Thoughts On a Gaggle of Meaning-Makers and I Being One of Them

Dear friends,

While Paul and I were washing, drying, singing and dancing our way through the mountain of dishes at church on Pentecost Sunday, a woman with a seven-year-old son came up to us.

"Michael [not his real name] was telling me on the way to church that he was looking forward to seeing Anna," she said.

"Anna? As in the little girl in our community?" I asked.

"No. You."

I smiled big.

"Really?"

"Really," she said as she walked away.

I turned to Paul. "I feel so honored that this boy has a crush on me!" I exclaimed. I turned back to washing the dish in my hand. I became real quiet. "I feel like I'm meant to be here."

"People really love you," Paul said, "although this is a little perverted."

******

My friend Kristin once told me that she was surprised I still went to Sunday church services when I was ill since I spent most of my week in bed - somewhat comatose - and the illness was incredibly unpredictable. Up until last summer (more than three years after the initial onset of symptoms), I was very aware that going to church was difficult for me. I could never predict how I would feel, the stimulation was overwhelming, and I always felt different, like I could never measure up to everyone else.

Up until last November, I worshiped in a building with windows that looked out onto a park to the East and a football field to the Northwest. For the first several years of my illness, especially in the first 12 months, I was unable to stand for any length of time, so I would continue to sit as everyone else stood. I usually could not see the words to the songs, so I would look to my side and gaze out onto the grassy fields.

And then I would fantasize. I would fantasize running in a dress, hair falling down my back, running with my shoes in my hands, running away from the crowd, away from the music, away from the pain. I would run and run and run until my mind became tired from all the imaginary running (which was about 50 yards at most). And then I would throw my shoes and fall down in tears. Every Sunday this fantasy was the same.

******

One of the things I notice in the liturgical setting (either the Episcopal church I work for or the Lutheran church I attend - take your pick) is that they will direct parishioners to "stand as you are able." It tells me that I can truly be who I am: healthy, ill, energetic, tired, menstrual, whatever. For about the first three years of my illness (not to mention the 24 years prior), I never heard this directive. I'm sure it was implied, but when the presider says, "stand as you are able," I can decide for me what I can do. Neither do I have to stand just because that's what everyone else is doing, nor must I feel shame for not being able to do what others can do.

Though I didn't know it, the last service at my previous church was the Sunday I walked out early because they began to sing, "Thank you for healing me," and I just couldn't handle it on that particular day. At the time, I was also feeling completely removed from church; I felt more alive outside the church walls than in. The reasons for this were plentiful: some had to do with the church and others had to do with me. Within a few weeks, I encountered a very good reason to leave the church and began spending my Sundays relaxing and engaging in activities good for my soul.

After a three-month break from church (not to mention a planned move to Seattle), I began to attend my current church - and I keep coming back. From the start, Ryan, my pastor, one of the most natural liturgists and leaders I have ever encountered, began to invite me to hang apples or hold the wine. They were simple things, but they meant the world to me.

I have also slowly gotten to know the community members. "How's the Bitch?" one mom-friend asked. Her question surprised me so much that I spontaneously hugged her, and I'm not typically one who initiates hugs. I appreciate that people here ask me how I'm feeling. Perhaps I receive these questions better either because I'm more comfortable with the illness or I'm more comfortable with the answer I can now provide. Whatever the case is, I feel accepted here, illness and all. But people here also don't ask about the illness so often that I feel like that's all I have to give. In fact, Ryan has invited me to contribute my writing in various ways. I have never considered myself an artist, but I have been taking steps lately to begin to consider myself one. I am beginning to believe that the core of being an artist means inviting others to engage your art. And that's precisely what I am beginning to do.

Most of all, I feel like I am my true Self in this community. Whether it's dancing and singing in red curtains for pants on Pentecost, or having an eight-year-old girl teach me how to do cartwheels in the field behind the building, or allowing fat tears to fall down my face in front of everyone, I feel like I'm coming into my own here. I am beginning to discern my sacrifice for the future of this community. And that's a big deal for someone who is afraid of relationships in general.

******

In our worship space, there are multiple windows that look out onto the garden, street and side of the building. Sometimes while standing and singing, I catch myself turning my head to the outdoors to feel the sunlight fall upon my brown skin and to take note of the colorful flowers in bloom. But I have never thought to leave. I have never considered running away or throwing my shoes or falling down in exhaustion. I can't say that will never happen again, but I'm starting to believe people would notice if I ran. A boy's innocent crush tells me that even the children would notice if I didn't come back.

There are many reasons for the transformation, which is still in progress, of course. Some of the reasons I know, some I don't, but of one thing I am sure: I have been truly and fully present, truly and fully loved, truly and fully Anna.

A.