church

and yet again I begin to learn the meaning, or the definition, of things as I stumble across them in front of my eyes:

and this is church:
the arms that hold you when you weep.
words, prayer-words, chosen carefully at times and flippantly at others but always chosen with an openness about them, an openness that the holy spirit breathes color and feeling into.
the vulnerability it takes to weep in community, and the beauty of another person leaving her seat to hold the man who weeps.
the face of another observer, who sees this act of love and tears up herself.
my own tears, that have surpassed the burning lump in my throat and have made their way quickly down my face, over my mouth and chin, surprising me with their suddenness.
the stranger who hears my barely contained sniffling and turns to put a hand on my knee.
the long, hard hugs given during the peace-pass, the kind where belly brushes up against belly and you breathe together for a moment.
words, more words, words of permission whatever you are feeling, to own your own brokenness, and then words of blessing, words of admonishment to ‘be gentle’ with each other.

church is being so moved by the communion cup being offered to you, moved by what it means, and what these people mean, and what all of this gathering and singing and praying and speaking means, what all of it means.
radical, foundation-shaking love.
that’s what it all means. that is what is living and breathing in that very room, between so many raw, pink hearts, between so many walled-in hearts, love lives in that space between. and the gift of seeing that, of recognizing that, of being moved by that, even through blurry tear-lenses, is a gift I will never cease talking about, a gift for which I will never cease to be gut-deeply grateful.


gentleness, i wish for you,
becca