How I Became a Chreaster

Yes, my friends, it's the Holiday Season.  Hanukkah has come and gone, Advent is winding down, and Christmas is imminent.  I guess it's time to go to church. 

I have become a Chreaster. 

Those of you who fastidiously followed our story with Charlotte may remember my previous discussion on Chreasters.  A Chreaster is a person that shows up at church on the main holidays in the Christian calendar, principally Christmas and Easter.  Other than those holidays, you'd be surprised to see them in a church at all.  Some go out of obligation (or guilt), others go because they just don't generally feel comfortable in church on a regular basis.  Perhaps they don't have a regular church home but it feels right (or necessary) to make an appearance on the holiest of days in the Christian calendar.  For some, that's the realm of their spiritual experience.  It's not right or wrong, although I suppose some might see it as a derogatory term.  For me, it just is what it is.

I grew up going to church on a weekly basis and it just became a part of my regular routine.  Aside from some time in college when regular church-going fell by the wayside (mainly due to distance from the church that I had called home for almost two decades), attending church every week was my breath of fresh air, my opportunity for spiritual renewal, my source of fellowship.  I didn't see it as an obligation but as something that I did because it fed me spiritually. 

When Charlotte was born, we baptized her in the church and the weekly ritual continued.  When we moved to Ashland, we found a new church home and almost instantly became a part of the fabric of St. James the Less: volunteering in the nursery, participating in family events, and attending (almost) weekly services.  The friends that became our church family were instantly there at the news of Charlotte's diagnosis with cancer and supported us every step of the way. 

While she battled her illness, regular church attendance understandably went on the back burner.  More often than not, Sunday rolled around and we were either a) admitted to the hospital for one reason or another, b) stuck home with a sick or immune suppressed little girl (going anywhere with lots of people = exposure to lots of germs = not an option) or c) just too darn tired to get to church.  Sometimes we made it but those days were few and far between.

After she died, I gradually made my way back to regular church services.  I thought everything would be ok.  I was sure that I would find comfort in the renewal of that weekly ritual, of the fellowship with friends who supported us in every way possible. 

I was wrong and I was surprised.

Something was missing.  I found myself attending the service, going through the motions, and then practically running out of the church once service had finished.  I struggled to engage in small talk with fellow parishioners.  I avoided walking through the Sunday School area (near the nursery).  Every time I went to take communion, I leaked. I thought it would get easier as the months went on but instead, it just got worse.  I found myself crying even as I pulled into the church parking lot.  Each week, I found myself on the verge of tears earlier and earlier into the process.  I knew something was wrong.

At the same time, it was difficult for me to understand these feelings.  This was church: a place where I knew I was loved, supported, and spiritually nurtured.  When my father passed away (I was 8 years old at the time), the church was my second home.  I felt that nurturing comfort from all the people who loved and supported our family.  It felt good to be there.  This was not the same.  Instead, I saw all the kids who used to play with Charlotte and sing with her in the choir and I felt a huge loss with her absence.  I felt that she should be there.  

And she wasn't.

Every time I took communion, I thought of walking Charlotte to the altar rail and watching as she took the bread into her hand, dipped it ever so gently into the chalice, and ate the sacrament.  We used to say a simple prayer together after the communion: "Thank you God for all my blessings."  I couldn't do this any more without the ache in my heart tearing me up. 

Finally, I knew that this was not something that would go away and I needed to see if there was something (anything) I could do to ameliorate these frustrating feelings of spiritual conflict.  When I made an appointment to speak with my pastor, the most surprising thing about our conversation was his immediate lack of surprise.  As I shared my feelings, he relayed that this was a frequent and very normal way that many people struggling with grief experienced their life in church after a loss.  I pointed out to him that I worked with kids day in and day out but somehow only seeing the other kids at church caused these overwhelming feelings of grief.  Why would that be? 

The truth is that spirituality is so deeply entwined with our emotions that we often feel everything (loss and joy) more intensely at that level.  I was able to separate the "professional" side of my life with kids from the "spiritual" side and I felt that spiritual loss much more intensely. 

So, what to do?  Pastor Ed advised that I follow my heart and let the Holy Spirit show me the way.  He said that one of three things would probably happen:

1. I would eventually return to the church and find comfort when the time was right. 
2. I would find comfort in a new church.
3. I would never really be comfortable in a church again.

While all of this was going on, my professional life had me running around like a proverbial chicken with no head.  Many Sundays, I found myself working.  When I wasn't working, sometimes Sunday was my only day off and my only true opportunity to rest.  Needless to say, I all but stopped going to church.

I did, however,  make an effort to keep the Sabbath.  If anything, not attending church allowed me to have a true Sabbath.  Sometimes church is more work than rest.  There is the need to dress up (or at least look respectable), make it to service at the appointed time, participate in the service in certain ways, and socialize according to understood customs. 

When we talked, Pastor Ed offered a book, saying only, "This may speak to you."  It did.  The book was Leaving Church by Barbara Brown Taylor.  Although her spiritual journey within and away from the church followed a very different path, her thoughts rang true for me.

"On that first Sunday, even the the prospect of public worship was too much for me.  I could not...fathom going anywhere else.  I felt like a religious invalid, still weak from my recent fever and embarrassed by how I looked.  I did not want to be...asked how I was feeling.  I did not want to endure any real or imagined questions about what I was doing.  I took a prayer book out on the front porch and read the morning office with the birds." 

I think I could have written those words myself.  Many of my recent Sundays have been spent in pursuit of a true Sabbath. In truth, it's a spiritual challenge to let go of the pressures of the world and truly find rest and relaxation, even if for a few hours.  I'm a Type A and I rarely sit still so learning to be ok with accomplishing very little on the never-ending to-do list was a new challenge for my heart.  Once I started the process, it got easier and easier to learn how to relax.  Eight months later, I realize that this was where my heart needed to be. 

Meanwhile, Roger was hired by a Methodist church across town as the male section leader in the choir.  In a reversal of roles, he was the one attending church on a regular basis while I stayed home. 

Instead, I find "church" in other places.  Last night, we went to the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden for their annual light display.  We've been garden members for a long time and I think last year was the first year in ages that we didn't make it to the garden during the holidays.  I saw Charlotte everywhere.  I saw all the parents scuttling their children, bundled in mittens, hats and scarves, scooting around in strollers.  I saw the children marvelling at the train and the lights and the flowers.  And then I saw this...

The centerpiece of the Ginter holiday display is the huge Christmas tree in the conservatory.  Every year, this towering tree (I'm guessing it's at least 18 feet tall) is decorated with a new theme and color scheme.  This year, the tree was covered in these butterflies, matching dragonflies, and purple and burgundy orchids.  It was beautiful and it was Charlotte.  As the tears flowed, Roger looked at me and said, "She should be here." I said, "In a way, she is."

We made our way through the rest of the garden, ending at the carriage house where we were treated to a holiday concert by local songstress Susan Greenbaum.  The concert had evolved into more of a sing-a-long and as I found myself singing the alto parts to favorite carols, I felt the spirit of the season finally surround me like a fleece blanket. 

Sometimes you don't truly appreciate something until you step away from it for a little while.  When you are engrossed in the daily or weekly ritual of church, it has the potential to become something we do out of obligation or routine.  When we are focused on having the right outfit for the holiday pictures, getting the holiday cards in the mail, wrapping the presents on time, making sure everyone gets the items on their "list" or setting the table with just the right centerpiece, we can forget that this season is about finding light in the darkness. 

I think the lights look a little brighter this year. 

May God's Peace Be With You.  Merry Christmas.