Sometimes people wonder why I and my three youngest adult children travel forty miles to a dying church - St. Nicholas in Homewood - with a handful of members every Sunday. It's hard to explain in words.
Certainly, it's not simply because it's Eastern Orthodox, as Joliet has four and Homer Glen, a little closer, has a Byzantine Catholic church, one I had attended for many years when it resided in Joliet. On the plus side of St. Nicholas, this church has a joyful spirit that wonderfully transcends the soberness accompanying many Orthodox traditions, and when it closes its doors altogether, finding a suitable replacement for it in my life will be challenging.
No, it's about God. It's about the people.
First, God.
Many years ago, in the mid-80's, an acquaintance of mine ministered to me during a particular rough time in my life. One of the things she did was to pile me and my three children into her station wagon with her and her four children and drive to St. Nicholas for a Wednesday evening Prayer and Praise service. Yes, many churches have such services, and I had refused her for a year before I needed the distraction. Once inside that church, I found something I hadn't expected to find.
I found God.
No, I'm not sharing a conversion testimony, for God has always been in my life. But in the quietness of my spirit, I knew this church was where God meant me to be. It's not a large church or a beautiful church, in the sense of traditional Orthodoxy architecture and icnonography. But SOMETHING in that church spoke to me. And one night, when everyone was in the fellowship hall, preparing to leave, I ducked back inside to reverence the icon on the tetrapod and silently beg God to find a way to make me part of this church and its community.
And He did. And I have grown spiritually in unbelieveable and breathtaking ways.
Now, the people.
At first glance, they are ordinary people, nothing spectacularly spiritual about them. But they do pray, not dramatically, hands-in-air showy kind of prayer or overly-pious, staid, look-down-your-spectacles kind of praying, but ordinary when-I-remember-to-do-so kind of praying, the kind most of us do (unless we have a structured prayer life), if we were honest enough with ourselves to admit it. But it is sincere praying. And through these prayers and our decades-long history together, we are connected in strong and subtle ways.
Yesterday, one of older members said farewell. In many ways, Lois has always reminded me of my godmother: a professional woman in the days when women were not professional women, never-married, confident, humble, independent, somone who gave rides to church to those that did not have one and who continued to drive, along, from the Calumet City side of Hammond to church until this past summer, when she experienced a bout of stomach flu that knocked her down a few pegs.
Anyone that has followed this blog knows that our family is slowly emerging from a few years of crisis. During this time, Lois, with whom I have always enjoyed conversing, periodically called me to see how we were doing. She sent occasional greeting cards. She assured me of her daily prayers for us. She passed along historical magazines for the boys and presented me with a small, but beautiful, piece of Orthodox art that stands behind my phone at work, a reminder of the forces of good people behind me.
During these months that were difficult for her, I occasionally called her as she had called me, rejoiced with her as her strength returned, verbally high-fived her at the progress she made in downsizing her home, and agreed with her that moving to Kentucky to be with her family was a good idea.
The move came sooner than she had anticipated. Last week, while walking to work, I had talked to Lois, who anticipated the move would be in three weeks. On Sunday, she shared it was her last Sunday. Her brother had deciced to come for her this week. The farewell was bittersweet, but we had a very special and private moment. She said kind and complimentary things to me, and I assured her that any trait she admired in me was due to the prayers of godly women like her. I wished her well in this next adventure of her life and a promise that my prayers will accompany it. And they will.
So, I was on call this weekend for two newspapers. Fortunately for me, I didn't have to address any breaking news (as breaking news is not my best skill), but a number of other nstances did occur, and I dealt with them, I believe, successfully. The culmination did cause Timothy and I (Rebekah and Daniel had spent the weekend ni Mendota) to be late for church, late enough that he debated the wisdom of attending at all.
Let's just say I persuaded him otherwise.
In retrospect, with Lois leaving, this was a good thing. Also, Timothy has the ministry of washing the windows at St. Nicholas, one that was, shall we say, thrust on him, but one that he, nevertheless, has embraced and mastered, in the spirit of Alex Tytus, another godly man who unobstrusively kept the windows sparkling for many years, despite failiing health. So that task must be accomplished every Sunday.
Feeling rather discouraged, we walked in just as the communion prayer had started. Eli, an 80-year-old wonderful Serbian man, grabbed my arm as I walked past.
"Oh, thank God, you're here!" Eli whispered excitedly. "I brought poppyseed!"
Eli occasionally brings poppyseed potica, candy for my heart and soul, as I have loved anything poppyseed since childhood, when my Bohemian grandmother would make these delectable poppyseed coffee cakes, a recpe that went to the grave with her. I shared this once with Eli, and he now keeps a few extra slices to the side to ensure I get some. And I always share my unabashed appreciation for it. Last time when he brought potica, he made sure I took a couple pieces home, too.
So before I could respond, Eli also said, with a huge grin, "I brought extra, just for you. I was so afraid you weren't going to make it today."
"Extra," on this particular day, meant half a potica. After church, I spent six hours at The Herald-News trying to catch up on editing briefs (I did not catch up), being interviewed via phone by a Columbia College student, and snacking on potica, a vivid reminder of the positive forces in my life. Today, I have a vacation day, but will probably work at least half of that, but from home, so the day will be less hectic. But there will be potica. I'll enjoy the taste, think of my grandmother, and feel warmed as Eli's enthusiastic remembrance, hopefully half as warm as he felt from the joy of giving it to me.
So why do I atttend a church forty miles away from home when we're cash-strapped? I'd be a stupid fool not to attend.
