Being There

“You’re on your way to church, right?” my brother Bird asked from where he sat on the deck of his sail boat where he was sipping coffee and watching morning break over Lake Lanier.

It was how he said it, as if I weren’t on my way to church something would be amiss in his world. I told him Wolfie (his nephew, my son) was always anxious when I missed church, too. I asked what all this was about—am I so obviously racked with sin that I need ritual cleansing at the church? “No,” Bird told me, “we feel like when you go, you represent the whole family.”

At church walking through the Parish Hall, I was stopped by Dick Harris, who apologized for a snarky email he sent about the possibility of me returning to church one of these days (I actually missed it or it didn’t make an impression) but the point was well-taken. When I am not there—when any of us are not there 1) we are missed by our fellow parishioners and 2) our extended families won’t get into heaven.

Not only are we missed by our spiritual community but I realized this morning being there is like being present as a parent watching your child grow. Most Sundays aren’t a big Christmas pageant or candle light Evensong—they’re plain ole’ services where Patricia preaches on Bible folks like Esau and Jacob. The plain ole’ Sundays where you’re sitting there with your hands in your lap and you hear the voice of a child from the Vienna Boy’s Choir—only it’s Joseph Henry, rough and tumble little guy who has given just given a performance worthy of a very large cathedral. (I can still picturing him on one of his first acolyting days helping his mother, yawning and then placing his chin on the altar as Patricia did communion.)

If I’d missed today, I would have missed that moment forever. I would have missed the singing completely this morning, where it felt like I heard every single voice in the congregation but we blended so well together (even me) that it felt like we were practicing a chant.

I would have missed hearing that Gilda and Lee have got their second grandbaby, a little girl! And the update on Jocelyn’s boyfriend from Sierra Leone being detained for a traffic violation as a result of the new, tougher immigration laws in Georgia (it’s been two months now, the outcome is unclear). And I would have missed Josh pulling off a serious coup de grace with all the leftovers in the freezer. In fact, we served up everything but the madelines from Lent, a block of frozen (I think) peaches, and a Christmas tree-shaped container of something from that season—that we still didn’t throw out. (I once offended Bill Hancock when he pulled a carton of Half and Half out of the frig, thinking we had some and I told him, no, it had gone bad. What?? I smelled it and put it back in the frig. Though he wasn’t there to see it, I felt helping Josh carry out this leftover coffee time scheme exonerated me a little.)

I don’t know what all I missed on the many Sundays lately when I’ve been traveling for work, but I know it’s a lot and there are moments I’ll never get back in the life of my church. It’s sort of like being part of a big family and leaving an empty chair at the dinner table. Absence is felt. But more than being missed, you just never know what you’re missing!