It all started when I changed planes in Houston. My right eye started to twitch and by the time I was nearing my gate, I was rubbing it vigorously and smearing mascara all over my face. This must be my body's reaction to Texas, I thought.
Touching down in Ohio, the swelling lessened almost instantly, proving my theory correct. However, the real meat of the matter lied ahead of me: An entire week of nothing but pastors, prayers, benedictions and religion - the sort of elephant in the room for my life these days. (Which reminds me that the circus is coming to town next month, but I digress.)
Sunday morning service in Columbus started okay. I sat in the back in a rocking chair with my rock star redheaded nephew Marcus, and the pastor charged ahead on “resisting temptation.” Engaged, I related it to my life dutifully and thought of the last time I resisted that 5th drink. He continued with more force, asking the congregation to recall “the last time we resisted from a spiteful comment to another individual." I queued up a time last week that I kept my scoff entirely to myself when I saw a stranger in a matching track suit. The pastor drove it home, "Circumcised or uncircumcised hearts, ladies and gentlemen. Which is it going to be?" Uhmmm...is he really using “circumcised” in his sermon to make his point?? Did I just…yes, I did - the words “uncircumcised”are in 40 font on a PowerPoint slide. Ok. I'm now entirely unfocused on the message. I'm now thinking of the process of circumcision, how bad it must hurt, and about the fact that my brother wasn’t circumcised until he was eight. Then I looked at Marcus who, at three months of age, had just undergone that very procedure. Ouch.
After the circumcision message, the clan piled into three cars and headed to upstate Ohio – where we would spend the entirety of the week - to celebrate the commissioning of my sister, the pastor. Religion was rolling up its sleeves for the week, and really getting to work on me.
I sat in the backseat with Marcus; I was almost schizophrenic, taking pictures of him each second. I’d film, then put the phone away, and right as it’d reach my pocket, he’d do something even cuter than before and I’d yank it back out for more footage of spit bubbles or precious smirks.
Two hours later, we found ourselves in a new world – a town called Lakeside, Ohio. Visualize for a moment, the community from Dirty Dancing. Now add the perfect suburbia of Edward Scissor Hands. Top it off with the neighbors from Pleasantville and The Truman Show. What you’ve arrived upon, is the picturesque town of Lakeside, a gated Methodist community on the shores of Lake Erie. What you have also arrived upon, is the most perfect and wonderful town for running, jogging, biking or anything impossible with a broken foot. I felt pieces of my heart start to chunk off as we drove in. It’s okay, I have Marcus. He’s inhumanly cute. Who needs running?
Residents and guests of Lakeside fill their days on one of the many shuffleboard courts, mini golf courses, or lounging at the pier in their Sperry’s. Sometimes, they head to the one street in town offering ice cream, coffee shops and a mini movie theatre. Everyone rides their bikes (and they actually have perfect bells on them used to greet other Methodists), and golf carts outnumber cars by a long shot. If you’re lucky, you might just come upon some of that pure innocence that is so rare in today’s world – and approach a hand-crafted, dance party invitation on the community bulletin board (Pictured). Adorable.
The house we rented was on Peach Street and quite aged, but steps away from Lake Erie. “The microwave was about as powerful as a Christmas light, no…a night light,” my dad joked to himself. That wasn’t the only thing that was dated, but we made it work.
Early in the week, my brother in law, my father and I went to Cedar Point, an amusement park on the other side of the lake that is renowned for its top notch rollercoasters. In fact, one of them boasts to be the fastest in the world. My dad went along mostly to be a good sport, and his mood ranged from curiosity and excitement in the car, to utter terror and anger as we stood at the base of “Millenium Force.” This ride was lovingly deemed “that blue son of a bitch that I’m not getting on,” as my dad stood assertively below the ride. A brief one hour wait later, dad and I conquered the blue SOB, and with an air of accomplishment, we marched out of that park just as it started to rain. WIN.
The actual commissioning service – the entire reason we came to Ohio - was held the following evening. Three hours in, with no air conditioning and a sweaty boot, I had almost had it with the Holy Spirit. The sermon was on “giving out of poverty” and coincidentally, this message fell right before the offering. Right as I started to nod off into a bootless abyss, they called the candidates up for commissioning. I saw my sister, the one who used to pull my arm literally out of socket and call me a brat, walking to the stage in this auditorium in front of over 2,000 clergy members and lay people. She knelt, and the bishop of both the Methodist and Lutheran church in Western Ohio placed their hands on her bowed head. “April Blaine, I commission you to be a faithful servant leader among the people, to lead the church in service, to proclaim the Word of God, and to equip others for ministry, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Yeah, that’s some job description. And as she walked across the stage and back towards her seat, towards her loving husband, and towards her new and very serious mission in this world, I couldn’t help but get a little worked up. It seems everyone is taking more serious and grown up steps lately (between engagements, new babies, career steps), and while I’m certainly no exception, I find myself still handicapped and still struggling to walk on my own.
It made me think. Of all the messages, conversations and sermons I have sat through, the one common thread is that nobody has it right yet. We may never have it all figured out. If this week taught me anything, it’s that walking, or arriving at our destination or getting in that line and conquering that “blue son of a bitch,” isn’t out of reach, and that the only thing we can really do – is keep on trying…one clicking step at a time.
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