A Meditation on Churchgoing

I have a friend who calls herself "very spiritual" and says she has "a close relationship with God." She likes to watch Ultimate Fighting Challenge on TV. She hasn't gone to church since her childhood; she says she doesn't think it's necessary. "What's the point of sitting in a room with a bunch of people and reciting a bunch of words?" she says. Still, every year she sends me a Christmas card with a Bible verse on the front.

I have a friend who's an atheist, who calls Christianity "a big fairy tale." He once asked me how it was possible that I could believe in God when "you're such a no-bullshit person in the rest of your life." He's a very kind and generous person--he once surprised a large group of us by picking up the check at lunch--and, after a tour of duty in Vietnam, he's opposed to war on principle. He tells me that he believes the Gospel is generally right; he just doesn't believe in an afterlife or a supreme being, the resurrection or the second coming.

I grew up in a family that went to church every Sunday simply because it was Sunday. If we missed a week, it was either because my mother was sick or the whole family was on vacation. My parents' church was in the older part of town and didn't have a strong youth program--it never felt like a place I wanted to be. Certainly it wasn't a space that allowed for exploration or questioning, and neither of my parents had the vocabulary for discussing questions of theology. The best my mom could do was repeat something that had once been said to her. When I asked her why people needed to go to church, she told me "Because God is our shepherd and we are his flock." For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what that had to do with church.

So going to church on a regular basis didn't bring me closer to God. In fact, it drove me away from church (and, in large part, away from God) for twenty years. I didn't see the point of spending time in a place that required people to be as easily led as sheep; I thought I was too smart for that. Instead, I spent those years looking for answers in other places. But none of those answers were adequate, either.

I tell people I started going to church again because my daughter once looked at a nativity scene and asked me "Who are those people? What are they doing?" That's partly true: she did say those things in response to the nativity. But I started going to church again because something inside me--call it my heart, call it my soul--heard those questions and thought "She deserves to have some answers." And I knew any answers I could offer would make sense to me but be as limited as the ones my mother had offered, and would probably sound just as meaningless to my daughter's ears.

So I started taking my kids to church. They were small enough that they don't remember a time before we started going; church is just a part of our routine now. We go more often than we don't, but we take the occasional Sunday off when we're all just too tired to think about getting dressed and leaving the house.

When my kids ask questions about God or faith, I begin my response with "Well, I think . . . " I don't pretend I have the answers: I tell them to look in the Bible, talk to the pastor, talk to God. Figure it out. When my daughter comes home from her Confirmation class and tells me that she disagrees with something the pastor said, I ask her questions about her opinion, help her clarify what she believes and why. I don't tell her she's wrong, or that Pastor knows best and she should listen to him because of course he's right.

I go to church now because it's a place for thinking. It's a quiet space in the middle of a loud, chaotic week, a place to remember who I am and who I want to be. It's a place to listen more than talk, a place where the still, small voice can be heard. In those moments of silence, I can see whether all the pieces of my life fit together or whether I'm acting in a way that's inconsistent with what I claim to believe. I know I'm forgiven, no matter what I do, but I also know there's merit in trying to do the best I can.

I go to church because I need God to remind me, on a regular basis, not to be complacent with things as they are. The world is broken, and I need to keep working to heal that divide if only because I can. Because I've been given the gifts of good health, a clear mind, and an articulate voice. Because what I have doesn't belong to me, isn't what I've earned. It certainly isn't what I deserve. Because God is love, and love in action is the only way to change the world.

Chaos Theory

My theory is that when everything seems to be in order, you're looking at the flip side of chaos. Which means that chaos is right around the corner.

I came home from campus today at 3:00. The plan was to have a snack, get the mail, let my son grab a snack when his bus dropped him off at 3:30, then take him to the orthodontist at 4:00. But when I got home, I saw the fencing company had sent out a crew to replace our fence today. We'd been hoping they'd come this week, so I was happy enough to see them--just surprised, because we'd been told they would call and give us notice a day ahead of time.

