I grew up in two places: my family’s home in Rolla, Missouri,
View from my front porch during summer storm.
and my best friend Jennifer’s family’s home, 10 miles south of town:
The back forty. Photo courtesy of Jennifer Bryant.
I often spent weekends out here with Jenn. We ran wild across her property all day, played Mario Cart or watched Pauly Shore movies and ate pizza and queso dip all night. Come Sunday morning, Jennifer’s mom, Barb, would drive us into town to drop me off. I remember one such morning specifically, Barb put an Arlo Guthrie tape on her Jeep stereo, and said it was our substitute for church that day. (My memory says the specific song playing was “Gabriel’s Mother’s Hiway Ballad #16 Blues,” but it mightn’t have been Arlo, at all.)
In the quiet drive that morning across the rolling hills of the Missouri Ozarks, listening to the troubled but hopeful song, out of the mouth of a long-haired hippie who in the same breath could sing about smuggling hash into Los Angeles, I think I first realized the power of different forms of worship and prayer. It can happen in many places and many ways, and doesn’t necessarily have to occur in a church setting. I have since come to broaden my idea of “going to church” to include hiking through the box canyon at Vedauwoo, silently meditating, enjoying God’s creation, being in His presence; or reading poetry in a quiet room; or tending to His creation; or really any time in which I can “be still and know that He is God.”
I remembered this today when I pulled up outside St. Matthew’s Episcopal in Laramie, excited to go to my church for the first time in a few months. The red doors were shut and locked. Two college women stood near the sign in the churchyard, reading a bulletin that announced eucharist that morning would be held at St. Alban’s Chapel, an outdoor worship space in the Snowy Range. We would not make the service, as St. Alban’s is a good 30-minute drive. Disappointed, I drove away, hoping to catch the United Church of Christ’s service, only to find it started thirty minutes prior. I settled for my favorite downtown coffee shop, and a serendipitous meeting with two good friends.
I’m still bummed about missing the St. Alban’s service, which would have undoubtedly been beautiful and moving. I’m just trying to remind myself: I missed eucharist today. But I didn’t necessarily miss church.
Happy Sunday.
