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Easter longing





My family usually sat in the same place. A hard wooden pew near the back on the left-hand side.
My mom made me wear a dress, wrangle myself into pantyhose and wear nice shoes (not Keds).
We would go to Sunday school. The kids would wait in hallways for our parents' class to end.
Hoping that there would be donuts leftover. More often than not, we skipped “big church” visited family and picked up Church’s fried chicken on our way home.
Church was pews, pipe organs, air hockey in the youth building, polite conversations and boxes of chicken.

At summer camp. Church was at the top of what felt like the highest hill in Hill country.
We sat on dusty stone benches in our sweaty Sunday whites. Someone strummed a guitar and we all sang along.
Church was aching legs, BBQ down by the river and clumsy chords.

In college I made it to church on Sundays about half of time.
Occasionally hungover. Always tired. I would still find a dress but had long ditched the hose.
We shopped around but my favorite Sunday church was in an old BBQ resturaunt.
The old dance floor, transformed into a pulpit.
Church was still dresses and folding chairs and often followed by cheap tacos at Rosas.
Real church in college happened on Thursday nights in a basement of the Wesley foundation with watered-down Koolaid and day-old donuts.

We struggled to find a church after we got married. But eventually landed in one twenty minutes away. Too big. Too fancy. Too conservative. But the perfect group of friends for us at the time.
Eventually, we moved to another.
And then another. To one that felt more like the ones from home.
Back to hard pews and stained glass. Sundays and eventually Saturdays. I go as I am, but usually, at least take a shower first. My kids ask if we are eating with friends after. Because we usually are.
I occasionally serve the bread and wine but more often I help with the small row of youth that show up on a Saturday night.  I have been here for years. Sometimes in the chapel. Sometimes in the loft. But these days in the sanctuary. I have felt nothing and I have also felt full. I have longed for and looked for. I have been emptied out and filled up. I have doubted.
I have sang loud and off-key. I have mouthed the words. I haven’t even bothered. I have listened closely. And I have written to-do lists in the bulletin.
Church is wooden pews. Familiar songs and faces. Teens sharing about their week. Jeans and t-shirts.
Full tables. Broken bread and grape juice and an honest heart.

Today as I walk around my neighborhood for the third time today I long for a sanctuary.
Stained glass and guitars. And I feel all the things I have grown used to inside them. Doubt and fire and fullness and emptiness.
I miss the feel of a hard pew or folding chair.
I miss the scratch of pantyhose.

Tomorrow I will sit on my couch. And watch church on my computer screen.
And I will say “He is risen” while wearing yoga pants.
Later I will Zoom with my family.
No Easter brunch. No flowers tucked into crosses. No lilies lining the altar.
My heart will ache but I expect it to also be warmed.
Because God has never been pinned down to pews and steeples.


There was no church on the first Easter. Only friends gathered and grieving.
Full of loss and uncertainty. Which sounds awfully familiar. And a few women who ventured out to find an empty tomb. Christ’s first words to them, “Do not be afraid” are words I still need to hear.
Church will be my couch, fuzzy socks and all the schoolwork pushed aside to make room for a meal.
Church will be a longing for each other.
Church will be worshiping alone. Together.
And I will find sanctuary in my living room.
Holiness on my couch.
Pantyhose completely optional.





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