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When the Candles Keep Going Out (or, “Tell Her That Her Sad Days Are Gone”)

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I parked along Duke Street in front of the Lancaster County courthouse, and the cold leaked into the truck as soon as I opened the door. Five-month-old Leo stared up at me, dark eyes wide, two black holes into which entire galaxies have spilled. I unbuckled him from his seat, walked close to the truck so oncoming traffic wouldn’t usher both of us into eternity, and joined the rest of the family on the sidewalk where the kids exclaimed their delight at the decorating lamp posts. Christmas greens and red bows.

The “Don’t Walk” hand flashed so we trotted across Orange Street, the kids shouting out the countdown.

“Oh, no!” Sam shouted back to Maile and I as the hand solidified. “You guys didn’t make it! The street exploded!”

Crossing Duke was a less violent affair. We all made it safely to the other side, then walked up the stairs into the solemn, dimly-lit beauty that is St. James Episcopal Church on a winter’s night, eleven days before Christmas.

I thought about coming to church just that morning, less than twelve hours prior, and how I had walked down to Square One Coffee Shop and then came back in time to pick the children up from choir practice. It was the first I had noticed the iron plaque on the side of the church:

St. James Episcopal Church
Founded 1744

* * * * *

Sometimes church feels more like an exercise in teaching children how to control their impulses than anything else. Stop picking your nose and please don’t nibble on your hair, that’s gross, and stand up straight and sit quietly and can you please stop laying down in the pew and wouldn’t this be a more enjoyable evening if you listened to the music instead of moaning about how hungry you are? The minutes pass slowly.

“I love our children, I really do,” I told Maile later that night. “But sometimes I think a quiet church service, alone, would do my soul good.”

But that was later. In the mean time, I tried to enjoy the “Festival of Advent Lessons and Carols” as best I could, surrounded by the whirling dervish of five children. And it was right there in the First Lesson, in the midst of children grabbing for the Book of Common Prayer and arguing over who owns the small green rubber monster just found in the depths of a pocket, when God reached down and spoke to me:

“Comfort, comfort my people,”
    says your God.
“Speak tenderly to Jerusalem.
Tell her that her sad days are gone…”
Isaiah 40:1-2

These words made me sigh, and suddenly all the shenanigans going on in our pew faded away. I stared at the stained glass.

How long, O Lord? I thought to myself. How long until the sad days will be gone?

* * * * *

This is the 270th Advent celebrated at St. James Episcopal. Through wars and rumors of wars, diseases and epidemics, harvests and blessings. Births and deaths. Over and over again, we remember, and we hope. But at some point you have to stop and wonder.

How long?

How long until these injustices are reckoned for?

How long until the people are comforted?

* * * * *

We stayed after church and spoke to some friends and relatives who were there, and someone who was cleaning up gave Lucy a long brass rod with a bell-shape hanging from the end of it, so she walked down the long aisle, gently lowering it onto each flame. Then smoke, and darkness.

This is hope: lighting candles in a church where candles have already been lit for 270 years, candles that we know will flicker and fade and eventually be snuffed out for another year.

And lighting them again.

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Finding Peace in the Dark (And It Really Is A Wonderful Life)

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Some days you just feel pulled in seven different directions in a world that won’t let go, don’t you? A great breakfast with a friend and then walk six blocks home and some of the kids are sick so I had to take the girls to the dentist and before I knew it, it was four o’clock and things are still piling up. Work for an hour. Clean the house. Eat dinner. Do the dishes. Bed time snack for the kids.

Then I hear Leo crying so I leave Maile with the oldest four and go up to the dark bedroom and pick him up and rock him back and forth. His eyelids get heavy and he sucks on his index finger these days and you know what? There’s nothing like singing hymns to a sick baby in a dark room if you’re looking for peace.

What a friend we have in Jesus
All our sins and griefs to bear
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer

Later we watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” and I finish off the ice cream because there’s not really enough left for the older four to split (“Nice of you to take one for the team,” Maile says). Maile cries in the beginning of the movie, when Mr. Gower accidentally puts poison in the capsules and then young George Bailey confronts him about it. We both cry at the end when George’s brother gives the toast: “To my big brother George…the richest man in town.”

* * * * *

I think back to what Bryan and I talked about at breakfast, how we have no idea what 2015 might hold. That’s both encouraging and terrifying. I think back to the beginning of 2009, back to when we had no idea the ride we were about to embark on: $50,000 in debt, my parents’ basement, trying to scratch and claw my way into a writing life. I think back to the fall of 2012, when I had no idea how good the next two years would be – Sri Lanka, Istanbul, and so many great writing projects. A move to a cabin on 40 acres of woods. Then a move into the city.

Who knows what’s next.

