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.

This Week Has Been Hell: A Meditation

Greetings from Hell.


I should have known hell wouldn't be the burning inferno the Christian religion always falsely sacred people into thinking it was. Nope, hell is freezing. And no matter how many layers of blankets or wool socks or colorful gloves you have you cannot escape the painful piercing cold of hell.

It's awful.


Some people believe that heaven and hell are different for everyone - based on the person and their beliefs.

So, Sarah Goes To Heaven would look like.... a slightly more colorful version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory but on a cruise ship that will never ever sink or breakdown full of fun, interesting, exceptionally polite and kind people who love to dance and sing and drink. Naturally the ship would have an open bar and a spa/salon that never closes. We would sail around traveling to exotic locations whilst reading or sun bathing or swimming in the chocolate fountain. I would have both ALL the alone time I want and ALL the company I want. Also, Ryan Gosling and Joseph Gordon Levitt would tend bar and perform nightly Cabarets.


Yeah, that sounds quite nice. I'd like to go to there. Right now.


Sarah Goes To Hell would look like....this week. It would be cold. The roads would be covered in ice and snow and horrible stupid drivers. I would have constant annoying and/or painful ailments that altered my appearance in an unpleasant way. I would have to go to a doctor or hospital or medical professional of some kind EVERY SINGLE DAY. My lips and skin would always be dry and chapped. The only things to eat would be expired Kraft American cheese slices and instant peach oatmeal (the horror!). All the movies playing at the theatres would be tear-jerkers, but would masquerade as comedies - making you laugh for the first 5 minutes, but then hitting you with 115 minutes of pure tragedy torture. All the children everywhere in the world no matter where I was would be screaming and covered in snot. Then after a day of snow and doctors and bad food and snotty children I would go home to my shithole apartment where my landlord had torn down the shower wall but still not fixed it.



Ugh. Today is rough. This week has been R-O-U-G-H rough. I didn't go to church on Sunday. Fuck church. FUCK IT RIGHT IN THE STEEPLE.


Funny thing though...

As all this shit was going down in my life, kinda scary shit, I desperately wanted to be at church. I found myself scrambling through webpages and meet-up groups trying to find an appropriate midweek service. Not because of the blog or my quest to attend church every week but just because over the past 12 months I've found that church can be quite peaceful and quite healing and quite helpful in a way that sitting at home or in a bar or in a movie theatre can't compare to.


So though I was sleep deprived and sick and sad and confused and worried about whatever the fuck was going on with the lump in my jaw and slightly nauseous from stress-eating I knew that I had to make it to church AT SOME POINT THIS WEEK.


If there's anything I learned from watching hours and hours of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? with my baby brother who was obsessed with show as a young child (so much so that for Christmas he asked Santa for a limo ride with Reggis Philbin) it's that when you aren't sure what to do - phone a friend. So, that's what I did. But not exactly a "friend" as much as someone I met while drunkenly randomly celebrating Cinco de Mayo in November who casually mentioned she attended a Thursday meditation group I might be interested in.  And not exactly "phoned". I facebooked her. Remember when we used phones to call people? That was silly.


Thursday Night. Study of Cosmic Intelligence with Yogini. 7:00. Little wooden cabin looking house in St. Louis.




Please enter.


The red door was cracked open so I walked through and entered a stranger's house. The front room was empty. The house was warm and calming filled with Christmas lights in colors I'd never seen - unique shades of orange and yellow and green and blue. I walked cautiously through the house until I heard the gentle sounds of a woman speaking. There in the back was a room filled with warmth and color and blankets and pillows and a small brown skinned woman in a turquoise and golden yellow sari named Yogini.

No one was wearing shoes so I took off mine and tucked them away with all the coats and belongings resting the room adjacent to the sanctuary. There were wooden benches lining the walls covered with pillows and soft blankets. I snuggled up next to a purple blanket and settled in for the experience. There were a few other people there, some sitting on the floor and others on the benches. No one acknowledged my presence.

Then Yogini looked up at me and welcomed me asking my name and my meditation style. I quietly said that though I had practiced many different styles there wasn't one that spoke to me. She offered to do a guided meditation for the service. I thanked her and closed my eyes.


Then....

I meditated.

Thoughts came and thoughts went. I didn't mind. I turned my palms up in a humble request for peace - peace that I needed so badly. Yogini's guided meditation was amazing. Not because anything she said was powerful or moving - I don't remember anything she said. It was amazing because of her energy and the environment our collective energy created. I felt safe and free and full of peace. I let go and for 30 wonderful minutes nothing existed but me. This was my first ever "successful" meditation. "Successful" being defined as the first time I didn't want to set something or someone on fire after it was over.


We opened our eyes slowly and quietly.


Then we had a discussion. A strange unusual discussion.


There was one topic.  WHY SATSANG ?

Satsang is an assembly of persons who listen to, talk about, and assimilate the truth. Satsang, in my mind, is a different word for church.


