Questions in Church

I take a notebook to church with me.  It’s something I’ve been trying to take along with me since our days in the South Bend CRC, when I saw the pastor’s wife sketching in a notebook  as he spoke.  “That’s so cool,” I thought, “To sketch what you’re listening to and thinking about.”  I wished I could’ve talked to her about what she drew and how she drew it, but I’m shy and have this terrible fear that I bother everyone so instead, I began taking a notebook to church with me.  Not to draw, but to write.  It helps me make sure I’m listening to the sermon.

Of course, this method of listening to a sermon always has me coming away with more questions then it does solidifying what little faith I probably have.  Whenever a good storyteller opens up new worlds or new ideas, I’m always left treading that ground carefully, wearily, perhaps. But it’s a ground I want to stay on.

On Sunday, I left church wondering about a little boy in the sermon.  He’s from John 6, and plays a pretty fabulous role in the feeding of the 5,000.  Before he came along, the disciples were pretty stumped as to what to do about a situation where thousands of stomachs were grumbling.  “His imagination fails him,” the pastor said, referring to Philip. I starred that quote in my notebook.  What a lovely sad sentence it is. Oh! To have one’s imagination fail them.  That is a dark place to be.

Anyway, the boy comes in and says he has five loaves of bread and offers them to the hungry crew.  The famous miracle is that these five loaves fed thousands, but the miracle that leaves me breathless and confused is that the boy offered them in the first place. What drove him to do that?

Later that day, we are at a birthday party.  Kids ranging from 4-6 are running around all over the place – inside and outside – and parents mingle over snacks in the kitchen and living room.  There is room for this kind of living in this house, and it hurts my heart.  We could never have a party like this in our home. Our home, a two bedroom condo that sits above someone who bangs on her ceiling when we make too much noise.  Even if we had the room – which we don’t – we could never have that many people over for a birthday party.  We can’t even have a dinner party.

It’s not good to be envious, jealous, pissed off because people have things that you don’t.  I know this.  I am a sinner and here I am confessing my obnoxious sin.  But I stress over our living situation.  I wonder if we will ever be able to move. I feel like a failure when people lament to me, “You have no yard.” Or worse, when they know of the murders that have happened in our complex.  Nobody would want to come over to our place for a birthday party let alone a playdate.  And yet, my girls ask me all the time if their friends can come over. I say, “Maybe,” and hope they forget.

What’s more, if I really wanted to move then I could get a job.  Instead, I’m in graduate school.  To learn how to write. “What will you do after you’re done?” People ask me this all the time and I have no answer for them.  I’m in school because I want to write a scene that describes the words “blithe” or “squalid” without having to use the words. I’m in school because I see the world in words, and like the pastor’s wife who sketches as she listens to her husband speak, I work my faith out trying to write really great sentences.

I am so sad on this Sunday afternoon turned evening. As we drive out of this Gilmore Girl like neighborhood and head back to our home I believe I have lost my imagination.  Imagination is a hard thing for me to find on Sunday nights.  I don’t know why that is, but on this evening I have a huge semester deadline and when we get home, Jesse will watch the girls and start dinner while I hope what I’m writing is more than just navel gazing.

I can write without imagination, but not without coffee, so Jesse pulls into a Starbucks on our way home so I can fuel up, and when we get home, I have my red cup balancing on a stack of books as I’m trying to get myself and Hadley out of our side of the car.

That’s when I hear yelling.  It’s coming from a car in the middle of the street and I think the yelling is directed at me but I’m not sure.  I’m trying to get Hadley on the sidewalk all the while worried I will spill my coffee.

” ‘SCUSE ME!!!” she is saying and continues talking but I can’t hear her because I’m not on the driver’s side. I walk around the front of her car, annoyed that she can’t wait for me to put myself in a position so I can hear her. Or is it that I don’t want to be bothered?

At her window, I see boxes piled up in her sedan.  They are crammed in the back as well as on her front seat.  She looks tired. She also looks like she doesn’t really want my help but she doesn’t know what else to do.  Maybe she was just yelling at the dark and I happened to hear her and felt obligated to come over. So here we are, she and I, probably looking at each other suspiciously and with no subtle hint of annoyance on our faces.

“How do you know what parking spot is yours?” she asks me and I think this is a dumb question.  How do you NOT know which parking spot is yours? They’re all numbered except for a few at the beginning of the complex.  If you don’t have a number, than you probably don’t have a spot.

“Well, they’re all numbered,” I tell her.

“I know that,” she is just as snappy with me as I am with her.  “I forgot what my number is. My building is right up there, so, do you think there is a spot for me near my building?” She is pointing to the building next to ours and she asks her question with a slight chance of hope that there is a place for her next to her home.

“You can try that,” I say, “but you might take someone else’s spot.” Suddenly, I feel bad saying this. I feel bad for her.  She just wants to go home.

I continue, “You can park in the unnumbered spots for now if you want.” I point to where they are and she looks behind her shoulder, exhausted.

“Thank you,” she says and reverses the car.

I head back up the sidewalk to catch up with my family when Jesse says, “She could park next to us.  Nobody ever parks there.”

I am not sure why I have a change in heart, but I think this is such great news and I run down the hill to my new neighbor.  If she parks right next to us she won’t have to walk so far to her new home.  Those boxes won’t be so heavy, perhaps.  Coffee is spilling down my hand and arm but I keep running because I think I have such good news for this woman.  She doesn’t have to be so tired! She can park next to us!  I’m breathless when I get to her window.

“Did you find something?” she asks.

“Yes! You can park right next to us!  And then you don’t have to walk so far!” I am jubilant.

She leans out of the window and stares at the spot next to ours.  “Is it numbered?”

“Yes.”

She looks at me, and says, “I’m scared.” Her eyes look like my girls’ eyes when they are tired or confused but looking to me for answers. “My landlord said not to do that,” she adds.

I wasn’t offering anything like the little boy did in the story.  If I were a better person I’d help her with her boxes, bake a pie and bring it over to her tomorrow morning. If I were a better person I’d ask her what her landlord’s number is so we could call and find out where she is to park. If I were a better person I’d stand in the dark with her and wait.

What I did do, was say, “I understand,” when she told me she was scared.  And then I added, “I think you’ll be OK, though.”

She doesn’t have to back out of her community. She has a place here. I know she’s treading this new ground carefully and wearily, but she can stand on it, and it’ll be OK. That’s what I wanted to tell her on Sunday evening.