The Wrap Up

How do you measure, measure a year? 

In sunsets? In laughter? In cups of coffee? In Broadway musical numbers? 

In church visits?

Memories from an amazing year of church.

As a thick winter snow falls all around St. Louis, I remember the long harrowing drive I took on a blustery December 31st  from Kansas City back home to The Lou. The snow was blowing in all directions. The hard gray roads were covered with soft slippery white snow. Traveling down the highway at 30mph I saw cars get stuck and slide off the road and semi-trucks turned on their sides. For the first two hours of the trip my knuckles gripped the steering wheel tightly, my eyes watered with tears and I bargained with God for my safety. After a night of stupid and dangerous choices I knew this blizzard was my punishment and my awakening. In exchange for my safety, I promised to start going to church. 

God made good on the promise of safety and me and my little blue Civic returned to St. Louis unharmed.  So, on Sunday January 6th 2013 I attended my first church service at First Unitarian Church in St. Louis, MO.

At the end of a strange and confusing and challenging and glorious and eye-opening year I have attended 46 church services. 

46 out of 52 ain't too shabby. It's 88%. A B+ is a perfectly fine grade for a class that required me to get up early ON SUNDAYS. I'm fairly certain God agrees since I haven't been smited….yet. 

There were a number of people who thought this whole church thing was amazing. There were others who thought it was insane. There were others who thought it was disrespectful. There were others who thought it was dangerous. There were some who hoped I would find Jesus. There were some who prayed I wouldn't. There were some who hoped I'd write a book. There were some who hoped I'd stop writing. 

As always, I never really cared what others thought. I've always marched to the beat of my own glitter covered drum and this church thing was no exception. As  silly as it might sound to many of you, I knew this journey was ordained and protected by God so there was no need to worry. Everything would work out as it was supposed to. 

And it did. 

I danced with witches and communed with Episcopalians. I sat silently with Quakers and chanted with Buddhists. I've been evaluated by Scientologists and welcomed by Jehovahs Witnesses. I listened to Hebrew Scriptures and prayed in Latin. I drank sweet milk from my hand with Hindus and ate sacred pudding with Sikhs. I sung hymns with rural Methodists and with my childhood church family. I discussed portals to heaven with cult members and the forbidden fruits of gay sex with Baha'is. I cried tears in the presence of strangers at Metropolitan Community Church and I found peace in a Garden Chapel. I've been disgusted by Catholic priests and inspired by Apostolic Faith choirs. I've shaken hands with Mormons and Spiritualists and Mennonites and Hare Krishnas and Presbyterians. I survived a year of church. 

Regrettably, I was unable to pray with Muslims or engage in dark magic with Satanists or congregate with Zorastrians or experience a "spirit walk" with Peyotists or attend a Lutheran worship service. 

Muslim believers have one of their main gatherings on Fridays at 1:00 pm, which has been a difficult time for me to get away from work. Also, women generally aren't allowed in the main hall and are restricted to a separate room. The separate room thing was a big turn off, so I never made the effort. But I will visit a Muslim Mosque someday. Perhaps, disguised as a man. 

Satanists require you to fill out an application and become an approved member before ever attending. Membership also comes with a fee of $80-$200 depending on the church. Applicants must prove they can be an asset to the church - such as possessing dark magical powers - in order to be considered for membership. Satanism is not about human sacrifice or evil villanry, so be careful before you judge. I would have LOVED to attend a service, but I'm not interested in becoming a member. I have no dark magical powers and $80 is steep for one visit. 

Zoroastrians, the religion of Queen's frontman Freddy Mercury, don't regularly meet. At least not in St. Louis. There is a group here, but they only meet for special occasions like weddings and holidays. I felt strange about requesting to attend a sacred ceremony as a touristy visitor taking pictures and not knowing any of the customs. But if I ever get the chance, I'm taking it. 

Attending a Peyotism service would have been fantastic. Recently I read about a church in Arizona called Peyote Way where the logistics are worked out so you can safely and legally ingest the hallucinogenic cactus gruel and experience the spiritual awakening mind altering drugs are famous for.  This would have been a SPECTACULAR church visit and blog post. Though, my father probably wouldn't have spoken to me for a month or two. But Peyotism didn't work out.  You must become a registered member of the church to take a "spirit walk" and there's a member fee of $200 plus the cost of a trip to Arizona. Still, If I ever had the chance and the moolah, I'd go for it. I'm pretty sure some of my friends who weren't down for traditional church experiences would certainly be down for this one. 

