Last night on Glee, high-school student Rachel and her friends stood around the hospital bed of Burt Hummel, the father of one of their classmates, and sang to him. Rachel sang “Papa Can you Hear Me” and as she later explained, each student was alternating singing to Burt and each song they sang was a prayer.
It was impossible for me to make it through the episode without crying, and I was moved not just by the behavior of the characters but also by the writers of the show who took a chance and presented religion on a mainstream television show in a way that was respectful and open-minded.
After the show was over, I sat down at my computer to try and write my post for today and I was stumped. Lately, it’s been hard for me to write, to capture in words the emotions that I’m feeling. If I had half the talent of Rachel from Glee, I guess I could sing how I feel, but instead, I’m left staring at a computer screen, trying to reign in the emotions so I can put together a coherent thought.
One of the reasons it’s so hard to write, so hard to talk about how I feel, is that the joy never ends. Ever since I walked into Hope last Easter, I have felt nothing but joy. Sure, I still get annoyed at work and frustrated when things don’t work out the way I planned, but overrunning, overlapping all of that is this sense of joy, this excitement at the wonderful and unexpected detour my life has taken.
Something new and unexpected happens to me virtually every day. Every day I can wake up and know that something will happen today, something I could not predict and whatever it is, it won’t be frightening; it’ll be wondrous and holy and magical.
Take, for example, this past Monday night when my mom revealed that she wanted to be Episcopalian now because she wanted to belong to the same denomination I do. In the past, I probably would have greeted such a revelation with some skepticism.
But I’ve changed over the past six months and so when my mom said she wanted to become Episcopalian, I knew what she was trying to tell me.
She was trying to tell me that she wanted to be closer to me even though she lives in New York and I only see her once or twice a year. This was her way of connecting to me, a way for her to feel like she was part of my life.
Most importantly, I realized that the part of me that would have written her off in the past—that part of me was healed. I didn’t doubt her. I didn’t question how serious she was. I accepted her at face value and rejoiced that she was being so supportive.
So, I got online and found her several churches in the area she could try.
I hope she finds a church. It doesn’t have to be Episcopalian though that would be amazingly cool. But I hope she finds a church—I hope she finds a church family who can do for her what the people of Hope have done for me. Because she needs that as much I did, maybe even more so.
And if she does find that church—how wondrous will that be.