Why were we there? What were we doing? Why satsang? Why church?


The room fell silent. She wasn't going to give us the answer, because it wasn't her answer to give. I have never so desperately wanted someone to deliver a boring sermon. Listening to someone else babble about things they don't know is so much less terrifying than me having to babble about things I don't know.

A few people were brave enough to say something.

"I'm here to for the truth"
"I'm here for insight"
"I'm here to learn"
"I'm here to grow"

In my mind I was thinking I'm here to know more about myself  but was too scared to say it out loud because I was too afraid my answer was wrong or stupid or lacked depth or wisdom.

But that's why I was there. That's what I've been doing all this time - trying to know more about myself.


Yogini would respond to people's answers with more questions. Why do you think that? What makes you say that? How have you experienced that? There was never a conclusion.


I said nothing during the discussion, except once.


Yogini picked up a bouquet of flowers and said, "I do not see these flowers. Does anyone not understand that statement?"

No one moved. I raised my hand, "I don't understand"

She smiled and said, "You are the only honest person here."

Then she explained looking at me the whole time.

I cannot see these flowers. I did not see the soil they grew in or the rain that watered them. I do not know what they experienced in the field. I do not know who cut them down or boxed them up. I never saw the truck that brought them to the store or the clerk that set them on the shelf. I can only use my eyes to view these flowers right here in this current moment, but I do not see them.

She smiled sweetly at me and knew that I not only understood what she was saying but greatly appreciated her beautiful explanation.



I spent the rest of the time soaking up all I could from the experience, but I don't have much more to share with you. Because I experienced everything through my own lens. You may have taken something totally different away from the service had you attended instead of me.


As I walked down the etched stone steps and down the snowy sidewalk to my car I had a revelation. I understood what this journey was about and why this visit was saved for this specific day.


You'll notice there are no pictures in this blog. There was no point. You could visually view the image with your eyes but you wouldn't be able to see it. So, I didn't bother.



All further insights from this post will be shared in my final reflections.


Until then....

Yee Haw: The Cowboy Church Experience

I've found myself in some pretty strange places....


A tattoo parlor in Ava, MO where a gray haired hippie offered to tattoo an armadillo on my ass for free.
Taking a shower with six other people who were also covered in chocolate pudding.
A hostel in the Red Light District in Amsterdam where there were no lights or shower curtains and eight leering men.
Hanging out in my living room with the cast of STOMP.
The house of a psychic drag queen who read my fortune.
Sleeping (errr...passed out) in front of a Florence hotel because I couldn't figure out how to open the fancy wooden door.
A bonfire party in the country where a man with a shotgun scared everyone off the premises but allowed me and my friends to stay though we were complete strangers.



But the strangest place I've ever found myself...


Church.



I've always enjoyed an adventure. I think it's our job to get as much from this life as we possibly can. I want to see and touch and taste and smell and explore EVERYTHING - minus a handful of things like meth and dog-fighting and other things I find repulsive and a waste of our precious time. When someone offers me cake I have a hard time justifying a "no" answer. I hear in my mind Carpe Confection! Cake today, gone tomorrow. And suddenly my mouth and fingers are covered in frosting and people are looking at me strange and small children are crying and the cake is mysteriously gone though none of the plates or forks have been used.

Yeah, I've eaten a whole cake by myself before AND I'D DO IT AGAIN. What's it to ya?


Life is like cake - and I want to eat it all.

Even the crumbs. Probably gonna lick the plate.



I'm nearing the end of my church journey, but I'm still hungry for more. I have an endless appetite for adventure (and food). I could spend my life exploring churches and still not see them all. That's amazing to me. If I live to be one hundred years old and attend church every Sunday from now until I die I would still only make it to 3,588 churches. There are an estimated 3.7 million Christian congregations in the world - just Christian.  Even if I attended church every single day I still wouldn't come close to putting a dent in that number.


There is so much to do in this world. It's fantastic.


With so much to see and do in the world I couldn't justify missing out on another church adventure.


Springfield is full of interesting religious opportunities, but there was one I couldn't pass up...

COWBOY CHURCH. Yee haw!  

I wore my cowgirl boots.

I was fairly certain this was the one church I could convince my friend Hannah to attend with me, because the dress code was right up her alley. "I'm wearing jeans" she said with certainty. "And I'm probably going to wear the flannel I've been wearing all weekend" she continued. "Hannah. It's Cowboy Church. That's what EVERYONE is going to be wearing."


And I wasn't wrong.

When we pulled up to the Springfield Livestock Marketing Center there were ladies with rhinestoned jeans and men with ten gallon hats. Mud splattered trucks and SUVs covered the parking lot. Hannah and I stood among the cars taking in the scenery. But we didn't stand there long. Adventure was calling us....kinda....it was mooing at us.




We passed groups of cowboy boot clad friends chatting over coffee and donuts and followed the signs to the auction area - where the service was being held. We turned a corner and were greeted by the sight of risers filled with people and the overwhelming smell of cow. In front of the cow gates - where cows were weighed and auctioned - a group of people were playing guitars and singing bluegrass. Like almost every Sunday, I felt like I'd stepped into an alternate universe.