No love lost on the Lutheran church service. I'm sure it's lovely, but I'm also sure it's fairly similar to the dozen or so other Protestant services I attended. Maybe not though, I'll be sure to work one in some time in the nearish future. 

Each church had a unique experience to offer and no two were the same. Yet somehow, they were all the same. There are too many similarities between all the places I went and the people I met and the scriptures I heard and the rituals I witnessed to separate them.  Here at the end of my journey I don't really remember the details of 46 individual church services, because they don't feel individual anymore. They feel collective. And I'm calling this collective experience "going to church" not "churches". 

Being a lover of lists and bold font I would be remiss if I didn't include a list in my final post. 

Sarah Goes To Church And Learns Some Stuff

            

1. Churches are full of people. 

When I was a kid I loved that little hand game "Here's the church. Here's the steeple. Open it up and see all the people."  Then later in life one of my biggest deterrents for attending church was the people who would be there. In my mind church people were a separate breed - a stupider breed - and affiliating with them was out of the question. It was around my fourth church visit that I realized that "church people" are actually just regular people. Just run-of-the-mill totally flawed but kind of wonderful regular people. It shocked me. I met tons of church goin' folk who didn't agree with my religious beliefs or political views and who smiled a little too much and hugged me despite my body language begging them to do otherwise, but somehow I liked them. I know there are evil people out there who use church and religion as their means of inflicting pain and hatred upon others. It's just, in my experience, these people are the exception and not the rule. I say, give (church) people a chance. 

2. No one owns the rights to God

God is not exclusive to one religion. Most churches were accepting of this idea. Others thought they held the exclusive rights to God - mostly conservative Christian congregations. But, I don't think that's the case. God is like the swing-set at public school. God's not yours. You don't own God. You can't control God or determine who accesses God and how. God is for everyone and there's room for everyone on the swing-set of God. You might have to sit next to a Hindu and a Baptist. Oh well. Get over it. Share dammit. 

3. You often find what you are looking for so be careful what you seek. 

If you go looking for danger you'll probably find it. If you seek self-destruction you'll soon find yourself destroyed. If you search for disaster it shall be yours. If you want help ask for it and it will come. If you desire a pleasant experience seek one out. If you long for peace then look for peace and see what happens. When I was sitting in meditation with Yogini it occurred to me that I chose this journey. I always felt like God had almost forced me into it, but really it was my soul (which is connected to God) crying out for a change. So, I started seeking something other than self-destruction and landed smack dab in the middle of self-discovery. 

4. Follow your heart. 

There are times you should listen to your friends and family. Like when you suddenly decide to develop a crystal meth addiction or want to adopt your 55th cat. Those are times when your decision skills have imploded and you are no longer allowed to make your own choices. There are other times when you need to ignore your friends and family, because they are clearly blind to your vision. When your friends try to convince you that you are too fat to be an orphan in the local production of Annie you need to ignore that shit and sing "Tomorrow" with all the gusto of a Broadway baby. When your family thinks it's disgusting that you want to wear sparkle tights because you are a boy and boys don't wear sparkle tights you need to pull on those sparkle tights with pride and shine like the top of the Chrysler building. Then when your family and friends think you are bonkers for dancing around the fire with a coven of witches you won't think twice about ignoring their wishes and having the time of your life bouncing like a raindrop around the flaming logs.  God gave you a heart (soul, conscience, spirit, whatever you wanna call it) for a reason. Listen to it.

5. Cherish the ones you love

During this whole blog thing there were some unexpected moments. I never expected to start weekly e-mails with my grandmother and develop a deeper and more meaningful connection with a person I've always felt somewhat distant from. I never expected to have people from all over the world follow my blog.  I never expected that many of my friends would show a great interest in my journey and insist on attending services along with me. Throughout this bizarre experience I've gotten messages of encouragement and support from strangers and friends I haven't spoken to in years. Every week I've been shocked that anyone other than my mother even read my post. Thank you. Thank you for sharing this journey with me. I owe you a beautifully decorated handmade thank you card. I'm not joking. Send me your address and I'll put one in mail for you. You can email me at sarahashleythomas@gmail.com. 

