Fascinating, isn’t it, the way God dwells where I am least comfortable? This is the thought that slithers into my temporal lobe as we shuffle into the chapel, if you can call this space a chapel. I’m grumpy for no reason. Prior to genuflecting, I scan the barn-esque hall in search of a tabernacle and come up empty. At least now I have a reason, condescending and petty though it may be. At least there is an altar. I bow and sit down.
I have spent all day in a foreign place with foreign people, sometimes making disjointed attempts at small talk but mostly just thinking about how much I prefer the places and people I already know. I have been polite, but in the sort of way that a waiter politely asks if there is anything else they can do for you after you’ve already signed the check and there is a crowd by the front door that is circling above your table and quickly descending into madness.
I do not feel like I have enough to do. I am then asked to do something, which just makes me crosser, obviously. I discover that I seem determined to have a miserable time, and this discovery just makes me miserable-er.
The most idiotic thing of it is, I’m fully aware that in just a blink of an eye, these will be my people and this will be my place and everything will be just fine. I know this. Of course I know this; I’ve done this before -- I seem to have done it a lot over the past few years. Perhaps this is part of the problem: seeing as how there is no exit date, there’s an air of uncomfortable authenticity in finally settling into a place for real.
The faces of strangers will become the faces of loved ones; they always do. But getting there is exceedingly uncomfy. It requires jagged and unpolished things like stifled laughter at dirty jokes and interminable shared silences and contagious pits of despair brought on by unspeakable sorrow and exasperated rants about kids long on potential but short on anything of actual value -- these most human of interactions are what get you from strangers to loved ones.
I know this, but for the moment it’s tucked away in the third-to-last file cabinet of my cerebral archives. I’m busy being annoyed by the lack of pews in this church. The priest walks in carrying his companion, tucks Him into the monstrance, and kneels. I kneel, too -- tabernacle or not, I’m not grumpy enough to ignore the Holy One.
The chairs do have kneelers, at least. The rows are too close together for me to fold myself into a prayerful position with anything resembling elegance. I try to scootch my knees forward enough to sit on my feet, which is my favorite prayer posture, in imitation of the wise teenage elder, Bernadette Soubirous. (I do not know if the real-life Bernadette ever once knelt this way, but her statue at the Grotto does, which is good enough for me.) This is not good either, and suddenly my feet are asleep. I stare at the Tiny Circle of Unexpected Grace, fuming about how stupid it is that a parish would build a new church and apparently forget to leave space in the budget for pews or a tabernacle, and certain that he would agree with me.
And then he speaks to me, piercing the haze of grumpiness and discomfort: This is where I am. I make no conditions or demands about which direction the sanctuary faces or what kind of flooring is underfoot. I do not complain about how the stained glass windows look like pages torn from a coloring book for ages three through five. I simply stay here with you, waiting for you in the tabernacle in the hallway, in the midst of your precious and delicate uncomfyness. I am in the faces of strangers who determined to welcome you into their world without ever having met you. I am in the conversations and in the silence. I am here with the hardwood floors and the Hobby Lobby cross on the wall. I am in you, you insufferable grump.
I dwell in those places you won’t go on your own, because you’re too scared or proud or distracted. I take you by the hand and bring you there, so that you can be more like the man We designed you to be. I chip away at your armor and your ego and clear a path for other people to see you and love you, and for you to see and love them. Because that’s what it’s all about, of course. You know this, too. All that will be left is my love.
I sit back and smile, because it’s good sometimes to let Him have the last word.
And then he speaks to me, piercing the haze of grumpiness and discomfort: This is where I am. I make no conditions or demands about which direction the sanctuary faces or what kind of flooring is underfoot. I do not complain about how the stained glass windows look like pages torn from a coloring book for ages three through five. I simply stay here with you, waiting for you in the tabernacle in the hallway, in the midst of your precious and delicate uncomfyness. I am in the faces of strangers who determined to welcome you into their world without ever having met you. I am in the conversations and in the silence. I am here with the hardwood floors and the Hobby Lobby cross on the wall. I am in you, you insufferable grump.
I dwell in those places you won’t go on your own, because you’re too scared or proud or distracted. I take you by the hand and bring you there, so that you can be more like the man We designed you to be. I chip away at your armor and your ego and clear a path for other people to see you and love you, and for you to see and love them. Because that’s what it’s all about, of course. You know this, too. All that will be left is my love.
I sit back and smile, because it’s good sometimes to let Him have the last word.
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