dead end. I won't miss the majority of the people there, but there were a few that were really special to me. Yes it's possible that we could stay in touch, but I kind of doubt that's going to happen. We were all so busy that even after being friends for two years we only found time to see each other at church events. You know how it is. People always say that they'll stay in touch, but it rarely happens.

It took me close to two years to get up the nerve to walk into a church in the first place. I had all sorts of baggage holding me back. I had always identified as a Jewish agnostic. Finding Christian faith due to a miraculously answered prayer unexpectedly plunged me into an identity crisis. I was afraid of the unknown. I was afraid of what people would think of me. I walked into that church, and when the pastor's wife kindly welcomed me, I burst into tears.

The first year was like being in religious kindergarten. Everything was new and fascinating. I studied the Bible, which was not at all what I expected it to be. I attended services. I got to know the congregation and made friends. Ken and I were baptized.

During the second year, I started to feel more at home at the church. I started volunteering in the nursery, and sang with my friends' musical group. I knew lots of peoples' names by then. Ken and I got married at that church, and our "church family" came to witness our vows. Good times, all.

I had some niggling concerns, which I wrote about on this blog. I'm too lazy to go look up all the posts and link to them, but if you want to see them just look up anything labelled "church" and "spirituality". Anyway, these little things started to add up.

I could not take the Bible as literally as the church as a whole did. I couldn't accept certain things without asking questions. One time I attended a Bible study, and was seriously scolded for criticizing the teaching. I never went back again. There was also the matter of homosexuality. I will never be convinced that loving, committed relationships are wrong, regardless of the gender identities of the people involved.

There were also style differences. You might remember the time that my music group got in trouble after leading a service because we were "almost dancing!" Exuberance was frowned upon by the majority of the congregation. I don't get that at all. How can true worship be anything but unrestrained?

And finally there was just a sense I had of being judged all the time. The people at church were well-intentioned, but everyone was always checking themselves and others against a strict yardstick for attendance, behaviour, dress, choice of words, choice of music, etc. I was always worried about what to wear to church. I didn't make the jokes that popped into my head. I realized at a certain point that things were never going to get any more comfortable.

It's like a relationship. When you make a new friend, for a while you're on your best behaviour. Then you start to relax a little, but you're still on your guard. Eventually, you get to the point when both of you just relax and you realize you don't have to try anymore. You can just be. You can hang out sometimes and not talk, because there's nothing to prove. You can rest and recharge from the friendship.

This church is never going to be relaxing. There's always an undercurrent of fear and reservation running underneath all the good intentions. It's draining to have to try so hard there. I try hard at work all week. Sometimes I have to try hard, really hard, with my family. If I'm taking time for my spiritual nourishment, it has to be able to support me when I need it.

I realized that I would never be able to just be myself at church. I'd always have to try. And on top of everything else in my life, it's just too much. So I'm letting it go.

There may be some other church out there, in this big city, where I might fit in. Someplace liberal and honest, where it's OK to think critically.

But for right now, I'm enjoying taking some Sundays for myself. I started reading spiritual books again, and I find I'm getting a lot more out of private contemplation and prayer than I was by trying to stay awake through the boring, repetitive sermons at church.

I am grateful to my church and the people in it for all that they offered to me: a warm welcome, learning, and a unique experience of community. I will never forget my church. Partly because I got married there. Partly because I still have to walk past it on my way to work every morning! But it's time to move on to my next phase. I'm pretty sure that's what God wants for me.

Goody Goody Two-Shoes

What does that expression mean, anyway? I've never known troublemakers to wear a different number of shoes than well-behaved people. Granted, if you run across someone in the street who's only wearing one shoe, you're likely looking at a problematic situation. But I've known plenty of bad people who wear two shoes. I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, the point of this post is to tell you about a most unique experience I had over the holidays: the Church Chum Party. You already know that I sing in a band at church, but I haven't told you much about the other members. In fact, I know very little about them. We've all basically gotten together only for practices every month for almost a year now. One of the newly married couples in the group decided it was time we all sat down for some proper socializing.

The players were: Ken and I, the host (and group leader) and hostess, another set of newlyweds (piano and bass guitar), our drummer, and a cute Korean exchange student who barely has half-a-dozen words of English at her command, but is remarkably cheerful. The exchange student is our backup piano player.

I always have a dilemma when visiting someone else's home for the first time. I'm as poorly insulated as Ron's house, so I like to know in advance what environment I should be dressing for. Will they have the thermostat turned down to 68 degrees? Or, since this event was billed as a fondue party, should I be prepared to swelter in the presence of many small pots of fire?

I figured the two factors would even each other out, so I dressed for a moderate temperature, and brought a pair of slippers along for good measure. What I should have done was wear my snowpants, boots, and a parka, and politely decline to leave any of the above in the coatroom. That lovely, spacious, character-filled post-war flat was chilly as a refrigerator. They had a fire going in their honest-to-goodness wood-burning, brick fireplace, but a couple of the girls parked themselves in front of it like cats and absorbed all the heat. My little slippers were no defense against the artic drafts that blew across the highly polished floorboards.

Not to worry, I told myself. I'll have some nice hot dinner. That'll warm me up. Sure. Picture this: eight hungry people fighting for cooking positions at two tiny fondue pots. You skewer a wee bite of food on your fondue fork, throw it in the pot, and watch the clock for three minutes before you can eat that bite and start cooking another one. Did you know that three minutes is a very long time in between bites of dinner? Try it with your regular dinner tonight. I dare you.

The host and hostess had gone to a great deal of trouble to set out a lovely spread, with all sorts of yummy tidbits and sauces, but I was cold and hungry. I tried very hard to feel grateful and not get too cranky.

Fortunately there was a kick-ass dark chocolate fondue for dessert. That made up for some of my complaints.

Then the conversation turned to matters religous. The bass player, a theology student, had a lot of Opinions and his wife, the pianist, was quick to second everything he said. Brows furrowed and the atmosphere grew earnest. Some people offered stories of how they felt they had served The Lord, and others reminded the storytellers to beware the sin of pride. The conversation struggled in an uncomfortable no-man's land between peoples' desire to come across sounding Holy and Knowledgeable vs. their desire to come across as humble and self-effacing.

I offered up a couple of opinions and found that people were disagreeing with me. Except I didn't even understand what their basis for disagreement was. Either I had expressed myself poorly, or they had gotten the wrong end of the stick, because I couldn't find any difference between what we were saying. I tried to clarify the matter and came away no further ahead. Eventually I sat back and let the eager folks keep track of who had put their hand up when, in order not to interrupt each other. It was truly unlike any other party I've ever attended.

It seemed to go on for hours, but I thought that was just my icy feet talking. In fact, the Korean exchange student looked at me worriedly and showed me the face of her wristwatch: 12:30 am!! Good grief. She whispered "When finish?" I was like "Now, if I have anything to say about it!" I grabbed my guy, my coat, and we made tracks out of there, leaving a hurried trail of thanks and take care's behind us.

I had a lot more fun on New Year's Eve with our secular friends. Our church friends are wonderful people, but I'm still not sure exactly how to deal with their angle on things.

How It Went

Hi y'all!

Thank you so much for all your encouraging comments! I really feel your support, and it gives me strength.

The service went well. I was a little nervous at the beginning, but with the whole congregation singing along with the familiar carols, I didn't get any sense of being scrutinized or judged. I didn't sing perfectly, but I sang well enough, and more importantly I had a great time. There was a tangible sense of togetherness in the church, more so than during any regular service, and it was sweet. Afterwards, several people came up to give me hugs and encouragement, including my mum, who says she was bursting her buttons with pride.