Going to church is one of the coolest things I've ever done. (That has to be among the top five strangest things I've ever said) 

This concludes the sometimes funny mildly exciting often cheesy writings of Sarah Goes To Church. It's been a pleasure. I wish you the best in all your adventures. Perhaps I'll see you around the blog some time in the near(ish) future. 

I miss you already. 

 

Sikh And Ye Shall Find

I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.
- Sri Guru Granth Sahib J



It's the last Sunday of the year. 


I crawled into bed with my brother and a can of honey roasted peanuts (the only food in the house). Snuggled up under the blankets we watched the last Sunday Morning of the year and delighted in the calm soothing voice of Charles Osgood. Jonathan was flying out that afternoon - returning home to Washington DC - and these were to be our final few moments. Though I offered, Jonathan wasn't interested in attending church with me that morning. Especially when I informed him of the turban requirement. 

We bid our farewells - gentle hugs and silly handwaves- and I left my brother to finish the journey I started twelve months ago. 

Dressed in a long floral skirt with black leggings underneath, a purple shirt, and a green floral headscarf with a navy pom pom lining I hoped in my little blue civic and drove off in search of my last adventure. 

But first I stopped at Starbucks. For the Starbucks on South Kingshighway makes THE best chai tea latte I've ever had. And nothing brightens my morning like the perfect chai. Sorry local coffeeshops. 

For the past three months I've been trying to make it to the Sihk Study Circle in St. Peters, MO and for three months my attempts have been thwarted. I had come up with a fantastic post title and couldn't justify not using it in my blog, but I needed to actually attend the place. So, come hell or high water today was going to be the day I made it to the Sikhs (pronounced Seeks). 

And it was. 


As I drove thorough a residential neighborhood in the rural area of St. Peters I was quite certain I was lost. But then, just over a hill and past the Church of Christ I saw them....giant shining gold domes. 

I sat in the car for a moment nervously organizing nothing. The holidays allowed no time for research so I was entering into the Gurdwara (what Sikhs call their place of worship) blind. I adjusted my headscarf, looked myself in the mirror and opened the car door. You know very well there is nothing to be nervous about. I walked through the glass doors and saw three men with colorful turbans on their heads and immediately sought their assistance. 

"Hello. This is my first first. Is there anything I should know?" 


A man in a purple shirt and matching purple turban quickly jumped up and greeted me. My nerves were calmed by the presence of my favorite color - purple. My new purple friend asked me to remove my shoes and wash my hands. So I did. Then he took me 
on a tour of EVERY SINGLE ROOM IN THE BUILDING. 

I'm not joking. 

We saw the kitchen where rugs lined the floors instead of tables. After Sunday service Sikh's share a meal called Langar and unless you are physically unable to do so you are expected to sit on the floor. In the kitchen I saw beautiful women in colorful sari's with matching headscarves. My tour continued with the bridal room, where women get ready for their wedding ceremonies. We then viewed the children's learning area - just a carpeted room without anything on the walls. My purple friend who never told me his name explained that this building had only been open for three months and still wasn't fully put together. We then viewed the adult learning spaces. After he opened to doors to the prayer room - a large expansive carpeted space lined with white sheets. At the front of the room was an alter with flashing Christmas lights. Inside the alter sat a bearded man sing-reading from a scroll in a language I didn't understand (Punjabi). I assumed our tour had come to an end, but nope, not quite. 

There are several Gurus at the Gurdwara who sing-read scripture in the prayer room from 8:00 am until 8:00 pm. These Gurus live at the Gurdwara and I was shown their living quarters as well as the laundry facilities available at the church. Then I was given a fascinating tour of the mechanical part of the Gurdwara including the room for the heaters and their storage of rock salt for icy days. The man in purple was very kind and gentle and answered all my questions. He was quick to explain the difference between Sikhs and Muslims and why I shouldn't confuse the two. 

I thanked my new friend in the purple turban and went into the prayer room. Service was supposed to start at 10:30 am and it was now 10:45. I found a place on the women's side of the floor and sat with my legs crossed. There was only one other person in the room. Confusing. The Guru sang-read the scripture and I watched people enter the room, bow in front of the alter and offer a small amount of cash money. Some came and sat on the sheets for a while and then shortly after left the room. At one point the Guru got up from his chair and started mixing something in a bowl. He then walked around to the four other people in the room and put little balls of soft warm orange dough in their hands. When it was my turn I took the dough and ate like the others had done. I immediately wanted to spit it out. It tasted disgusting - like sweet warm playdoh. Apparently it is a sacred pudding offered at the end of Sikh services. 

