Eating the Donut – Some Thoughts on Church

To get to the church we are thinking about becoming members of, we walk down this part-alley, part-street. Nobody stays on the sidewalk, we all walk down the center of the street. Harper skips, Hadley walks alongside Jesse asking him question after question, quietly, because there’s something about this short walk that brings on the “what ifs” and “how does” and “what do you thinks” for her. The street is quiet save for the congregants walking to and from, all of us saying, “Good Morning,” or “Peace,” and on Easter Sunday it was, “Happy Easter!”

The street is sleepy on Sunday mornings, but not the rest of the week. We came here on Maundy Thursday, and we knew who this town belongs to. “Is this college?” Hadley asked, her head half-way out the window of the car as we parked. It might’ve been the night of the Last Supper, but it was also the Spring Fling and she was in awe of the girls in dresses and heels, and the boys in their suits carrying flowers. “This is college,” I told her.

Maundy Thursday was the night I took communion for the first time since we’ve moved to Ann Arbor. I can’t remember the last time I took communion. Is it had communion or took communion? Probably it’s “had.” You don’t take community, do you? You have community. Although I do feel as though I’m taking something when the bread and wine are passed around, and then I suppose it’s something I have.

We left the service in silence, after the sanctuary was stripped of the candles and banners, after the pastors took off their green stoles and carried them out, after the Bible was taken away and after everyone stopped singing, “Remember me,” we left.

We weren’t outside when I heard a group of boys singing at the top of their lungs, “Hey, Chicago! Whatdya say! The Cubs are gonna win today! Go Cubs, go! Go Cubs, go!” Down the street we take to get to church they sang and walked and leaped and pushed each other, laughing at their reckless behavior only spring makes happen, and I wanted to take that communion, too: the passing of the peanuts and Old Style down the row while the crowd screamed, “DAAARRRYLLL, DAAAAARRRRYLLLLL,” and I wondered about that poor Mets player who just couldn’t get a hit against the Cubs that day. He was so tall from where I sat, and I wondered how he got the last name Strawberry. What’s the history behind that name, I thought as I cracked a peanut and popped it into my mouth. That community is mine to take, too. Still, if you take it – if you go and go again and again – is it something you have if you’re anonymous? If you never share yourself, your thoughts, your writing, what you believe and what you doubt? Is it yours if there’s nobody to talk with about it?

I went for a run on Sunday. I signed myself up for a 10K in June around Reeds Lake in Grand Rapids. Seems like a good place to have  a first race, down the street from where I went to college. My goal these first weeks of training is two three mile runs, and one five mile run a week. Then, in May, I’ll do two five mile runs and one seven mile run a week. So Sunday was my five mile day and the problem is I get bored if I see the same thing. Especially that first mile when my thoughts are filled with “can’ts” and “this is horrible,” and “what are you thinking.” I decided to run to church.

The second you cross Stadium on Packard, Ann Arbor is a full on college town, picturesque and also gritty. The day I ran, everyone was out for a study break. They were on roofs, on the porches, on their front lawns playing something with red cups, and everybody’s music was so loud I didn’t need my own music. I remember sitting on the roof of my house Senior year of college. I’d been working on a final paper for Dale Brown’s class, and I decided that it would be a joke to write a valedictorian address to my class of 1998. I’d tell them why stories like “A Soldier’s Heart,” Beloved, and “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been” are important. I was so entertained by this idea of me being a straight A student for four solid years and getting to write a speech, writing it was fun. I worried at times, though, that he would think I was being snarky, or worse, pompous. “Don’t pretend to be something you’re not,” is what I was afraid he’d say. So my friend Alison and I sat on the roof on a warm May day in Michigan, and we took a break. We were all losing our minds a little bit trying to get a hold of what it means to offer your heart promptly and sincerely. You can take communion, sure, it’s yours for the taking, but once you have it, well, I wonder if you grapple with what you have and what you’re unsure of for the rest of your life.

I made it to the church. I ran down the part-alley, part-street with all the study breakers, ran up the incline that takes us up the stairs and inside. Usually we hear the organ while we walk, but that afternoon the church was quiet, and Miley Cyrus sang me through mile four. I probably shouldn’t listen to her, especially when I’m running past a church, but I root for her. It’s probably strange to say this, but I’m thankful for her voice because when I’m tired I cue this particular song and run to the beat. I get control of my breathing again, stand up straighter, remember the technique, and try to think about something else; something I’m not but want to be. I think about working towards something I don’t fully believe I can do. I pretend Miley’s cheering me on, and I say a little prayer for her. I say thank you. I say I hope she’s doing OK, and I keep running.

Hadley and Harper go to Sunday school half-way through the service, and after, Jesse and I go through the social hall, and up the stairs to get them. The coffee smells pretty good, I admit, and last Sunday, there were cake donuts with rainbow sprinkles lined up all happy and delicious looking  on the church trays. I walked right by even though Jesse said, “Callie, Callie! Look what they have!” I told him I saw them. I know they’re there. “You know how afraid of the church social hour I am when I pass up my favorite kind of donut,” I told him.

But there’s a children’s choir that practices right after Sunday School. We think Hadley and Harper would love it, and we’d love for them to be in it. “What are we going to do while they’re in choir?” I asked Jesse.

“What do you mean?” he asked, laughing, knowing exactly what I meant.

“I mean what are we going to do for a half an hour while the girls are in choir?” I could feel my heart rate speeding up, and my breath shortening. It’s one thing to sit in a pew, smell the candles, sing the hymns, jot notes about the sermons, listen to a Cubs anthem, notice, notice, notice. It’s another thing to participate. It’s one thing to take, but what do I do once I have it?

“You’re gonna eat the donut,” Jesse said, laughing.

He’s right. I’ll take the donut, and taking it, I suppose will be another step towards figuring out what it is I do with what I have.