And that song comes to mind again, that old hymn I sang to sick little Leo, the one my Grandma Smucker used to sing:

Blessed Savior, Thou hast promised
Thou wilt all our burdens bear;
May we ever, Lord, be bringing
All to Thee in earnest prayer.
Soon in glory bright, unclouded,
There will be no need for prayer—
Rapture, praise, and endless worship
Will be our sweet portion there.

 

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Taking Communion With Over the Rhine Beneath the Streets of Philadelphia

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Maile and I stood on the Philadelphia sidewalk in the rain, waiting for the doors to open. We crept a little closer to the couple in front of us, the couple holding the massive, multicolored umbrella. It was December, and a cold, city wind swept down the boulevards, peeked into the alleys, raced the drizzle around corners.

At 8pm the doors opened and we followed the slow trail of people up a steep set of steps flanked by two burly, neckless men checking photo IDs. Then the line of people went inside and down steps that led into an industrial basement. Bare pipes and cement walls were covered in old concert posters and artistic graffiti. The tickets had said no smoking, but decades of cigarette smoke escaped the walls and wandered the dark stairwell.

The crowd, all these slowly walking people, descended together, and they felt like family to me because we all loved Over the Rhine, and most of us had been following them, their story, their music, for many years. Decades even. We were in this adventure together, even if it led into the bowels of Philadelphia. Some people, like Over the Rhine, create things of such beauty that you would follow them anywhere, and if you’ve never seen a movie or read a book or heard music that made you feel that way, then you need to open your eyes, my friend, and look around.

Maile and I waited at the bottom of the steps as people showed their tickets, had their wrists stamped, and vanished into the next room. That’s when “our people” arrived.

* * * * *

Another Christmas is drifting in softly
like the ghost of my innocence lost
and the tree in the corner burns brightly
I turned all the other lights off

I look back on my life in its stillness
I consider the days of my youth
and the moments I find myself willing
to surrender and just tell the truth

Cause I’ve committed every sin
and each one leaves a different scar
it’s just the world I’m living in
I could use a guiding star

I hope that I can still believe
the Christ child holds a gift for me
Am I able to receive
peace on Earth this Christmas?

– Over the Rhine, “Another Christmas”

* * * * *

For the last five years we’ve had dinner with this group just about every month. I barely knew most of them before we started sharing food together. There are five of us couples (six including the couple who moved to Florida a year ago and can’t join us very often anymore). When you spend five years with people, you break through the surfacey shit. When you walk with people through miscarriages and stillbirths and children born healthy (we have over 20 children between the six couples), business failures and successes, family stuff, and moving from state to state, well, it’s like a small grove of trees planted so close that their trunks literally start to grow together, their rings shared, their roots and branches entangled.

We haven’t officially taken communion together, but there’s something Eucharistic about those dinners, something holy. Which sounds funny because we’ve had plenty of conversations that push the boundaries of “holy,” but I think that when you start to give your life to other people, it’s the bread and the cup, the Body and the Blood.

* * * * *

Seeing their eight faces come through that dark door brightened that entire venue, and we laughed and hugged and went inside, found our seats.

I’ve been listening to Over the Rhine ever since 1996, when one of my roommates had an unhealthy obsession with them. But from the moment I heard their song “Poughkeepsie,” I got it. I fell in love with the way Karen Bergquist and Linford Detweiler’s voices swirled together and took me away.

And that’s what happened in that industrial basement on Saturday evening, way later than this 37 year old is used to staying up. I felt transported to another dimension, a place where nothing existed except that moment, that chord, that harmony. That mandolin solo. That aching lyric. That moment of silence in between notes.

Cause rain and leaves and snow and stars
and that’s not all my friend
they all fall with confidence and grace
so let it fall
let it fall

– Over the Rhine, “Let it Fall”

* * * * *

The next morning, my friend Janelle wrote a letter to Over the Rhine, and they featured it on their Tour Diary. Here’s a small part of what she wrote:

We drove down there together, just a bunch of regular salt-of-the-earth folks. The ten of us, (“The Dinner Club”) have been meeting once a month for several years. We’re all in our mid 30’s, early 40’s and some of us have been listening to you for 20 years. What a DIVINE time we had. Thank you for being so inclusive in your performing. We could feel the trials and pain, the joys raining down from that stage last night, balm to our weary souls. We truly felt that in that dark, dingy basement in the middle of that bustling city, we met with God. I loved the imperfections, (and perhaps tacky) nature of the venue, it was an outward display of our inner workings….kinda hidden, a little messy, but lovely nonetheless.

* * * * *

A little messy, but lovely nonetheless.

And so after all of that, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I hope you have a good Christmas season, even amidst the dreariness of so many things lost, the seemingly impossible waiting, the sense that this world will never quite be enough. I hope you find a star to follow, and I hope it leads you to what you’re looking for.