I feel happy again just thinking of it. :-)

The Soloist

Usually, when I sing onstage at church, three women sing with me. Or rather, I sing with them. I'm the weakest voice on the team. We have one very confident singer with a good range, one who harmonizes, and one stellar soprano. Then there's me. If I'm really warmed up I can reach most of the high notes, but sometimes I quaver, and if the song moves a lot between high and low notes my voice tends to wobble "in the break". Yeah. So usually I let my voice fill in as background texture, while the other lead.

Of the three other women:

1) One is going to go into labour any second now,

2) One just lost her mother-in-law yesterday,

3) One is sick.

So guess who's singing tomorrow, in front of what will likely be a very full church? Full because the Sunday School children are doing their pageant tomorrow, so everyone will be bringing extra relatives, friends, and video cameras?

Oh, you guys are so smart! I knew you'd get the answer.

I won't be totally alone. But the other guy onstage is... a guy. So I can't hide behind his voice. I'll be exposed for everyone to hear. Fortunately my mother is attending the service, so I can count on there being one person who's thrilled to be my audience. As for the rest, well, what are they going to do? Fire me? If they don't like my best effort, they can come up and take my place.

In other news of things Christmasy, I went to a fabulous dinner party on Thursday night. My friend works for a very upscale retailer located in Toronto's Yorkville district. That's the downtown area where all the richest people in the city, and all the most loaded tourists, go to shop, eat, see, and be seen. In the summertime, wealthy, middle-age men cruise their mid-life crisis show-off cars up and down the narrow, boutique-lined streets.

My friend's employer has an annual Christmas party, and my friend invited me to be her date.

We ate a very fancy, multi-course dinner in the private function room of an uber-swanky restaurant. We downed delicassies such as braised octopus, gorgozola polenta, aged steak, and tiramisu. Wine flowed more freely than water. I ended up chatting with one of the two owners of the retail establishment, a 50-year-old Hong-Kong-born Chinese man, very cultured, accomplished, and, I assume, richer than sin. We were also surrounded by the Fashion People, so pretty, shiny, and charming that I felt as though I must be living in a TV show. It was slightly overwhelming, but whenever I found myself at a loss for words I simply dug deeper into my mushroom risotto or whatever splendid dish was before me at that moment, and sipped more wine. My anxieties floated away on a gentle, Italian-flavoured river of hedonism.

At the end of the evening my girlfriend declared that I'd been an excellent date. Then she went off, hopefully to end the night by licking the face of a particular co-worker. I've yet to follow up with her to see if that was successful.

Bright Blue September Skies

This weekend was just what the doctor ordered. I slept plenty; I enjoyed the company of good humans; I had not a care in the world.

Yes, the virus is still affecting me. But I can be happy and tired at the same time. I'm putting my foot down. I refuse to let it define how I see my life.

Saturday, I went on a Prayer Walk. I joined other members of my church for an hour-long stroll, during which we prayed together for the people who live along our route.

This was the first time I've been on a Prayer Walk. In fact, I've only been to one prayer meeting in the past year of church membership. I'm pretty shy about praying out loud in front of other people.

But I really wanted to participate. There was a shooting recently just two blocks from my home. I've read that communities that are prayed for regularly by prayer walkers actually have measurably reduced levels of crime. Some churches even cooperate with local police authorities to find out which areas need prayer the most. If I have an opportunity to help, I need to step up and take it.

The weather was, if you'll excuse the pun, heavenly. Being up early on the weekend, strolling in the fresh air under bright blue September skies, with friends, was a treat. And when we had finished our walks, we gathered back at the church for a BBQ. Flat burgers, rippled potato chips, neon pink cream soda, emeralds of relish. The sharp smell of yellow mustard. Crumbly chocolate chip cookies on paper plates. We ran out of burgers, but everyone was offered seconds of cookies.

***

On Sunday I celebrated a special wedding anniversary of my father and step-mum.

The family split up into several vehicles so that the drivers could accommodate the non-drivers and the carless. I was assigned to ride with my father and grandmother (his mother). I settled into the back seat and we headed out onto the highway to Ancaster, an hour away from Toronto.

To me, hanging out in the back seat of a car, just looking out the window, is a pleasant, relaxing experience. I don't have to do anything, just be. It's especially nice when the front seats are occupied by people I love, who are having a conversation that's interesting to listen in on, with no obligation for me to participate or keep silent. One week from today I'll be turning 37, but this afternoon I may as well have been ten years old, feeling safe in the care of two trusted parental figures.

Like I've always done since I was a kid, I revelled in the wind from the open window blowing on my face. I watched clouds drifting in the sunny sky, and admired the endless banks of wildflowers in brilliant shades of yellow and violet that lined the highway. Trees turned up the silver undersides of their leaves in the breeze. I could have happily sat back and let myself be driven around all day.

We did eventually arrive at a very special location, to enjoy a very special brunch buffet. I would go on about the food, but then you'd all be compelled to drive to Ancaster for brunch next Sunday, and some of you live so far away that it might inconvenience you quite a lot. I'll just say that it was lovely and decadent, and leave it there.

I sat across from my sister, which gave us a chance to catch up on this and that. It had been far too long since I saw her last. Other family members who I don't often see were also there. Many heartfelt hugs were shared. I got tipsy on champagne with orange juice* and talked and talked and talked.

*Just one glass. It doesn't take much booze to make me loquacious.

***

As for the virus... My biggest challenge right now is getting enough sleep. Even when I go to bed very early, I can't seem to get up when my alarm clock goes off. I'll sleep late and then end up rushing and struggling to get ready on time. This week I have perfected the art of getting dressed for work in between bites of oatmeal. I tried to figure out a way for me to brush my teeth with one hand and put my contact lenses in with the other, but the thought of getting toothpaste in my eye ix-nayed that plan.

In any case, if that's my worst complaint, I'm still ten times better off than I have been for most of the last six weeks. Maybe it's even good for me, to get shaken up out of my admittedly rigid morning routine, to be forced to ad lib a little. Anyway, I figured out why they call it Swine Flu. It's a real pig, gobbling energy and time.

But enough of that. This weekend was a shining gem, and that's what I want to remember.

Shoplifting and Angry at the Church

I should have known that I was getting sick. I haven't been myself since the weekend. On Sunday I accidentally shoplifted this set of MonKeys key covers. Shoplifting is not something I make a habit of doing.

I was super-tired, but trying to push through it to enjoy a normal day out with Ken. Just before 5 pm we were wandering around in a store. I had the pack of key covers in my hand, with every intention of paying for it. Then Ken said "We'd better go. It looks like they're closing." In a daze, I wandered out of the store with him.

A few steps out onto the sidewalk, I realized I had something in my hand.

"Hey!" I said. "I'm stealing these!"

Of course I ran back into the store and paid for them.

Anyway, long story short, after that I had a scratchy throat for three days and now I've got a fever. Blah.

***

I've been thinking about more disagreements I have with my church. These ones have to do with music.

Last time my group played during the service, we tried to amp it up. The congregation seemed to be having a bad-energy day. I could see most of them slumped in the pews like dead fish. We put everything we had into bringing the good spirit into that auditorium.

Later, a fellow who leads one of the other musical teams came up to the three singers.

"Be careful," he told us. "You were almost dancing. You know, like doo-wop backup singers. You'll get raked over the coals for that."

I stared at him and blinked, completely taken aback. Yes, we had been moving in time to the music. So what? We weren't being immodest. That's part of musicianship. If you "dance it up" a little it keeps you on the beat. Is the board of directors so uptight that they can't handle us swaying our shoulders?

Our church has an incredibly old and stuffy board of directors. There is one 30-something black man who speaks for the younger demographic. He ends up in a lot of disagreements. The rest of the board is all elderly white people.

