…When you’re born into trauma you grow from it
But when you experience a trauma later in life you grow toward it.
A slow move to an embrace
An embrace that leaves you holding tight.
the beauty wrapped in the grotesque
an embrace that becomes a dance
a new dance…
-Kevin Kling “Tickled Pink”
I wish I had a better ending to this series. I worry about the disappointment that comes from the anti-climactic or from realizing you would never do the same thing.
I want to leave my church so badly.
I feel like I’ve been aggressive in avoiding it and trying to make another church, any church, work for me. But like sand or glitter…you still find my church on me in the most random places refusing to let go. Family has a tendency of having that affect on people – good or bad.
Why can’t we let each other go?
We’ve begun to circle around an ELCA church in the suburbs of Chicago. The head pastor isn’t from the United States, and for some reason that makes him a loophole in all of our minds.
I’m having a serious problem pulling the trigger on membership – or even regularly showing up. I’ve also begun raining on people’s parades when it comes to their churches. I feel like the lone man on the corner with his microphone and cardboard sign preaching that the end is near. Only I want to warn people not to give their hearts to their churches. Don’t trust anyone or anything.
Yet, in spite of all of this, Bennett will be baptized in the ELCA. For some reason, it never crossed my mind to baptize him elsewhere. He belongs with his ancestors both living and dead, even if his mother can’t handle the home which they all live.
I want it all to change. I want to wake up and give my full heart back to the church. I want us to go back to the way things used to be…but that’s not going to happen, is it? The church is human. I’m human. And humanity has a track record of really jacking things up. It’s what we do best.
It is not ideal, but at this point I’m just hoping for a truce. Maybe, just maybe, if I embrace the brokenness in myself and those around me who I can’t seem to let go, something delicately beautiful might begin to grow someplace somewhere in the future.
Or maybe not.
But on this Tuesday in August of 2016, I have a small glimmer of hope that it will.