* * * * *

Over the Rhine recently released a beautiful Christmas album, “Blood Oranges in the Snow.” Check it out HERE.

If you’d like to hear the story of how Over the Rhine gave me permission to use the lyrics from “Poughkeepsie” as front matter for my upcoming novel, check that out HERE.

The venue where we saw Over the Rhine was Underground Arts.

 

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When the Question is “Do you want to get well?” and the Answer is “No”

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If you’re trying to figure out if you’re an alcoholic, well, I personally think you are. I don’t really know any non-alcoholics who ask themselves if they might be alcoholics. – Anne Lamott

Anne Lamott had the crowd laughing one minute and on the verge of tears the next, and this quote from her (which is especially poignant considering her former life as an alcoholic) really resonated with me. Not because I’m an alcoholic, but because I have my own addictions, and I think that whenever we take the time to ask ourselves whether or not we’re addicted to something, we probably are. Am I addicted to my phone? Facebook? Jealousy? Candy? Feeling sorry for myself?

How then will we heal ourselves of these addictions?

It reminds me of something Jesus said.

A man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there, and knew that he had already been a long time in that condition, He said to him, “Do you wish to get well?”

What a stupid question, right? I know a man who is in his 60s and he suffers from so many maladies – strokes, cancer, alcoholism. Can you imagine if I walked into his trailer park home and asked him if he wanted to get well? If he wanted to be restored fully to health?

What kind of a question is that?

Yet I think there are still many areas of my life where I don’t want to get well. Seemingly petty sicknesses I have like that bad attitude towards certain people or those small stabs of jealousy that I think I’ll hang on to for now, thank you very much, Jesus. And then maybe things that aren’t so petty, things that my anger uncovers, things that trigger my white-knuckled grasping on to unforgiveness, things that discharge my cynicism and underlying (but very well hid) prejudices.

I’m all good. Thanks, J. That healing thing? I’m not ready yet.

* * * * *

I had a long lunch with a good friend recently who has been asking himself very good questions about his own addiction. And I think he will get there, in time. He will know.

But I left that lunch with that same question resonating in my mind.

Do we want to get well? Does my friend want to get well? Do I?

And I think many times the answer is no. Maybe we find identity in the sickness. Maybe we can’t imagine the life we would lead if we were well. Maybe we’ve lost hope; I think that’s it most of the time – I don’t want to be well because I don’t think it’s even possible, so why would I put myself in the position to be so sorely disappointed when it all crumbles down around me?

Which brings me full circle, back to Anne Lamott, because if you know her story you know that she finally reached the point where she said, Yes, I want to be well, and with the help of a wonderful community she clawed her way up through the murky waters of drug and alcohol addiction and now she gives us such beauty, such hope, and I guess that’s the one thing that makes me want to answer yes, when I see those who have gone before. Those who have stood up and walked away from the Ground Zero of their pain. Those who can point to their own uncomfortable journey of transformation and say, It’s worth it. Get well.

Do you want to get well?

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“That’s Usually When We Experience God, When We Run Out of Good Ideas.”

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We followed the winding line of brake lights to the far side of the college campus, swinging into the first empty parking space we could find. We got out and walked quickly past dorms and large halls, and all around us there were people walking in the same direction, as if some irresistible force drew anyone within a one-mile radius. Most of the people were in groups of three or four, and they chattered in that excited way people do when they’re on their way to something they’ve looked forward to for a long time.

How did I feel? I felt like I was on the way to meet a long-lost friend, someone who knew me and had spoken life into me for the last twenty years.

* * * * *

I love to read, and I love beautiful books, but I’m not someone who becomes emotionally attached to particular versions of books. At least not very often. I have an 1864 version of Pilgrim’s Progress that I found in hole-in-the-wall bookstore in Windsor, England. My Prayer For Owen Meany is dog-eared and underlined and definitely the worse for wear. I have many books signed  by the friends who have written them, and I’d hate to lose those.

But of all of the books I own, there is only one that makes me feel panicky when I can’t find it right away. It’s my copy of Anne Lamott’s Bird By Bird. On the inside cover is a short note from the friend who bought it for me

To: Shawn
From: Jason
On your 21st birthday

It was a rather inauspicious gift at the time. Thoughtful, but not something that made me stop and say, “This moment will change my life.” But it did, actually. That book, throughout the years, has given me more joy, solace, and encouragement than any other book I’ve ever read. Anne’s (and yes, I refer to her as Anne because we’d obviously be great friends if we met in person) irreverent and sometimes crass humor took me by surprise. A Christian who drops the f-bomb? A Christian who is a Democrat? A Christian who has Buddhist friends? I had never met a Christian like that; I didn’t know Christians like that even existed.

