I've been a member of my current church for almost 20 years
now. Because of moving around, this is the longest I've ever been with a
particular parish. My longevity here has tried me in many ways, a few of which have
been unexpected.
It’s predictable that a priest might move on and the parish
will be disrupted by a series of interim priests and the search for a permanent
replacement. It’s also a given that the music director, faith formation
director and parish secretary will change. It was an effort, but I managed to
stay neutral on these transitions.
I am not a friendly person. I don’t have friends, or not
many. Long friendships tend to frighten me and I can feel crowded very easily.
Seeing the same people week after week at church gives me comfort though. I
recognize their faith and love them as souls. We smile at each other, pass the
peace, chat about the weather or that sweet new Jensen baby.
Occasionally, I will be part of a group and get to know some
of my fellow parishioners a bit better. There will be some discussion at Sunday
forum and some talk afterwards. Twenty years of this and I find myself with
much deeper connections than I had planned. Then comes the hard part.
Betty’s husband dies. I only met him once but I know Betty
very well having served on a peace committee together. I attend the funeral.
She is strong. A year or two later Jerry’s wife is found to have a serious
tissue disease. He is afraid. I am, too. They love each other so much. The
world will break if he loses her.
Marion’s husband dies. I’ve met him many times. They attend
Stations of the Cross all through Lent as I do. We have a bond, a Lenten bond.
Next year she’ll be coming alone. Then Randy dies. It’s sudden. He’s another
member of our peace committee and organized a care package project for our
troops in Iraq. I loved and admired him. Of course, I never told him. Maybe I
gave him a bigger smile one Sunday. I hope so.
Jim and Stella have been at this parish since its founding
almost 50 years ago. Both very active and vocal at church and on all
committees, they are now old and frail. He cannot come to church anymore and I think it's a matter of days before she will no longer join us on Sunday morning. How
can I bear this! My clever plan of never having to face loss by never having
close friends has failed. Church has opened me up. It has worn away all my
hardness. How did this happen?
I look around church and see the empty spaces. I look at
people who are growing older, who are now limping, whose hands have begun to
shake and it feels like a knife to my heart. How many more can I lose? These
people, who 20 years ago were just pleasant faces and kindly handshakes, have
become necessary to me.
But there’s a bonus. That sweet Jensen baby from several
paragraphs above and 12 years ago is now about to be confirmed. She is a force
of nature in our parish, participates in every Christmas pageant, every
possible youth activity and wrote a magnificent blog on a recent trip to the
Holy Land. My many years at this church have taken precious ones from me but
have also brought new fresh blessings.
If you belong to a church, I have to warn you that certain
things will happen to you. You might think you’re there for the liturgy, the
sacraments, the music, or even the homilies, but you are in for a lot more than that. God does some
crazy stuff with his faithful people. The Spirit moves when you aren't looking
and when you look into the ancient face of one or the tiny baby face of
another, you just might see the face of Christ looking back at you. No turning
back then.
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