I have heard stories of another music group that ended up disbanding because they received so much criticism from the board. The drums were too loud. The songs were too new. This is church, not a rock concert. Etc.

I hadn't expected such criticisms to be leveled at my group. Not that we don't rock it out a little here and there. But more to the point: the church has trouble finding enough musicians to play at all of its services. My group's leader was invited to get involved in the music program because the pastors were rather desperate to fill some gaps in the schedule. On one hand, I love being involved in the music. It's a labour of love. On the other hand, it's a lot of work. They asked us for help. Do they think they can be that picky and restrictive?

The more I think about it, the angrier I get. This is not Footlose. In this day and age, even Pentecostal churches are embracing dance as a form of worship. Only last month, we heard a sermon describing how, according to scripture, King David was so overcome with joy and love for God that he tore off all his clothes and danced around like a maniac in his underwear. The pastor was all "we should be more like King David!" Hello, are you people even listening to yourselves?

Not only that, but Ken, who is involved with the production side of our music, working the sound board and setting up electrical equipment, has been running into roadblocks as he attempts to improve the technical situation. One pastor in particular is resisting the idea of spending money to upgrade the old and broken equipment that limits our sound. Ken has offered to take responsibility for raising money for the cause, but that doesn't help.

On one hand we hear that we have to provide great music, because that's often what will draw visitors back to the church for return visits. On the other hand, the pastor warns us that it must not be a performance. One man with a guitar singing heartfelt hymns is as good or better than a whole musical team with a fancy electrical set-up.

Which makes me ask: why am I bothering? Every month I spend around 3 hours at home listening to our tracks so that I can learn the songs. I spend at least 2 hours creating, editing, and printing lyrics sheets. We spend 8 hours in rehearsals. Then there are other peripheral activities that take up time and effort. All in all, I devote a lot to this group. It would be just as good or better to have one guy with a guitar? Then maybe I'd rather do something else with my time. Especially if my "dancing" is offending the congregation.

Honestly, all these politics bug the heck out of me. Lucky for them that I still feel a lot of love for most of the people there, or I'd have left in a huff already. We'll see. There may come a confrontation at some point. If the board continues with their habits, they should be prepared for the church to die when they die, because they're not changing with the times. That would be a shame.

Theology vs. Big Puffy Hearts

I have been asked by friends and family to explain my church. What does it mean to be Baptist? What does my church believe? Why did I choose it?

Here is a dictionary definition of "Baptist". Basically all it means in any reliable way is: a Christian who belongs to an organized church that believes in the power of voluntary baptism as a means of confirming or affirming one's faith. (This is as opposed to other denominations that baptize infants, who obviously don't have a choice in the matter.)

Other than that, it's a free-for-all. There is no centralized authority of The Baptist Church, like the Catholic Pope, so individual churches can more or less make up their own doctrines. This has resulted in a huge range of Baptist churches, from the southern U.S., where they tend to be very fundamentalist and conservative, to the northern parts of the continent where you will find Baptists who are actively questioning the attitude of Christianity towards those of the homosexual persuasion.

What does my church believe? Oddly enough, it's sometimes hard to tell. My church contains a very wide variety of congregants, from the elderly white folks who've been there since the days when God Himself was young, to young immigrants from every corner of the world, who are struggling to learn English and have incredibly cute little kids (some of whom I chum around with in Babyland).

Everyone is always on their best behaviour on Sunday mornings, but if you get someone on their own, and if they find out that you're like-minded, they'll let down their guard and you'll find out what they're really all about. This young man listens to hip-hop music that contains Foul Language. That older lady believes she can communicate with her loved ones who have passed on. Then of course you find some that are exactly the same outside of church as in. They never swear and they only listen to Christian Inspirational music (which mainly seems to be in the genre of New Country). Hey, to each his or her own.

Even the pastors aren't exactly the same. The older one is dreamy and mild. The younger one is shouty and likes to do a bit of pulpit-thumping during his sermons.

The first day I went to that church was the same day the Gay Pride parade was taking place downtown. Ken and I agreed if there was any gay-bashing talk in the service we would get right up and walk out. There was none. The festivities were very delicately not mentioned at all. So, we stayed.

I felt from the very beginning that we were meant to go to this particular church. I can't quantify it. It felt homey and right. The congregation there is peopled with genuine sweethearts. They really pull together and love one another, as much as is possible for fallible humans.

The church seems to have a need for our particular talents. I fell right into my nursery shifts, and couldn't be happier doing it. Same goes for participating in the band. Ken has been working the sound system, which he happens to have been trained for in college. He was able to step in and take over when another volunteer retired. Who else would do these things if not us? We both feel called to do this work at the church. We're pretty sure it's a God Thing. It's always best to say Yes to God.

However, the theology of our church is not exactly in line with what I personally believe. Since that first day, the younger pastor has come out with a few statements in opposition to gay marriage. Additionally, there were two sermons within the past month warning of the dangers of consulting psychics and mediums. If I'm even somewhat psychic (although I don't read palms for a living), what does that say about me? I'm a tool of the devil?

Both pastors are aware that Ken and I have experiences that go beyond the usual five senses. We told them that right at the get-go, when we were all getting to know each other. How does that work with their vigorously enthusiastic warnings against the Dark Side?

Getting back to the issue of gay marriage: I promised a lesbian woman I know, when I became a Christian, that I would never become a homo-hater. And I stand by that promise. I could explain the beliefs which underlie that in detail, but I don't want to bore my readers to death. Suffice it to say that a) I don't believe that every word in the Bible was written directly as if by God's own hand and b) I believe the message of love that J.C. brought to the earth is the underlying point of what it does (or should) mean to be a Christian, and therefore anything in the Bible that doesn't focus on replacing hate or indifference with love is really beside the point.

What if the younger pastor knew this? Would he want to kick me out of the church?

According to my own theology, it's OK for me to be there because I'm there for love. I love the people, and I love God and I'm there to show it. How much does it matter that we differ on these points, and others?

I'm putting money into the collection plate. It's not going toward a fund to buy guns to shoot gay people, but it is paying the salary of the homophobic pastor. Who incidentally is otherwise a very pleasant and caring man. He thinks he's doing the right thing.

Sometimes I think maybe I'm there because it gives me a chance to effect change from within. I won't change anyone's opinion if I only ever hang out with people who agree with me. Maybe the time will come to stand up and speak out, and maybe I'll have the courage to do so. God has plans for me, and I'm there being prepared.

Sometimes I think maybe I'm there because I've always been prone to zip up my lips and agree with people just to keep the peace. Maybe it's like when I was living at my parents' house and I shut up and stayed in my room until I was 23 instead of mouthing off or moving out because I was comfortable, scared, safe, and lazy.

Sometimes I think maybe I'm there because love is the only thing that matters. That I'll never find a church that agrees with me 100% on every point. That the point is to get together with people; real, fallible, flawed people; and to love them, my brothers and sisters, with all of my heart and soul.

After all, He did say "Love your enemies". Are they my enemies? Does it matter?

June, the Fastest Month

Where is time going lately? This weekend flew past.

On Saturday morning I had an early practice with the church band, and on Sunday we performed. The music was far from perfect, but we were about 100,000 times better than last time. We now have a drummer, so that pretty much resolves the problem of everyone playing at their own tempo.

I am officially part of "The Rhythm Section". When we're playing a fast piece with a complex drum rhythm, we need a little extra help sticking to the beat. I get to be the metronome, with the help of a pair of claves. Dude, did you know how cool I am? I'm like, in a BAND now, and I play lead clave*!

(That's pronounced CLA-vay, by the way. It's a Latin thing.)