But service wasn't over. Service continued. I know this isn't the most exciting thing to read about - sitting, but that's all that happened. I sat. I read over the information my purple friend gave me and stared at the walls. I didn't think about much. I didn't reflect on much. I. Just. Sat. 

During my sitting I learned some interesting things about Sikhs. All Sikhs wear a bracelet to remind them of their connection to God. Sure enough every wrist in the place was bangled. Sikhs do not cut their hair or shave their beards and always carry a comb with them to keep their hair clean. Sikhs are peaceful people who believe in tolerating other religions. Sikhs are instructed to carry swords with them at all times, but not for violence, instead swords are used to fight injustice. I didn't see any swords.

Eventually it was time for music. The Guru sat on the raised platform and played the Vaja - a hand pump organ. The Guru sang. Someone else played drums. More and more people started filing in, bowing at the alter and sitting on the sheets.

Honestly, it wasn't terribly exciting. 

Though, at one point when a woman went to bow down at the alter her pants fell down and she exposed her entire ass. No one acknowledged it but EVERY person in the room saw that woman's hiney.  


My purple friend explained that at 1:00 they stopped for a vegetarian meal and that I was welcome and encouraged to stay. But at NOON I was tired of sitting in silence and my legs were going numb and I was ready to be done. 

I quietly gathered my belongings and left the prayer room that was now full of people. I thanked the man in the purple turban who so graciously showed me around and left the building. The moment I walked out the doors I swear I could hear Queen's iconic "We Are the Champions" playing. I felt like raising my fists to the sky Rocky Balboa style. 


I did it.  


My year of journeying was complete. 

I just sat in the car and smiled. I turned up the radio and rocked out. Holy crap I'm done. 

I did it. 

I don't have to research churches anymore.

Or wake up early on Sunday!

Hooray!!!!


I know this post wasn't terribly exciting. Well, sometimes church isn't very exciting. Sometimes it's boring and sometimes it's offensive and sometimes it's moving and sometimes it's inspiring and sometimes you meet kinds wonderful people and sometimes no one talks to you and sometimes you have brilliant things to write and sometimes all you have are the mundane details of the experience. Yup, that's just how it goes sometimes. But you'll never know until you go.


That doesn't mean I think everyone should embark on a church journey. God no. This isn't for everyone. But I think you should be careful how you judge "church people" without ever attending a service. I think you should be careful how you judge people in general and maybe just don't. Don't judge. Be open to new experiences and new ideas and new people and new religions.


But DO go on a journey. Maybe not a church journey or a pilgrimage to India, but a journey none the less. A journey of any kind. I highly recommend that. Seek and ye shall find all kinds of things.




****There is one more post. A final reflection of my year of church visits. SO, don't unsubscribe just yet. Unless you want to. In which case, thanks for reading along. It's been a thrill to share my journey with you. *****

The Magic of Christmas

When you're down and you're alone it's the train that brings you home
And your mother, brother, sister, father, waitin' at the door
It's so sweet, sweet

Makes me glad I'm only a stone's throw away
Makes me sad that others can't have it the same way
Oh, home
Home. 

Lyrics from "Home" by Dan Croll



After I left the church there was one night I not only consented to attend service with my family but I actually insisted on it - Christmas Eve Worship Service. 


I love Christmas. Love it. It's the most magical time of the year. Pretty twinkling lights. Sugar cookies covered in colorful sprinkles. Family gatherings. Presents beautifully wrapped waiting under the tree. Christmas carol sing-a-longs. Love Actually. Snuggling with loved ones by the fire drinking hot cocoa and reminiscing about the magic of Christmases past. Oh yes, Christmas is pure magic. 

When I left the church I had no trouble giving up Easter or Palm Sunday. Though I desperately missed the annual Ice Cream Social and Church Wide Picnic, I recognized that those celebrations had to be left behind. BUT there was no way I was giving up Christmas even though I no longer considered myself a Christian. 

Over the years I've struggled to explain why I didn't walk away from Christmas. I don't believe in Jesus as my personal savior, though I think he was a wonderful man who imparted fantastic wisdom we can all certainly benefit from. I don't believe Jesus was born on December 25th. I don't believe all the details around the story of Jesus' birth nor do I find the story particularly moving. 

