I *Love* Our Church

Sprout made his first Confession this month, and we are so proud of him.  He was thoughtful and earnest and prayerful.  He continues to amaze his parents with the depth and intimacy of his relationship to God!

There was a short liturgy before all the kids went to their first Confession, and while we waited, there was ample time to sit and pray and reflect and stop fights between the girls and pick Cheerios up off the floor.  I saw Sprout's CCD teachers stop and talk to him and smile.  I saw Sprout bouncing up and down with excitement and nerves, waiting in line with his friends.  I saw our wonderful Pastor stop to tell the girls how pretty they looked in their dresses and give Sprout a congratulatory high-five.

And it felt like home.  Our church is a 1970s-model, angular and modern and stark.  But it's filled with the most compassionate, loving, earnest people you could ever meet.  There are ordinary people there, in this ordinary building, doing extraordinary things.  There is prayer and love and support.  A wonderful woman has made lovely quilts for each of our children when they were brand-new.  The parents at the school filled our fridge to overflowing with homemade meals when Doodle was born.  When asked, with no notice, to donate the funds to buy a crisis pregnancy center an ultrasound machine - they responded by piling the basket with enough money for three of them.

Back when we were newlyweds, Super-Smart Hunky Husband (SSHH) and I made the trip of a lifetime to Rome, during Holy Week.  We spent a lot of time poking around all the nooks and crannies of the Vatican, and we soaked up all the power of the Holy Week Masses.  They were beautiful.  But the only moment that truly left me awestruck was when a million people hit their knees during the Passion on Good Friday in St. Peter's Square.  That was the only moment where there was a sense of community.

The Church isn't Rome, it isn't stained glass and incense and Latin.  It isn't choirs and cathedrals.  Christ said He is there "where two or three are gathered in my name," and that's all it takes.  While we were in Rome, I told SSHH that as nice as it all was - God wasn't there the way He was in our church at home.  He wasn't in St. Peter's Cathedral the way He was in the run-down auditorium where we attended Mass in graduate school - shared for services with the college Jewish and Muslim communities, and we had to move the altar in and out for each Mass.  There was community in that place, and there is community in our church now.

And I'm so glad our kids are getting to grow up with this community.  Like any family, there are petty squabbles and the occasional grouchiness.  But there's a lot of love and support and caring, too.  Some day we'll dig into our couch cushions, empty our pockets, and take our family back to Rome - but it's our church, with weird pink carpeting and hearts full of grace, that I hope they'll think of first when they think of their faith.