I walked around the back of the house to let them know I was home--no one there. Hmm. So I went inside, knowing the animals would be a little freaked out by the strangers in the yard. Sure enough, both the dog and the cat were sitting squarely in front of the door, looking worried, wearing their Oh my God there's a stranger in the yard Mom what do we do there's a stranger in the yard Mom I don't know if you've noticed there's a stranger in the yard but oh my God Mom there's a stranger in the yard! faces. I fed Miss Kitty and put Hailey on a leash, thinking I'd take her out the front door and down to the mailbox while I gathered the mail.

3:02 When I walked out the front door, I was met with two more worried-looking faces: the two guys from the fencing crew were standing next a gushing pipe just to side of our front porch. I tried to figure out what had happened, but neither of them spoke much English. It looked like the pipe (a PVC pipe that runs along the outside of our house) had just snapped clean in two. I figured they'd hit it with one of the fence boards. I did manage to determine that they'd tried to turn off the main water valve at the street, though that didn't appear to have done much good. Meanwhile Hailey, terribly excited by the presence of strangers, was barking her head off. So I took her back inside, called my husband at work, left him a slightly panicked message, and called the plumbing company to ask if they could come right away.

3:10 My daughter Jordan called. "Did you pick up Andy at school today?" No, why? "Because he's not on the bus." Well. Excellent. I tried to call him on his cell phone, but Andy wasn't answering. The phone beeped to let me know I had a call on the other line. My husband, Mike, finally back in his office after class. I brought him up to speed and he reminded me that we'd bought a tool to turn off the water at the street (during another moment of plumbing-induced chaos.) I went back out to the water meter and one of the fencing guys was quick to help me figure out how to turn the cut-off valve. Then I told Mike I thought I'd have to call the orthodontist and tell them we couldn't make it today. But Mike didn't want Andy to have to reschedule; he wanted him to go ahead and get his retainers today. So he said he'd come home and meet the plumber while I went to the orthodontist. It's a half-hour commute through downtown from his office to our house, so coming home in the middle of the day is a major headache. Plus, his graduate class met for the first time tonight, and he'd planned to use those late afternoon hours to prepare for class. I felt bad that he had to come home, but I didn't know what else to do.

3:20 Andy called right after I got off the phone with Mike. We agreed that he'd sit in front of the school until I could get there to pick him up. Then I called the plumbing company back, to tell them I had to leave for about 20 minutes. They said they'd send a crew to meet me at the house when I got back.

3:30 The bus dropped Jordan at the corner. I briefed her on what was happening, so she could show the plumbers where the problem was in case they arrived before I did. Then I left to pick up Andy.

3:45 Back home with Andy, but no plumber. I called Mike--still en route. I told Andy to have a snack, then told him to brush his teeth, then remembered we had no water.

3:50 The plumbers arrived. They couldn't figure out where the broken pipe was coming from or what it was leading to. "I've never seen anything like this before," one of them said, and the other could only shake his head at the absurdity of our plumbing.

3:55 Andy and I left for the orthodontist; Mike stayed behind to deal with the plumbers.

By the time I got back home, the plumbers had finished their work and told Mike what we really needed was a complete overhaul of our pipes--apparently, they're the creation of "some handyman who thought he knew what he was doing" when he removed a water softener and re-routed the pipes that supply our house. Mike and I talked about whether to call the fencing company and tell them what had happened. On the one hand, we didn't think we should have to pay the plumbing bill; on the other, if the company did agree to pay the bill, we figured they'd take it out of the workers' pay for the day. That, or they'd just fire the guys for being careless. In the end, we decided to just let it go. We aren't rolling in money, by any means, but I'm fairly certain we can cover that unexpected bill more easily than two guys who build fences for a living. (Maybe I'll change my mind about that when I see our water bill for next month.)

Mike went back to campus for his evening class. The fencing guys stayed until 7:00, nailing up fence boards in the dark--and this is one of those actually cold evenings we get in January, when working outside in the dark wouldn't be pleasant at all. Obviously, though, they lost quite a bit of time worrying over the gushing pipe and still needed to finish this job on time so they could start on another project on schedule tomorrow.

After they'd gone, the kids and I went to the grocery store. The first thing I put in my cart was a six pack of Shiner beer, which made my daughter laugh.

"Hard day?" she said.

Indeed.