Thick tall men with cream colored cowboy hats and bright golden belt buckles escorted their petite bible carrying wives to their seats. The room was loud with music and chatter punctuated with the smells of hay and dirt and poop and heifer.


I've never been to a hoedown, but minus the absence of pie and dancing and moonshine, it was exactly what I imagine a hoedown would be like - good music, country company, traditional values and long corny hillbilly stories with zany punch lines.

A man in a plaid shirt and elastic wasted jeans welcomed us to service and then he and the band broke out in song. The music was amazing. There's something Bluegrass music. Something powerful. Something magical. It's fun and uplifting and danceable but still carries deep thought-provoking lyrics that touch the soul. Now I love intense chorale numbers with rows of people in matching armless robes lifting their voices up to the heavens in quiet harmony BUT I think if Jesus were to be in a band it'd be a Bluegrass one.

After we got done singing we greeted our neighbors with handshakes and a "howdy". I got slightly dizzy from turning a 360 to shake and greet all the hands around me. Everyone was friendly, but not overly friendly. I like that.

We listened to some announcements and heard some special music - more Bluegrass, hooray! We sang "Happy Birthday" to all the birthday peeps and "Happy Anniversary" to all the
married peeps. I used the time to throughly read the "Cow Pregnancy Chart" and see when the heifer
holiday specials were coming up. In the quiet between announcements you could hear faint mooing coming from the stocks behind the auction room. There was a little window just at my eye level where I could see cow tails moving.


Then it was time for the sermon...


So, I've heard quite a few sermons by now and they are almost always my least favorite part of the service. Sermons remind me a lot of my days in speech and debate where my coach would throw me into Extemporaneous Speaking for shits and giggles. You and your massive file folder of research, this was before laptops and smartphones, would go into a room and you would draw a topic from a jar. It was usually a social topic - capital punishment, education reform, etc. Then you were given a short period of time to come up with a five minute speech. Sitting through these speeches was a nightmare. Stuffy uptight teens in hideous neckties and ill-fitting navy blue suits would ramble on about nothing but pretend like they knew everything. They would make shit up, say random unrelated things, - anything to fill the time and get a decent score.

Preaching is basically the same. You've got your topic. You've got your research - The Bible, with verses that may or may not be related to the topic. Then you've got a whole lot of BSing to fill in the holes.

Now, this isn't true of ALL pastors, preachers, spiritual leaders, etc. I've heard some truly motivating sermons in my time. But most of the time I sit through thirty minutes of globiddyglook.

I sat through globiddyglook on Sunday. Again.

Hannah and I had a hard time following the sermon. There was something about being grateful that Jesus died for your sins, we are all washed in the blood, it's okay if you didn't marry who you wanted here because you can marry up in heaven, this life isn't the important part - the next life is.


This life is hard. I get that. There's disease and heartbreak and divorce and disappointment and weight gain and animal cruelty. It's rough. Imagining a magical place where there is no pain and no sadness and no calories sounds pretty fantastic...kinda.

But what's the point?

I'm the weird girl who not only thinks heaven isn't a real place but thinks it wouldn't be all that heavenly.

I can't imagine that after one lifetime on Earth I would be okay with spending an eternity in a rocking chair sipping honey tea on God's front porch. I would get too antsy, kinda like how I felt during Scotty's sermon. Ugh, that just sounds so boring. I want to always be learning, always be growing, always be changing
and one day when I've soaked up all the world has to offer I want to be shot into the sky to join the stars and twinkle with unconscious satisfaction.

That was silly. Forgive me, I've had some wine. And I'm sick. This might all be nonsense. I don't care. Like at all.


I have to believe that God in all of God's infinite wisdom didn't create the Earth as a waiting room for
heaven. That seems wasteful. This world is too beautiful for that. We're here for a reason. I believe we should make the most of it. Which doesn't necessarily mean eating a whole cake every day, because in the morning your tummy is going to hurt so bad that you will be begging strangers for a sprite and some saltines. I've been there.


Guess how they conclude services at Sac River Cowboy Church.


Guess.






They sing Happy Trails.

Precious.



Happy trails to you my friends. Until we meet again....

One More Day

Hey y'all.

I've not been feeling well....

I've acquired a new friend. His name is Lumpy.

Lumpy is currently residing in my jaw.

Apparently he really likes it there.

I'm really really hoping that Lumpy just needs some quality time with me and then he'll be on his way, because so far meds aren't booting him out.

So, I'm taking the day off tomorrow to spend time with him.

We are going to write my blog together, because I haven't been able to concentrate with Lumpy constantly nagging at me.

Hopefully, I'll be able to post tomorrow.

Because I really really want to share my latest church visit with you.

I just need a little more time.

I'm sure you understand.

We've all had annoying houseguests.

Until we meet again...