On Sunday afternoon I attended a memorial celebration for Zaidy. It was a good one: well-attended, and rich with meaningful moments. For me the biggest treat was getting to see my relatives who live on the West coast: an uncle, and aunt, and two cousins. My older cousin is in his early 20's. He's also in a BAND, dude, but his is actually legit. He gave me a copy of his latest CD. He's one of the nicest young guys you could hope to meet, and handsome to boot. I'm sure he has to be the girls off with a stick.

My younger cousin is only 8. She's a little sweetie-pie, and cute as a button. After the official memorial was over and the obligation to remain subdued had passed, she put on her tap shoes and performed a fantastic tap-dance routine to the Beach Boys' "Surfing USA". Bravo! Encore!

Overall the weekend was pretty great. Summer is here. The weather is superb. It's all good.

The Fundraiser

On March 19th, this home for orphaned children with HIV and AIDS in Kingston, Jamaica, burned down. The children, who had so little to begin with, were left with nothing. They and their caregivers have been shoe-horned into the nooks and crannies of other facilities for the moment, but a fundraising effort is being made to rebuild the home.

The youth group at my church had been there on mission trips a few times in the last few years, so they jumped at the chance to help. An announcement was made that there would be a dinner and entertainment on Saturday May 30th. Ken and I bought tickets, $15 per head for a 3-course meal and live music. A pretty good bargain, I thought! We had no idea what we were in for.

Initially my concern was that the evening would be poorly organized. I pictured us eating hot dogs off cheap paper plates. I imagined badly rehearsed skits and out-of-tune singing. Worst-case scenario, I was a little worried that the dinner might give us food poisoning. I mean really, these teenagers from the youth group- what do they know about food safety?

Fortunately there were adult volunteers to help with the food prep. One of them asked Ken and I if we would help serve the dinner. I pictured myself striding gracefully between tables, serving plates with a flourish, smiling, stopping to chat with the dinners. I dressed nicely for the occasion.

The evening turned out to be both better and worse than I'd imagined.

When we arrived at six o'clock, I was amazed by the transformation which had turned the church's basement gymnasium into an intimate, high-end restaurant. White fairy lights were strung from the ceiling, and tea-light candles flickered invitingly. Each table was set with a dark green tablecloth and a centrepiece of sand, seashells, and dried reeds, representing Jamaica. A well-stocked crafts table was doing a brisk business, and the snack bar beckoned with trays of home-baked brownes, cookies, muffins, and gingerbread.

Ken and I took our seats just in time for the MC's, two teenagers, to announce the beginning of the evening's entertainment. The opening acts were fabulous. A trio of boys sang Stand By Me in three part harmony. Two girls played four-handed piano duets. One teenager played Pachelbel's cannon beautifully while his friend beat-boxed overtop - and it sounded fantastic, not terrible like you might be thinking. We were just settling in and getting ready to enjoy ourselves, when we were called upon to help in the kitchen.

The salad course was easy. One plate per person, and make sure the water jugs are filled. No problem. The main course: that's when things got complicated. Each person had a slip of paper with several options on it. They were to tick off the items they wanted, and then return the paper to their server. The kitchen would then plate customized meals according to each ticket.

Bad idea! If I'm ever involved in planning a fundraising dinner, the rule will be this: everyone eats the same thing, with exceptions made only for food allergies. Doing a customized dinner for each person in the room was pretty much beyond the capabilities of our completely disorganized and amateur kitchen staff.

The food trays were not laid out in the same order as the choices appeared on the tickets. Therefore it was very easy for a server to forget an item. It also meant that instead of proceeding along the serving area in orderly lines, all of us chefs were running around like chickens with our heads cut off, bumping into each other.

The evening was also too successful for its own good. The organizers had expected around 80 people. They got 160. On top of that, certain food choices were much more popular than others, so we started running out of things before even one third of the tables had been fed. Announcements were made. We're out of rice and peas; you're getting plain rice. We're out of plain rice; you're getting pasta. We're out of almost everything; you're getting what we put on the plate in front of you and don't even think about complaining. At one point Ken ran out in the middle of a downpour of rain, without an umbrella, to buy 10 lbs of cooked rice from a nearby restaurant. Our hero! Our very wet hero.

Eventually everyone had a plate in front of them filled with food, although by the end the plates bore no resemblance whatsoever to the order tickets. Then, before the kitchen staff even had a chance to finish our own dinners (which, by the way, were well-cooked and tasty), the dirty plates started coming back.

There is a commercial dishwasher in the church kitchen, but it's small. There was no way we could do all the dishes in the dishwasher, so the volunteers rolled up their sleeves and started washing by hand. 160 salad plates. 160 dinner plates. Knives, forks, and cups. And eventually dessert plates, covered in gloppy cake and icing that the dishwasher couldn't dissolve. We worked, oh how we worked. We sweated puddles. My nice serving outfit was in a shambles. We scrubbed and dried and stacked and scraped until past 10:30 at night.

My feet ached. My back hurt. My arms and hands were dead tired. And yet, I had no regrets. Anytime I wanted to throw down my dishtowel and go home, I remembered that we were doing this for the AIDS orphans, and which point I laughed at the idea that I was "suffering", and stepped up my efforts with renewed enthusiasm.

We got to know the other kitchen helpers better than we'd known them before. We became a tightly knit team in that hot, pressure-cooker.

That night I woke at 3:30 am, dreaming of washing dishes. But I'd do it all over again. The final fundraising total was $ 2094.80.

A Joyful Sound

Music plays a big role at my church. We sing, then there are announcements. We sing more, and then there's the offering. Then more singing. Then the children's story, singing, the sermon, more singing, a final word, and more singing.

You'd think that we'd have top-notch musicians to lead us, given how central it is to the structure of the service. You'd be wrong.

Unfortunately there don't seem to be many people with the time and skills to lead musically. Occasionally we get a pianist who can get the whole crowd clapping with his lively Southern gospel style. (He tells us: "Put a little shoulder into it!") Once a month the kids from the English-speaking-Korean-church come to let us enjoy the fruits of their many hours of private music lessons. But the rest of the time it's a bit of a dog's breakfast.

The standard ensemble includes a guy bashing away on a drum kit, a flautist whom you can barely hear, a pianist (whom I cannot find fault with), a bass guitarist who is always off the beat, and a random selection of singers with varying levels of skill. It's music, but I would describe it as dutiful, rather than beautiful.

A friend of mine, call him J., was aware of the trouble the church was having in the music department, so he was brave enough to volunteer to lead a "worship group" - the churchy equivalent of a band. He was aware of my musical background, so I was recruited to the cause.

My musical background consists of around 3 or 4 years of piano lessons in grade school, 4 years of violin in high school (which was 20 years ago), and some passable singing skills. I don't have a beautiful voice. I can stay on key and on tempo, and I can read music well enough to fake my way through songs that I don't know, sort of.

As some of you know, I picked up the violin again a couple of months ago, but I have practiced all of four times, due to being busy with wedding stuff. Trust me - I'm not ready to perform publicly on this instrument.

So I get this e-mail last week, informing me that we are leading worship on Sunday and we should get together and practice. The group has never met before in any capacity. The only time that everyone is free to practice together is on Saturday night for 2.5 hours. Um, hello, do you think that's a little last minute, maybe? But what can we do? If that's how it is, that's how it is. I'm game to give it a shot.

We had our practice, and it went decently, I suppose. But the next morning during the service, what a mess! I guess some of us were more nervous than others. There was a pianist, a guitarist, a bass guitar, and three singers. No conductor. No percussion. That was our big downfall. The tempo was all over the place. The three musicians could not seem to sync up. The bass guitar would lag behind and then rush to catch up. The guitar would miss a strum and get confused. The pianist tried her best to adjust, but it was hopeless. We galumphed bravely through to the end.