The first reading of Bird By Bird blew me away. By the second reading, I knew it would be a book I would read many times in my life. By the 20th reading, I’m still taking away new things.

* * * * *

We got closer to the auditorium. Someone handed me a program as we walked through the glass doors: “A Night With Anne Lamott.” We found excellent seats in the balcony and settled in. Anne’s talk was beautiful and hilarious, encouraging and witty. She is everything in person that she projects through her writing. This is a rare quality, a writing voice that carries over into real life.

But of all the things she said, one sticks out in my mind:

“That’s usually when we experience God, when we run out of good ideas.”

And that’s where I’m at, in some ways. I’ve been a relatively successful freelance writer for the last five years, and I will finally get around to releasing my first novel later this month. I feel it in my spirit, that there’s change a-comin’, though I can’t put my finger on exactly what it will be. In some ways I feel like I’m all out of good ideas, but I’ve been here before, and I know it’s  the right place to be.

* * * * *

At the end of night they invited people to get in line and have Anne sign her new book. Maybe chat with her for a few seconds. I thought about it, but then Maile and I walked back into the night. We had a four-month-old at home. Besides, there was nothing more that Anne could give me, not even if I shook her hand, not even if we talked for a few minutes. I have my worn copy of Bird By Bird at home. That’s enough for me.

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Going to Church, Betraying My Ancestors, and Encountering the Holy

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My family has lived in eastern Pennsylvania for the last ten generations. Nearly 250 years. My wife is always shaking her head because no matter where we go it seems we meet someone who is a great-aunt, friend of my grandparents, or third-cousin once removed.

“So how do you know that person?” she asks after they walk away.

“You know so-and-so?” I ask. She nods. “That’s so-and-so’s brother’s mom’s sister. Remember that family?”

“Oh, yes,” she says in a deadpan voice. “How could I have forgotten.”

It’s a unique place, but it is also a place that gives me a strong sense of who I am, a deep sense of belonging.

* * * * *

For the last five months or so we’ve attended St. James Episcopal church on the corner of Orange and Duke Street in downtown Lancaster. We started going there because after we moved into the city some friends invited us, and then we kept going there because it’s within walking distance, they have a wonderful children’s program, and there’s something about these old traditions that feels like a balm to my over-stimulated, until-now-Evangelical-church-attending soul.

We also like the fact that anyone seeking God can take communion, and just this past week a woman gave the sermon and led the service. In my opinion, both of these are sorely lacking in the Evangelical community in our county.

But what I really love is the quiet. The stillness. There are moments of silence, for one thing, times when everyone just stops and waits. During the prayers. Just after the sermon. There’s something powerful about the liturgy, about asking for forgiveness every week, about reaffirming what I believe. There’s something wonderful, groundbreaking even, about taking communion as a family every single week, of watching Cade and Lucy reverently take the wafer and dip it into the wine.

“The Body of Christ.”

“The Blood of Christ.”

I walk back the side aisle, the taste of wine still lingering, and I am impacted again with the depth of this death, the completeness of this resurrection.

* * * * *

My ancestors would probably have serious issues with me attending an Episcopal church. After all, it was the high church Protestants of their day who were chasing them around the countryside, demanding that they either baptize their infants or burn at the stake. As is heartbreakingly common throughout the church’s history, this policy had more to do with politics, money, and control than any sincerely held religious beliefs, but there you have it. Anabaptists were dismembered, burned at the stake, hung…you get the picture.

Now I take communion within a tradition and a way of doing church very similar to the one that hunted down my ancestors.

I think, I hope, that they would understand that the main reason we go to St. James is that we find Christ there. The leadership gives us the space we need during the service to encounter Jesus, to reflect on our week, our weaknesses. Each time our family crowds into one of those box pews, it is a reaffirmation of this path we have chosen.

Eternal God and Father,
by whose power we are created and by whose love we are redeemed:
guide and strengthen us by your Spirit,
that we may give ourselves to your service,
and live this day in love to one another and to you;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord. Amen.

* * * * *

It’s been cold these last few weeks when we walk to church. The kids get bundled up in their coats and wool hats and I walk down with the older four while Maile feeds Leo at the house – the two of them come down later, Leo strapped into a baby carrier, Maile using him for his warmth. I leave the kids at the chapel where they have choir for a half hour, and I walk down to Square One Coffee to get something warm to drink. Sometimes Miguel, the guy with all the keys, will ask me to carry empty coffee pots down with me, and I happily oblige.

There is something holy about walking down an early-morning, mostly empty city street on a cold Sunday, your breath bursting from your lungs as you head towards church. There’s something weighty about entering a hundreds-year-old church just as the adult choir is finishing their morning practice, their voices ringing through the stained glass.

Thy Kingdom come
Thy Will be done
On Earth as it is in Heaven