We went to church this weekend – twice, actually. For most pastors this is not unusual. But for any of you who have been reading along with me for awhile, you know I don’t fall under the category of “most pastors.”

Friday night we went over to the Seattle Vineyard, a place that was my church home for 15 years, the place which first released me into pastoral ministry. One of our monk-friends, Mike LaJoie, was having a CD release party there and we headed over to celebrate. Eden was immediately in seventh heaven. In addition to bright lights and dancing, there were snacks and dozens of grown up playmates to get reconnected to. She flitted about like the butterfly she is. Cate on the other hand was content to sit on my lap and hum a little. When the disco ball turned on she said, “Ooooh! Fairies and Angels!” It felt good there, singing praise songs and smelling Catie’s baby shampoo head. It was nice and…and…nostalgic. “I remember this,” I thought. It was a place of praise and beauty and…safety. It had been safe there. At one some point, I had felt safe there.

But it changed, didn’t it? Or rather, I changed, and instead of a place of sanctuary and peace it became a place of struggle. And I, trapped, became animalistic, defensive, full of adrenaline, until finally I had to give into one of two instincts: fight or flight. I tried one first, then the other. It was a hard birth, emerging out of that place, and we had no doula. Hard births like that mark you. The mother is never the same person, not really. And the child, we’ll they are a bit bruised up as well. I don’t know if we’ll ever understand what happened to us, the five of use involved in that birthing process. It’s just a haze of pain and urgency, struggle and stalling. After all that work and all those years, it was good, Friday night, to see the mother church still standing, still doing what she was created to do, which is, largely, to praise.

Sunday morning we made pilgrimage to the diocesan flagship, Saint Mark’s Cathedral (Episcopalian). The girls needed Sunday school. Paul lobbied for something a bit closer (though St. Mark’s is only 15 min. away.) But I insisted because I couldn’t think of anywhere closer that wouldn’t teach them that God is only male, or that homosexuality is a sin, or that women aren’t really equals. So it’s St. Marks. We got there a bit early and the first service wasn’t over yet. Cindy Spenser, the Family Minister, was in the Narthex with someone dressed like St. Nicholas –all robes and staff and flowing white bearded. He was going to make his grand appearance at the end of the service so we slipped into the back row. Two deacons were taking away bits of the host to the shut-in’s. “Holy food for Holy people.” Then Ann, the rector, began blessing birthdays and anniversaries. She prayed a blessing over two people whose birthdays were coming up, and then she blessed two women, in their sixties, who had been together for 26 years. Twenty six years. In our culture. Can you imagine? It was so beautiful to hear her prayers for their union, their families, their life together with God. I nearly cried. “God grant you many years. God grant you many years!” the congregation sang. My heart split open.

Generous. Orthodoxy.