I have to take my share of the responsibility. I did my best, but that was far from perfect. I sang too quietly but too close to the microphone, I found out later. I didn't know the songs as well as the others (since I've only been going to church since last August), so I hit a few wrong notes. Also, since we had lyrics sheets instead of sheet music I kept messing up how long I was suppose to hold each note. Was "blessing" sung as two eighth notes or two sixteenth notes? Or a note would be held for a long time and I wouldn't make it all the way to the end because I hadn't budgeted my air for that much sound. Fortunately the two other singers were much more experienced and louder, so I don't think my little flubs made too much difference in the overall disaster of things.

A lot of folks came up to us after and said "It was a good start!" They are so kind. Half-a-dozen people said to me "It was good to see you up there!" No one said it was good to hear me up there. Huh. Well, we'll have to work on it. Next time we'll plan for more practices, and more organization. We also have a couple of leads on potential drummers. In the meantime I'll be driving my neighbours crazy singing along with worship songs on YouTube, trying to improve my vocal stylings. Be very, very glad you don't live next to me!

(I'll be practicing my violin too.)

Membership and Mini Marshmallows

My memory isn’t very reliable. On Sunday, as we took our seats at church, Ken pointed to our names in the tri-fold weekly flyer. Five people, including us, were being called up to the front to be accepted as official church members.

The pastor had asked us the previous week, and we’d accepted. Then I had completely forgotten. Fortunately it wasn’t one of those Sundays when I grabbed an extra 20 minutes of sleep and then ran into church with no makeup and no contact lenses, peering out from behind thick eyeglasses. I looked presentable.

In between the singing and the preaching, we went up in front of the congregation to receive special papers of welcome signed by both pastors, and some heartfelt hugs. It was very sweet. Being members is significant in that we are a) counted as church members for statistical purposes and b) we can vote in meetings. Most important, we have symbolically been accepted into the “church family”.

It’s an exciting time to be joining this church, as it (I guess I should get used to saying “we”) we are on the verge of potential major changes. The space is used by our multi-cultural Baptist group in the mornings, and by an English-speaking Korean church in the afternoons. As it stands, the Korean church has been renting the space, but there is now talk of merging the churches. This will create an opportunity for discussions relating to leadership, theology, finances, the structure of the service, etc. It’s not guaranteed that the merger will go ahead, but it will certainly make for an interesting exploration either way.

The Baptist church is top-heavy in terms of the average age of the congregation. There are many white-haired elders, and not enough youngsters to take their place as they grow too old to perform their roles. There are quite a few families with young children, but they can’t step into the roles on the board of directors and sub-committees to run the church; they’re too busy looking after their kids. The community lacks the 20-somethings and new, still-energetic empty-nesters who could contribute time to the cause. The Korean church has many more attendees in those age groups. We need their help. I don’t know what they hope to gain from us, but there must be something.

Immediately after the service we were invited to come to the annual financial meeting, which was taking place along with a potluck lunch in the downstairs gymnasium. We hadn’t signed up or brought food, but we were assured that there would be plenty to go around.

I love the very stereotypical W.A.S.P. comfort foods that show up on the potluck buffet, along with delicacies contributed by our browner* community members of various backgrounds. Lime Jell-O with canned tangerine slices sits next to curried goat. Carrot salad with fruity, pastel-coloured mini-marshmallows on top accompanies chicken teriyaki. Potluck is the absolute best!

Of course the call went out for volunteers to help the church, and Ken and I stepped up. Apparently there are many positions to be filled, and the woman in charge wants to think about where she can use us most. She mentioned that the church is looking to train more deacons. I don’t even fully understand what a deacon is, but the title “deacon” sounds totally cool, so I’ll be looking into that. Deacon Spark – doesn’t that have a ring to it?

* I have had several friends of various or mixed ethnic backgrounds who refer to themselves as “brown”. I hope no one takes offense at the term.

Timing is Everything

Ken and I have been living together for seven years now. Why, you might ask, are we bothering to get married? And why now?

The breakup of my first marriage was truly traumatizing. Well, what divorce isn’t? I never realized until I went through it myself how divorce rips your guts out and leaves you, collapsed and hollow, trying to make sense of the wreckage of your life.

When I got married the first time I truly believed, with all of my heart, that I would keep my marriage vows. ‘Till death do us part, honour and cherish, the whole nine yards. And I really, truly tried. That marriage lasted for five years, and we had some good times, but in the end we could not make it work. I remember one time, at the end of another long argument, we both admitted that while we still loved one another, we also had grown to hate each other. I was losing my mind and my self in that marriage. For the sake of my survival, I couldn’t stay.

After that, the thought of remarrying seemed bizarre. If I had believed my vows with all my heart the first time, why should I trust myself any more now? We can’t see the future; can’t see all the ways in which mates will change and possibly grow apart. For a long time it was all I could do just to take one day at a time, to get out of bed, go to work and keep my apartment clean. There was no such thing as Forever anymore.

Also, I felt that I couldn’t promise anyone that I would be there for them, to support them through thick and thin. I could barely care for myself. My emotional life, for a long time, consisted primarily of sadness, despair, anger, and frustration. How could I promise to love someone for better or for worse? I was in the middle of my own worse. I didn’t believe that I had enough left to give, or that I could be resilient enough to withstand the misfortunes of another person on top of my own.

When Ken and I were still fairly new to the idea that our relationship was a serious one, he used to promise me that even if I got really sick or was crippled in a car wreck or if I lost my mind, he would still love me and care for me always. I was ashamed not to be able to return that promise. But at least I was honest. I wept and confessed that I wasn’t sure if I could do the same for him. He said “yes, you would”. He had more faith in me than I did.

The passage of time blunted the pain of my divorce. Ken had to ask me a few times, but I finally agreed to go with him to pick out an engagement ring. That was three years ago. We bought wedding bands quite soon after I started wearing my ring, but we never got around to actually picking a date.

Another part of the problem was that I didn’t want to have another wedding. I wanted to BE married, but the idea of planning a wedding completely turned me off. I’ve written about my first wedding, and how disappointing it was. I didn’t want a repeat of that experience, but the thought of going down to City Hall to sign a paper with no ceremony whatsoever seemed meaningless. I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything.

Finding my faith, and my church, has made all the difference.

First of all, now that I know God is on my side, listening to my prayers and ready to lend me all the grace that I need to get through life, I’m ready to face the scariness of making a lifelong commitment. If Ken got really sick, or went senile, it wouldn’t be easy, but I trust that I would be able to get through it with God’s grace and support. I could keep my vows. I don’t have to believe in my own strength and tenacity. Or I do, to some extent, but I also trust God to meet me halfway, or more than halfway if I need it.

Secondly, we now have a meaningful place and way to get married. Of course we will be married in our church, by the pastor whom we trust. It won’t just be an administrative exercise of signing forms and making a change to our legal status. It will be a spiritual experience, which we undertake in part because we hope that it will be pleasing to God. This is entirely different from my first wedding, which was more of a staged ritual for the benefit of our audience than it was for myself and my first husband.

I am looking forward to this wedding with more joy and less stress than that with which I anticipated the first one. Nine weeks to the big day – and I’m sure they’ll fly by.

Joining

I never thought I'd attend a church service even once in my life, let alone show up regularly.  I have always been a critical thinker, more prone to disagree than agree with much of what I hear or read.  And I have never in my history been a team player or a "joiner" of any description.

