God's Pool

At Mass this morning, a guest priest asked for prayers for our country, that we might stand firm and protest same-sex marriage and abortion. My sons, standing on either side of me, turned their handsome faces up in confusion.

Huh?

"Does he mean boys can't marry boys? Mummy, you said they could."

For a moment, I could say nothing. My youngest Red is a week away from receiving his First Communion, which is essentially, being invited to sit at the Lord's table.

 I walked away from it for many, many years but found that I was drawn back to the ritual and community, especially when I became a parent. I have sometimes wondered at the wisdom of returning to a church whose ideas I do not wholly embrace, nor support. Some, I outright defy.

This is one of them.

"Some people believe that only men and women should marry," I finally whispered, "But I don't. I think God wants you to love who you love and that's that."

"But can we still come here if you think that? For my communion? I'm learning all the songs, even though the words are hard."

In my mind, I pictured myself gathering up my children and making a big show of huffing from the pew and into the aisle, incensed and hollering, "MY God welcomes everyone to His table!" and then storming out. Alas, I am not that brave, so instead, I sat when I should have remained standing and tugged them in close to me.

"God says that whenever two or more people get together and sing about Him and pray to Him and enjoy their time together, He's hanging out, too. Invisibly. And He loves us. Period. Full-stop. Forever. So, yes, we can come here. Especially since you're learning all the songs."

"But...why did the priest say that?" This from my oldest, the champion of "Why?" questions that make my head hurt.

"Because he believes it. Because it scares him. Because the world is a different place than it used to be, when men couldn't marry men and women couldn't marry women. He's sort of...stuck there."

"But who's right?"

"Who do you think is right?"

"You."

"Why do you think I'm right?"

"Because you said that if we want to marry a man then you'd be ok with that because it means you get to have more sons to love. And God helped us choose you to be our mummy and so if He chooses us to marry a man, He's really choosing you for them, too. Or them for you. Kind of. Do you know what I mean?"

I closed my eyes, offered up a silent prayer of thanks for these tiny souls. "Yes. Yes, I do. Now let Mummy pray here, ok?"

"Ok," my youngest again, tugging impatiently on my arm, "Can you pray that the person I marry has a pool?

I opened up one eye. "A pool?"

"Yeah. God would probably want me to have a pool. And a diving board to practice flips. I bet He's choosing that for me right now. I just have to wait and find out."

I guess we all will.

That God. He's so funny.

Meeting Jason...

*One of my new favourite phrases, as I settle into my 40s, is "That God. He's so funny."

I am not a particularly religious person. By that, I suppose I mean that I am not a regular church-goer and my faith, while strengthening, is often fraught with doubt and questions. Despite them, every once in awhile, I receive a gentle nudge from the universe - one that lets me know that I am on the right path. I call that God, but whatever floats your boat works for me, too.

This piece, lifted directly from my Facebook wall shortly before Christmas, 2014, is a vivid and pointed "steady as you go, Skipper" moment, given to me by a lonely, troubled stranger on a rainy winter's night. *

I have been given the enormous privilege of being one of a Circle of Accompaniment for my dear friend, Jen, who is seeking ministry with the United Church of Canada. Tonight's meeting was the first of many with her circle and it was interesting. Even MORE interesting? What happened before:

Before the meeting began, I volunteered to open the church's locked side door to those attending. A lone man appeared, seeking the pastor, or he muttered, "someone to talk to," hastily yanking his tattered hat from his head as I ushered him in, out of the rain.

Together, we searched the meeting rooms, interrupted some strangers, but found no pastor. At a loss, I gestured to the bench in the foyer and so he eased himself down and then looked up at me.
"I just need someone to...listen, " he said quietly. And so I sat, too.

Opening up...

 

 

He said nothing for awhile, so I didn't, either. To be honest, I was a little bit afraid of him and his need and worried that perhaps I shouldn't have let him in. This was not my church, or my home and its congregation were strangers to me. I tried not to fidget and willed someone - anyone - to come and tell me, tell us, what to do.

"You know what's hard?" he asked, turning a battered face to mine, eyes blazing.

I shook my head.

"That there is no place for me to go, when I need to. The library will close soon and I have no money for coffee. I don't want a fucking coffee anyway, I just want someone to take these thoughts out of my head for awhile. Where's the pastor, that's what I want to know. WHERE THE HELL IS HE?"

"I don't know. But...I have a cell phone. Is there anyone you'd like to call?"

"Look at me! Do I look like the kind of person whose call would be answered?"

I blinked, afraid. "Uh...well, maybe not. You look sort of scary and mad. But you SOUND like someone who's smart and aware. And you need those thoughts out of your head, right? You could call up anyone and leave them on their voice mail, if they don't pick up."

With a loud bark, he BURST out laughing, and I jolted, which made him laugh even harder. I chuckled along, in that "ha-ha-holy-shit-you-freak-me-out" kind of way, until he stopped and then stuck out his hand for mine. "I'm Jason. Who are you?"

"I'm Liz."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're not to supposed to encourage the crazy people, Liz?"

"Well...yeah. But I can't seem to help myself. It's a curse, really."

Jason pitched over laughing again, while I sat there trying to figure out what to DO. And then he got up, jammed his hat back on his head and turned to haul me to my feet. I asked him what he was going to do.

"I'm going to go now, Liz. It was a pleasure meeting you. Thanks for making me laugh. I can probably hang onto my head until I get to the next church."

"Well, good luck. And Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too. And hey, if anyone ever tells you to stop talking to the crazy people, you tell 'em to go f*ck themselves. Got it?"

Got it.

That God. He's so funny.