So, why do I celebrate Christmas? 

Because there's presents? Because I have the week off of work? Because I desperately love when they turn off all the lights, light the candles and hundreds of voices sing Silent Night in beautiful harmony? Because of all the yummy food? Because it's fun? Because I get to buy a pretty new dress? 

Pretty much

But not exactly. 


I celebrate Christmas because I see how much joy Christmas activities bring. Have you ever sung carols at a Nursing Home and seen the faces of little old ladies playing bridge light up? Have you ever made gingerbread houses with a child and witnessed the glee icing covered fingers and peppermint covered houses can bring? Have you experienced the joy of giving someone something they really wanted or desperately needed? 

In my hometown of Springfield, MO there are signs everywhere that read "Jesus - The Reason for the Season" or "Happy Birthday Jesus" to remind you that Christmas isn't really about spreading cheer and spending time with loved ones. For you see heathens, Christmas is supposed to be about praising Jesus. 

I respectfully disagree. 



On the way to Christmas Eve service we were running a bit late. I causally joked that we could attend the 6:00 service at another church instead of the 5:30 service we were scurrying to make it to saying - Meh. If we miss the 5:30 show we'll just catch the 6:00 one. My father was unamused by this comment and quickly corrected me saying it wasn't a "show", it a serious event. It was only a joke and I didn't mean much by the use of the word "show", except I kinda did. I love attending Christmas Eve services, but I don't take them very seriously. 

My family and I attend Christmas Eve services every year. We dress in our finest - fancy new dresses, fur coats, patent leather heels, bow ties, velvet jackets, etc. Every year we are the best dressed people in the place. Hands down. We attend a new church almost every year desperately seeking out "the perfect Christmas Eve service". This year we attended Christ Episcopal Church in downtown Springfield, MO. Though it was a fine service in a lovely setting, our search for the perfect Christmas Eve service continues. 
 

As I sat through the service at Christ Episcopal I reflected on my Dad's comment. The woman next to me was hellbent on offering her voice up to Jesus as a birthday gift singing loudly and out of tune. It's the thought that counts, right? I listened to the preacher person (I can't remember what they are called in the Episcopal church, but don't tell me because I don't care) speak about Jesus being the greatest Christmas gift, because Jesus had the power to bring people out of the darkness. We sang hymns and communion was offered though my family declined. I'm not really down with the whole everyone drinking out of one cup thing. Perhaps one of the worst Christmas gifts is the gift of influenza. 

Sitting on the hard wooden pew I tried to take the service seriously, but I wasn't sure what that meant. I was being quiet and respectful. I sang the songs. I paid attention. Still, I felt no connection to God in the moment. I couldn't help it. I felt bored and my ass was going numb. 

Then I looked at my brother sitting next to my Dad and it hit me. 

Not everyone finds God at church or in the birth story of Jesus, though those are perfectly respectable places to find God. 

But that's not where I find God. At least, not that night. 


I found my connection to God in being surrounded by my family. Attending Christmas Eve services together has been a family tradition since I was a child. Though I don't take the service very seriously, I most certainly take the ritual of attending service seriously. Sitting in the car on the way home with my beautifully dressed family I felt love and peace - the presence of God. 

After church we gather around the fancy dining room table, not the everyday kitchen nook one, and share a delicious meal of Italian shells along with wine and laughter and good conversation. It's formal but comfortable. It's simple but meaningful. Then we open presents, sharing the gifts we carefully selected for each other with joy. 

Christmas isn't limited to celebrating the birth of Jesus, though I do recognize his part in the day. I think if we focus solely on Jesus we'd be missing a lot. Christmas is about love. That was God's greatest gift.

Love. Love. Love. 

Now, that's something to take seriously. 



As I was sitting with my family opening presents and eating yet another Christmas cookie I felt lucky. My family isn't perfect. We've had a few screaming arguments in our day with slamming doors, harsh words and salty tears. But such moments are few and far between and are always always always followed with apologies and hugs and "I love you".

My loving parents

I first knew about God's unconditional love because my family modeled it for me.

My loving (and gorgeous) brother

It makes me sad that others can't have it the same way.


Perhaps that's why God isn't just present at church or in the warmth of your family, because some people can't find God there. This is why God has to be everywhere - to be accessible to everyone.


I know some may think it's too early for wine at 8:00 am (CST). Jesus drank wine for breakfast, but whatever. Pull out some crackers then cause here comes some cheese...