I figured that any religion required handing over one's brain on a silver platter to the clergy in charge.  I've never, in my adult life, been able to believe something just because someone told me to.  There was no way I'd be able to suspend my critical thinking and substitute the dogma supplied by a religious authority.  I couldn't even participate in any secular clubs when I was in university, because their rules seemed stupid to me, and their sense of superiority pissed me off.  I always ended up lonely.  I figured that was the price I had to pay for my integrity.

When a series of personal experiences convinced me that Jesus is real, here, now, and present in my life, I kept it a virtual secret for six months.  I prayed alone in my bedroom.  I downloaded episodes of 100 Huntley St. and watched them, alone.  I had other reasons to feel uncomfortable with organized Christianity besides my anti-joinerism, and it all added up to keep me isolated.  

However, eventually I had to give in to the message I kept hearing: following the example of Jesus means loving others and being in community.  Eventually I had to push myself through my fears and out into a church.  

In preparation, I had help from a dear friend, the only practicing Christian I knew at the time (many thanks, Logan!).  I also called one of those toll-free prayer lines, the one offered by 100 Huntley St., to see what kind of reception I would get.  It was scary.  I felt extremely vulnerable.  But I was encouraged by these interactions, and so I was able to find the courage to go to church.

I am comfortable at my church, because no one has asked me to hand over my brain on a platter.  It's OK for me to have questions.  It's OK that we don't all agree on every point of scriptural interpretation.  Nobody has interrogated me in depth regarding my theology.  And when I offered a critical opinion in a Bible study group, I was actually encouraged.  The pastor leading the group thanked me for my contribution.  Then he told the other pastor, who made a point of telling Ken and I that it was a good thing to bring lively discussion to the meetings.

Of the congregants, some of them got very quiet when I offered my critical opinion.  But others engaged with me and offered some very interesting points of view.  We definitely understood each other better by the end of the discussion.  

So, all in all, I think my church is pretty cool.  And I have learned something from this experience.  I've learned that being part of a community doesn't mean agreeing 100% with everyone else.  In fact, there are probably no two people in any church who agree 100% with each other, not even the pastors.  We start with "good enough agreement" and good intentions, and then we grow from there.

Adventures in Babyland

I met Tomi on the first day that I volunteered for the church nursery (ages 0-4).   His older brother (age 4) couldn't tell me exactly how old Tomi was, but I determined that he hadn't yet had a birthday party.  From my limited knowledge of babies, I guess that he was around 8-9 months.

One of the first things I learned about Tomi is that he's one of those babies who fights sleep.  And we all know that a tired baby is a cranky baby.  On that first day, he was fighting to keep his eyes open.  He was lounging comfortably in a bouncy chair, but for some reason another volunteer lifted him out and handed him to me.  He didn't like that very much.

"Waaaaaaaaaaaah!"  Tomi screamed in my ear.  Of course, now that he was out of his comfy chair, he didn't want to go back to it.  He didn't want to be up, or down.  He didn't want to be walked or rocked.  I offered his bottle, which he sucked at noisily for all of five seconds and then rejected it.  He cried until his nose ran and smeared on my sweater.  An experienced mom took him from me but her luck was no better.  Then a dad took him, and suddenly he was appeased.  

"Some of the babies," I was told, "have gender preferences."

I remembered this and determined to let the men handle Tomi from then on.

The next time I was on Babyland duty, I was the closest volunteer to the entrance when Tomi's mom dropped him off.  She thanked me for my help as she placed him in my arms.

"Errrrrr...  No problem." I said, and smiled anxiously.  Once again his little baby eyelids were drooping, but he was determined to stay awake. 

The first half hour wasn't too bad.  The nursery wasn't full yet, and Tomi was happy to crawl around on the floor and play with toys.  Although, his definition of "playing" with a toy was "throwing it with all his might at another baby".

There was some kind of big, plastic structure on the floor that accepted coloured balls through various openings.  The balls would roll through hidden passages inside the structure and appear at other openings lower down.  Hours of fascinating fun for baby, yes?  No.  Tomi just wanted to whip those balls at the other kids' faces.  I played catcher, intercepting each missile on its way to the potential victim's head.

When Tomi tired of that, he decided to make friends with the other kids.  Although, his definition of "make friends" was "crawl right up into the other child's personal space and then claw at that child's face".  Again, I was the interceptor, grabbing his tiny wrists and moving his fingernails away from the other babies' eyes.  

"No, no, sweetie," I cooed, as Tomi fought against my interventions.  The other babies blinked and looked worried.

Eventually, I got distracted by a three-year-old who had climbed up onto the Play-Doh table.  In the 30 seconds it took me to get her down to floor level again, Tomi crawled up into the lap of a toddler who was sitting on the floor and grabbed at the older child's face.  Micah, the hapless victim, began to wail.

I scooped Micah up and shookled him on my hip; rubbed his back;  murmured soothingly that he was OK now, everything was OK.  Eventually he quieted down.  I put him back down.   However, I noticed that from that point on, Micah kept one eye on Tomi at all times.

Keep in mind that Micah was approximately twice the age and twice the size of Tomi.  Tomi can't walk yet.  Micah can run.  Micah could easily have defended himself from little Tomi, theoretically.  But clearly Micah is a gentle soul, not at all used to abuse and completely clueless in the arena of self-defence strategies.

Micah managed to keep a safe distance between himself and Tomi for the remaining time, except at one point when he got cornered.  His brown, Bambi-eyes grew wide and he backed up as much as he could to squeeze himself against the wall.  As Tomi crawled closer, Micah began to shake his head slowly back and forth, murmuring in a horrified voice: "No. No!"  I believe his brief life flashed before his eyes.  

Ever alert, I grabbed Tomi, and the day was saved.

The last half-hour minding Tomi was a marathon.  He got more and more tired, hence more and more grouchy.  Feeding him from his bottle helped briefly.  I noticed that he was sweaty (for some reason Babyland is always broiling hot) so I took off his tiny hoodie.  But as time wore on, the distractions I offered became less and less effective, and his wails more frequent.

We had a quarter of an hour to go when I started watching the clock minute-by-minute.  I could have paged his mother (Babyland has a high-tech paging system to summon parents) but it became a challenge I couldn't resist to last out the final 15 minutes.  I paced the room in complicated patterns, jiggling him.  He twisted in my arms until he was facing down, so I flew him around like an airplane.  When he continued to sweat, I remembered hearing that the fastest way to cool down a cup of hot coffee is to blow on it.  So for the last ten minutes I blew on Tomi's bald head.  If I stopped, he would cry, but as long as I blew on his head with every exhalation, he could tolerate existing.

Finally the clock ticked over to 12:00:00, and I waited for the rush of parents at the door.  No such luck.  The service ran overtime.  I was like, are you kidding me?  My whole body is aching from carrying this heavy child around for over an hour.  And I can't stave off a meltdown much longer.  

I was about to page Tomi's mother, when another volunteer offered to take him.  

"Maybe he just wants a nap," she said.  "I'll see if I can get him to nap." 

"OK," I said, knowing that there was no way on God's green earth that Tomi would settle down.  She disappeared into "the quiet room".  Moments later, I heard loud wailing coming from behind the closed door.  Shortly thereafter the volunteer re-appeared and paged Tomi's mom.  The hand-off was accomplished.  The wailing retreated down the corridor, turned a corner, and then there was quiet.

OK, so there were still a dozen hyper toddlers zinging around the room like a giant, multiball pinball game.  But in my heart, I knew peace.

I was sore for three days after minding Tomi.  Lifting and carrying him was way outside my usual workout parameters.  My shoulders, arms, back, butt, and thighs hurt so much I had to take a Tylenol to fall asleep.  But I wouldn't have missed the experience for the world.  And when that crazy-making little guy comes back to the nursery next time, I'll be the first to volunteer myself to look after him.   I guess I have some maternal instincts in me after all.