All In

I'm wondering what became of my office while I was gone. Books I once owned (and used virtually every semester) have disappeared. I do not suspect theft. I suspect I loaned them out, for reasons that now escape me, and failed to get them back.

Returning to work has been harder than I imagined it would be. I knew I'd be tired, but I didn't anticipate the kind of mental energy that goes along with having the world slightly out of kilter. I'm just starting to remember what it feels like when you have a schedule in your head and everything takes more effort than you'd planned, so the schedule has to be revised. And then revised again. And then again.

But in spite of these moments of disorientation, it looks like I'm all in. I was back in my office by 8:30 this morning although, strictly speaking, I didn't have to be. Already I've been planning programming for the Women's Center, identifying missing books, shelving the stuff I accumulated during my sabbatical, working out class plans for the next few days. I've been talking to people about curriculum changes that need to happen in the fall. Forget easing back into the groove. This is how I operate: I'm here or I'm not.

Small wonder, perhaps, that I've decided against applying for a job in the Northeast. I just don't have the energy to take on one more thing, even if that thing holds the promise of more prestige, more money, greater focus. I love the West, but I know it makes no sense for all people who love the West to live and teach here. (Honestly, who better to teach New Englanders about life on the wide side of the Mississippi?) I also know I can't go into an application process feeling tepid about a major life decision. Either I'm ready to move, should I get the chance, or I'm staying put. I'm here or I'm not.

And for the moment, I'm here. Looking forward to seeing students tomorrow. To working in my back yard as the weather warms up. To planning the fall schedule, and to spending another hot summer at the pool with my kids. I know how my life works here, even when things are slightly askew, and I like what I know of this place. It's hard to imagine why I'd ever want to leave.

It's my privilege

I'll be back on campus later this week after eight months away, and while I'm wondering how in the world I ever juggled teaching and writing and family responsibilities--because it's not like I've been watching TV and eating bonbons for the last eight months, despite the break from teaching--I'm also looking forward to it. Last night I was working on syllabi and actually having a good time thinking about how to structure my classes.

I'm teaching four courses this spring, all courses I've taught before, but I never do exactly the same thing from semester to semester. Part of the pleasure I take from teaching is the fact that it includes a learning process for me: each time I teach a class, I learn something new about the subject matter and the way my students receive it. I've learned, for instance, that asking first-year students to workshop each others' writing just doesn't work; developmentally, most of them aren't in a place where they can separate their fear of hurting someone's feelings from their response to the writing. If we do workshop each others' writing, we do it briefly and with lots of direction. By the time they're sophomores and juniors, though, most of them can do this pretty effectively and free-form workshop discussions are the central feature of the class.

It's not easy to juggle four classes that often require four different approaches, but I actually prefer this to teaching two sections of the same course. (By the time I teach the second section, I'm out of gas. I've said what I have to say. And I feel like my lack of enthusiasm is contagious.)When I was in Boise a few months ago, one of my former BSU colleagues expressed surprise at my teaching load. "That's like a community college teaching load," she said. At one time, this may have been true--but when I was interviewing for tenure-track jobs, not one of them offered anything less than a 3-4 load, and 4-4 was much more common. Colleagues who teach at research-oriented universities (the minority of professors, taking the big picture into account) tend to forget that a 2-2 load isn't standard.

I'm not sure it's a privilege, either. Graduate students are taught to view it this way, but I think that's because they're often taught by professors who view teaching as an annoying distraction from their research and who can't imagine why anyone would want a job that requires they do more of it. (I have three graduate degrees from three different institutions, and this was almost universally true of the graduate faculty I encountered.) The 2-2 load does leave much more time for research and writing, no doubt--but are those really the most important activities a professor engages in? Scholarly activity informs the professoriate--but is it really more important than helping students create new knowledge for themselves? Is it more important than the kind of learning we do in our own classrooms? I'm not so sure.

I've missed being around students. I've enjoyed having the time to focus on my own reading and writing, but I remember how energized I felt after the class I taught at BSU--there's no denying that teaching gives me a kind of energy that research and writing just don't. When the semester gets frenetic, I'm going to try to remember that it's a privilege to interact with and learn from my students every day.