Seek God and you'll find God.

Or if you aren't big on the whole "God" thing...

Seek love and you'll find love.

Same thing.



May your eyes be opened to the love that surrounds you. Merry late Christmas.

My Childhood Church

You can never go home. Right?

At some point home becomes a distant memory - a moment in the past that can never be recreated. People move. Places change. Memories fade. You can't revisit the past, because the past no longer exists.

Unless you grew up in Springfield, MO.


Like I did.


People leave Springfield, but many stay. At least once every few years everyone returns - usually around the holidays or to bring their significant others or children to Silver Dollar City.

The town has changed. Kinda. Not really. Git n Go became Kum and Go - they still sell the standard gas station fare with the added horror/humor of the worst business name ever. Galloway Station is now Galloway Grill after a controversial and upsetting change of ownership, but it's essentially the exact same bar with the exact same decor and the exact same booze selection and the exact same atmosphere that breeds both bad choices and hella good times. Around fifty churches have built new structures or changed their name to something trendy like "The Flock" or "The Forrest" or "The Feeling" but it's still your typical Midwestern conservative Christian belief system just with a drummer and a coffee bar.

Memories. Springfield is full of hundreds of thousands of unfading memories. I've decided this must have something to do with the water.  People from Springfield have superhuman memory retaining ability until around their sixtieth year of life. There isn't a street in Springfield without a memory on it. Driving to church down Bennett, an insignificant side street, was like flipping through a yearbook. There resides my Elementary School where I was Student of the Month, count em, THREE times. The strange place we took our lawnmowers to get fixed. The magic arching tree I walked under on my way home from school that I liked to pretend had special dark powers. The house of Ben Carney - the god of my idolatry since third grade. The parking lot where my Nana pulled over and made us get out of the car so she could spank us and we all laughed so hard we nearly puked. The apartment complex we lived in until our dreamhouse was built where my Mom helped me practice for auditions tapping out tunes on our battery operated keyboard. The corner my dear friend Lacey peed on because she couldn't hold it a second longer even though we were a block away from our house.

These memories are so alive I can see them and feel them and smell them and taste them. It's overwhelming and quite frankly exhausting but at the same time comforting and heart warming.  That's Springfield in a nutshell. That's home in a nutshell.




I knew it was time to revisit the past. It was time to visit the church I grew up in - University Heights Baptist Church.

I woke up feeling nostalgic. Sitting on the recently redone floor in my mom's art studio which used to be my baby brother's bedroom I carefully applied make-up to my face while viewing The Muppet Christmas Carol on the tiny flat screen. Scrooge, brilliantly played by Michael Cain, slowly approached his old schoolhouse with bewilderment and joy. I knew I was soon headed for a similar experience - revisiting a past I turned my back on during a journey of reconnection.

Pulling into the church parking lot, much like Scrooge at his childhood schoolhouse, I was conscious of a thousand odors, each one connected with a thousand thoughts and hopes and joys and cares long, long forgotten. More memories returned - youth group football games in the field, Vacation Bible School lessons in a blue heat-box of a tent, and the night I slept in the parking lot after attending a party when my parents thought I was at a sleepover with girlfriends. Memories. 

I walked through the doors I had walked through hundreds of times before as a precocious hell-raising child, a youth group president, a nursery worker, Vacation Bible School teacher, chime ringer, and follower of Jesus. This time I walked through the doors as a guest - a guest in a strange familiar land.

Unnoticed I found a seat on the aisle. People turned to look at me, but no one recognized me at first. Still fighting off a nasty cold I was armed with a thermos of hot tea, a bag of cough drops and a wad of tissues. I took off my coat and settled in on the burgundy velvet pew cushion. I looked up at the stained glass Jesus and lambs window I used to admire in my childhood and the rich wood carvings at the front of the sanctuary. I grew up in a beautiful church.

When we were asked to stand and greet our neighbor, something we NEVER did when I attended in my youth, I declined to shake hands with the friendly silver-haired ladies who walked over to greet the young stranger sneezing alone in her pew. I wasn't there to spread illness. They greeted me as if it was my first ever visit and I didn't bother correcting them. I wanted to be an anonymous stranger revisiting her past in silence. And I was - at least during the service.