P.S.  Not that this makes me want to become a parent.  I'm happy to constrain this type of experience to 1.5 hours once every four weeks.  I still say that, for me, borrowed babies are the best babies.

P.P.S.  Despite that I can't resist the urge to brag a little.  All the parents who saw me with Tomi assumed that he was my son.  When I told them otherwise, they were surprised.  "He seems so attached to you!" they'd say.  Chyldkere: I'm doin' it kwite well, aktualy!

Public Devotion

On November 1st I attended a Christian worship/song-and-dance performance with around 14,000 other people at Toronto's large domed stadium.

A non-church-going but somewhat-Christian (and also somewhat New-Age) friend accompanied me. Thank goodness for her. I found the experience overwhelming on several levels, but my friend was there at my side like a life preserver. She's a teddy bear. When I felt like it was all getting too much I'd lean up against her comforting arm which was wrapped inside a comforting fuzzy sweater, and she'd look over at me and giggle in her lovely way.

To start with, I am not a lover of crowds. There are many events which I outright avoid simply because of the crowds.

I assure you, this place was CROWDED.

Our seats were on the field, right in the middle. The tickets had mostly been sold in blocks, one block to each church, so people were sitting with members of their congregations. The whole point of the concert was to bring together Christians from all over Toronto and the surrounding area, so there were people from all denominations and all backgrounds. The show of solidarity was good to see.

One consequence of the seating arrangement was that differences in church cultures and congregations were easy to spot. My friend and I were seated in row 16, with four more rows dedicated to my church behind us. Starting from row 15 was another church, with a completely different character. The average age of my church is, I'm guessing, at least 50. The average age of the church in front of us was less than 30.

My friend and I were seated directly behind a posse of energetic teenagers. As soon as the music started, those kids were up out of their seats, grooving with the rhythm and raising their hands to the heavens. Meanwhile, my church, for the most part, sat quietly with their hands folded in their laps. I looked over at my friend. Neither of us could see anything from a seated position behind the dance squad, so we stood up too. And, since we were up, we danced. I wouldn't have felt comfortable being the first one to stand up, but the teenagers went first and thereby "gave us permission".

Much as I do feel a strong desire to show devotion to the loving God who is with me when I pray, it's not easy to make that connection in an unfamiliar, loud, public place. I sang along with the worship songs and copied the movements of the teenagers, but for the most part I felt that I was going through the motions. There were points at which I felt my heart was touched, and I looked over several times to find my friend weeping with her head bowed in devotion, but it was just too alien an environment for me to fully "go there".

The concert had officially started at 6:30 pm.  Around 8:30 pm, I started getting really hungry. I had eaten dinner at 4:30 pm because we arrived early to find our seats. I waited for an intermission, but despite the fact that the programme was divided into "Act 1" and "Act 2", there was no break. I got hungrier and hungrier. I wondered if I should leave my seat and go all the way back up through the stands to find a hot dog or something. But I've heard a lot lately regarding the benefits of fasting with prayer, so I decided I'd just stay put.

Of course, since my blood sugar was low, I felt my passion for dancing along with the teenagers ebbing away. The heat wasn't on in the stadium, and I become more and more conscious of the cold. I thought: this is good. I never stop to think about how hard it is to be cold and hungry. Experiencing this will make me more sympathetic to the suffering of less fortunate people.

Actually, it mostly just made me cranky.

By the time the grand finale was done at 10:00 pm, I was ready to eat my chair.  But it wasn't as simple as rushing out the door and finding the closest food vendor.  There were over 14,000 people in that stadium, and remember, I was in the middle of the field, up near the front.  People funneled up the stairs and out the exits at a snail's pace.  It was 10:45 pm before we finally made it outside.

My friend headed off to the train station.  I went straight to the nearest Harvey's (a Canadian burger franchise).  Of course there was already a giant line-up.  I got into the line directly behind a couple in their early 20's who had obviously just come from the same concert.  Up past my bedtime, cold, and hypoglycemic, I was feeling less than patient.  You can imagine how tolerant I felt when three friends of the young couple casually slipped into the line ahead of me without the slightest acknowledgement that they were butting in.

At that moment, my thoughts were decidedly un-Christian.

I debated voicing my outrage, but by then I was so low on energy that I couldn't summon the oomph to tell all five of them off.  I waited another 20 minutes as the line inched forward.  

By the time I got home around midnight, I was completely wiped out.  The next day, my first thought was that attending the concert hadn't been worth the trouble.  However, I did gain something from it.  My curiosity was satisfied.  And there were a few choice moments when I felt in touch with the awe of worship.

I will always remember one woman, standing a few rows ahead of me, in the darkened stadium, in a lull between musical numbers.  She stretched her arms out, waaay out, tilted her head back, and shouted from her guts:  "Yes, Lord!  Thank you!  Thank you, Jesus!"  

Her voice echoed across the enormous space, spontaneous, raw, and beautiful.  I broke out in gooseflesh from head to toe.  In that moment, I witnessed something unrehearsed and real.  That's what I went for.  

Maybe it was worth it after all.

Getting Baptized

Everyone is asking me:  "How did your baptism go?"

The answer is 1) Good, and yet also 2) I'm not sure because I don't feel that it's over yet.  I mean, clearly I got out of the font, dried off, put on my regular clothes and went home.  But in another sense, energetically or emotionally or something, I feel like I jumped out of an airplane and I'm still free-falling, hoping that my parachute will open soon so that I can land.

Being baptized is most closely analogous to having a major birthday.  Like when you turn 16 or 18 or 30 or 40.  You know the birthday is coming.  You feel a building anticipation.  Then on the actual day, you wake up feeling surprisingly unchanged, and yet aware that you have passed a significant milestone and you can never go back.  It marks the midpoint of a process that extends to a fuzzy fade on either side, with no clear beginning or end.

Technically, it all went very smoothly.  Ken and I arrived at the church early to meet the three other folks who were also being baptized, and to get some stage directions.  We changed into our bathing suits, and then covered ourselves with royal blue gowns, the type you wear at graduation.

I had been under the impression that we were to wait in a holding room at the back until our names were called for the ritual.  Then I expected we would immediately go and change back into regular clothes before joining the congregation.  However, the pastor's wife led all five of us, barefoot and feeling naked under our voluminous robes, downstairs and into a pew, where we sang hymns with everyone else and listened to the weekly announcements.

There is nothing like being barefoot, underdressed, and nervous in a room where everyone else is smartly outfitted and serious to put one in the mindset of being around six years old.  I kept catching myself swinging my feet under the pew, or digging my toes into the carpet.

The gowns had generous slits at each side to allow the wearer to reach through and into his or her pockets.  This is a greatly convenient feature, if one is wearing pants.  In my case, I noticed that as I modestly clutched the front of the gown over my bare legs, the pocket-holes gaped, flashing slices of blue-white thigh at anyone who happened to be looking as we shuffled to and from our seats.  Well, anyway, God is familiar with my thighs and wouldn't be offended by them.  Everyone else just had to cope with the scandal.

After a few more hymns, we were led upstairs to what would be "stage left" in a theatre.  Or the green room if it were TV.  There were steps leading from this room directly down into the baptismal pool.  A microphone was set up on the edge of the pool.  One by one, we waded into the chest-deep water, then stood up on a little box that was at the bottom of the font to speak our testimony into the microphone.

I was 4th in line out of 5.  It was nerve-racking to watch as each individual spoke, voice cracking with emotion, and was then plunged underwater, returning to us dripping and forever changed.