Other than the handshaking at the beginning, very little else had changed at UHBC. The choir entered in the same bright royal blue robes they wore fifteen years ago. Me and the hundred plus people around me sang hymns with bright cheerful voices. We prayed. We gave money. The choir sang and we offered our reverent silence in return for their beautiful singing. The children came down for the children's sermons I attended during my young years and I couldn't help but wonder how many of them would be like Andrew, a fellow youth grouper from way back, who was at church that morning with his wife and daughter lighting the Advent candles and how many of those children would turn out like me - choosing a non-church path for their adulthood.

As service continued I sat soaked in memories - passing notes with my friends during the sermon, getting baptized in the giant Jesus tub, sneaking in the sanctuary and making out with my boyfriend under the pews during Wednesday night activities,  waiting for my Nana after choir rehearsal, playing hide and go seek in the sanctuary during youth group lock ins....so many memories.

Drapped in nostalgia I found myself playing MASH as the sermon carried on - a game my friends and I always played when the sermons got too boring.

Just like in my youth, I have no idea what Sunday's sermon was about. BUT I married Ryan Gosling and we live in a shack in St. Louis with our 48 children.


As the service was concluding I could see children planning their exit strategy for the refreshment table just as I once did. Sure enough the second the organist played the closing song little feet were dodging gray hair and walking canes to get to the table of donuts and lemonade drink.

I too was anxious to get to the refreshment table as I desperately wanted to see if those red and yellow lemonade drinks were still in use. I felt immediately warm inside when I saw they indeed were.

lemonade drink.

However, my journey to the refreshment table wasn't the mad dash I was use to as a child, because I was stopped by several faces who had finally recognized me.


First up was Mary Jo, the grandmother of one of best church friends Alicia. Her face lit up when she recognized me in a way that filled my heart with joy. She threw her arms around me and called me "My Sarah".

John and Cathy, two of my family's closest friends who I see quite often and know about my church journey, came over to say hello and offer hugs and "Merry Christmas".

Slowly others started to recognize me and offered hugs and hellos. A girl I was never very kind to during my youth group years because it took me a very long time to recognize that differences are what make people interesting and should be celebrated instead of shamed came up and greeted me with warmth and friendship. I didn't know how to apologize for being a closed minded self-righteous idiot as a child and it didn't seem like the right moment to try so I smiled and asked her about her life and treated her with the respect I should have always treated her with and carried on greeting the members of my childhood church family.

the prayer room. 

Many people were confused and hurt when I left the church. People were worried about me. There were rumors that I was a pregnant drug addict atheist lesbian. No one could understand why I would leave the church after being such a celebrated member of the family unless I had fallen into Satan's grasp. I couldn't deal with their questions and closed-minded puzzled looks. I wrote them all off as stupid and intolerant and cut off all church relationships without a word.

You would have never known this on Sunday. It was like visiting family - a family that didn't always approve of your choices, but loved you no matter what. A family that understood I was just there for a brief visit and wouldn't be moving back in.


After donuts and lemonade drink and a quick catch up I decided to take a tour of the church.

Still there. Just as I remember, except the key is in plain view. 

I found the old art supply closet I used to break in to for yarn-bombing supplies. I had to walk in and see what there was to offer.

Pretty nice haul UHBC. I could do a lot of damage with this. 

I walked down the hall of classrooms. The old choir room where we would sing:

I AM A C
I AM A C-H
I AM A C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N


Further down the hall I passed the classroom where my Nana would lead us in GAs and remembered all the times I shared with my friends and grandmother in that small space.

It looks really different now. 

The giant painting of Jesus that always kind of freaked me out.

Then, after taking it all in and spending an hour or so with the memories of my days as a regular church attender, I left.

Such pretty wood doors.

There's a reason Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past, because remembering where you've been and who you've been is not only important but often very helpful.



When I was sixteen I left the church in anger and confusion and fifteen years later I returned in love and understanding.


My recent beliefs about church and church people have been based on my experience of LEAVING the church until this year of church visits. Returning to UHBC felt good because I needed to remember all the things I loved about church and all the reasons it became so important to me and the amazing people I got to know during the many years I attended.

I grew up in a church. Then, this year, during this journey, I once again grew up in a church - just lots of different ones.


I see things through a different lens now. A bigger open-minded less angry less judgmental more inclusive lens. And that's thanks to church - the churches I've visited recently and the church of my childhood- University Heights Baptist Church.

Two more church visits left. Just. Two.