When it was my turn, I descended gingerly into the water, gripping the handrail.  It was surprisingly warm, like stepping into a bath.  By the third step, I could see what I estimate to have been over 150 people looking back at me.  I cleared my throat, and heard the sound echoing back at me in stereo from speakers all around the ceiling.  I unfolded the paper containing my testimonial speech.  The microphone picked up the rustling and magnified it into every corner of the sanctuary.  Suddenly, I felt extremely small and self-conscious.

I stood up on the little underwater box, and read directly from my paper in as clear and steady a voice as I could muster.  Once I got started, it came easily.  At the end of my speech, I placed the papers at the edge of the font, along with my glasses.

The pastor asked me two ritual questions, to which I answered "Yes".  Then he took my wrists in one hand and, placing the other behind my back, bent me backwards until I was completely under the surface.  Chlorinated water rushed up my nose and into my sinuses.

Then I was up, wiping water from my eyes, pinching my burning nose, and finally locating my glasses, as the congregation launched into a hymn.  Dripping and shivering, more from emotion than cold, I climbed the stairs carefully back up to the green room, out of sight of the 150-plus pairs of eyes.  The pastor's wife smiled kindly and handed me a towel.

I joined the rest of the recently baptized folks, all of us sopping wet, and we watched the last woman give her testimony and then go under.  Once she returned, we shuffled off to the restrooms to get dry and change back into clothes.  Wonderful clothes!  It's been a long time since I was that grateful to be wearing shoes.

We returned to the sanctuary.  The pastor, who had also changed from his robe back into a suit, said a few words that drew on all five testimonies, weaving them into an inspiring closing message.  That was the end of the service.  But not the end of the experience.

As soon as we were dismissed, I'd estimate that half the congregation queued up to give us hugs, handshakes, kind words, and big smiles.  Everyone seemed completely genuine, and it was absolutely incredible and overwhelming to receive such a flood of support and love from people I'd never met before.  In the 7 weeks we'd been attending church, we'd met a dozen people at most.  

I was grateful that no one felt it necessary to introduce themselves by name, because my memory for names is horrible under even the most favourable circumstances, and by that point my rational brain was overwhelmed.  All I could do was smile, accept the hugs, and feel grateful to the bottom of my heart that I had joined such a lovely community.

Dinner at the Pastor's House

I wasn't sure what to expect, but I wasn't nervous either. The pastor, K, seemed like such a warm, genuine person. His smile alone had put me at ease when we met. He's a wiry, fit man who must be in his late 50's, according to his life story, but who looks ten years younger. He has great posture and preaches with passionate energy.

Ken and I arrived at his little bungalow at the appointed time of 7 o'clock. We were welcomed in by K's wife, L. We passed them our host/hostess gifts. They offered us a seat and a glass of guava nectar.

We learned that K was born on the tiny island of Mauritius, off the east coast of Madagascar, which is off the east coast of Africa, south of the equator. His mother was French and a non-practicing Jew; his father was a non-practicing Muslim. Initially K's dream was to become a fine artist. He stopped and gestured around the living room - all the oil paintings on the walls were his creations. Beautiful! The man has skill! He moved to France to go to art school, and was introduced to Jesus there.

Considering my own newbie status to the Christian faith, I always feel more comfortable in the presence of converts. Technically (according to Jewish law), K was also born a Jew. It's like, we're practically related! OK, well, maybe not. But it does make a big difference to me that he's coming from that perspective. I know that he can speak to my experience as a kindred spirit.

L was very much a traditional hostess, although neither of them were at all stuffy or formal. We were offered starter snacks on a table with a white doily on it, and after some introductory conversation we were asked to be seated at the dining room table. L served us Mauritian chicken curry stew from a tajine.

(This isn't my photo - I swiped it to illustrate what a tajine is.)



I had been a little worried about the curry, as K had been building it up quite a bit since he invited us for dinner, but it wasn't insanely spicy. Just hot enough to be delicious.

The conversation turned to matters of faith. K inquired after my own story, and then Ken's. He and L asked us quite a lot of clarifying questions to figure out where we were coming from. At one point L got up from the table and returned with a bible, to look up a quote that K had referenced. At that point I had one of those weird splits where the critical part of my brain backed right off from the rest of me.

"Woah!" it said. She just brought a bible to the dinner table!"

"Yep," I said to it. "We're at the pastor's house, remember? This type of thing is to be expected."

"But... it's so WEIRD!" said my critical brain. "I was willing to play along for the sake of good curry and pleasant conversation, but do you really expect me to take this seriously? Isn't it a little much?"

"Get used to it," I said. "You and I both know that I need this faith to get me through the rest of my life without falling back into depression. We've tried everything else. Unless you want to start taking medications, this is it. Take it seriously."

"grumph" said my critical brain, and shut up.

(I maintained enough self-control not to use my out loud voice for this exchange.)

I left with a stack of books on loan from K, some old questions answered, and some new ones already forming.

This past Sunday, the other pastor, B, was back from holiday. His wife, M, made some comments to the effect that she would like to get to know us better, so there may be another pastor's house dinner in our future. I'll keep you posted.

Church

Last Sunday, for the first time ever in my life, I went to church. As I've explained, this is a Big Deal. I'm not even 100% sure whether or not I'm ready to write about it, but what the heck. So far all my leaps of faith have landed encouragingly.

Strictly speaking, I did go to church once before, two Sundays ago. I had gone online and found an appealing website, stating that this church welcomed everyone in the community, of all cultures, and offered "lively musical worship". I expected that I might have to try out a few different congregations before one clicked for me, but this seemed like a good place to start.

The website noted that the Sunday service started at 11:00 am. Ken decided that he would come with me. So up we got on Sunday morning, dressed ourselves respectably, and arrived at the church around 10:50 am.

A Korean language service was already in progress, so we tip-toed around the foyer, picking up booklets from a wire spinner and generally being nosy. As the minutes passed and 11:00 grew closer, I started to wonder why no one else was gathering for the 11:00 am English service.

Answer: There wasn't one.

These people really need to update their website. Their completely English website.

*sigh*

So we hopped back in the car and went downtown for brunch, a walk in the sun, and raspberry gelato in Little Italy. After that I didn't feel so bad.

Next time I picked out a promising church, Ken ran a reconnaissance mission. He actually stopped in and spoke to one of the pastors. Pretty darn nice of him, considering that this whole Christianity thing is my obsession, not his. He didn't want me to be disappointed.

He brought home a glowing report of a beautiful, brand-new church building, and a friendly, genuinely sweet pastor. I was psyched.

This past Sunday, ten minutes before the service was schedule to start, we ran out the door, sweating in our proper clothes and dodging the raindrops which were just starting to fall. We live just a few blocks away from this church, well within walking distance. We sprinted most of the way there, so fearful were we of being tardy and receiving disapproving stares.

We needn't have worried. People were drifting in and getting settled in the padded pews for a good ten minutes after we pulled up at the door. A white-haired man greeted us and passed us a leaflet. We picked a strategic spot to one side, perfect for a quick getaway if things got dicey. Don't ask me what we were afraid of - it was just the unknown, I guess.

It was all good. We sang songs, the lyrics projected onto a screen overhead. The service was inspiring. It was based on the story of Exodus, which I am familiar with from my family's Jewish Passover services. That went a long way towards making me feel at home.

I found out that the pastors like to be addressed informally, by their first names. Anyone present is invited to take communion, not only those who have been baptized. It's a very friendly church. Apparently there's usually a Tea Social after the service, but it's been suspended for the summer months. Anyway, we were stopped by several people on our way out who just wanted to introduce themselves, welcome us, and encourage us to come back.

All in all it was a heart-warming experience. Coming from me, this is shocking. I'd never in a million years have predicted that I'd turn into a church-goer. But there it is. I'm already looking forward to next Sunday.