Day 3: “Enjoy the Bunny Grahams”
… [A] friend taught me a practice called saying ones. It is that simple. When the anxiety comes, start to say the word one over and over: One. One. One. One. This Lent, I say my ones slowly. It is a simple, soothing sound, and it does not escape me that one is a spiritual word, that one is what God is, that one is unity and wholeness; that my ones are not just a palliative litany, but some kind of truthfulness and a statement of hope, too. I have been saying ones for several years now, but I am just starting to realize they are prayers. (Lauren Winner)
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I had a dentist appointment today, for a filling; I said my ones.
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Today I woke up angry and hurt. I muttered how dare you under my breath, at the man who still shares my bathroom, my living room and kitchen. I was angry because I wanted him to stay, to say good morning, and kiss me on the hairline before leaving for band practice. Instead: silence. I was too tired to say my ones.
At the bus stop, I got the school prayer email, the one in which I submitted my own sad request. (Sad because I know what I want more than prayer right now is to not have to text or call another soul with the news. Prayer comes second to information-spreading; I’m not proud of this.)
What I received on the 10 minute ride to school was a flood of texts. So many Oh my god, Lauren’s. Katie V. is taking me to Portland next week. Randy R. offered movie night at his place. And when I said, OK, yes, eventually. He told me he will keep inviting me. (I’m so afraid people will stop inviting me, stop checking in with me. I’m scared, and it’s only day three.)
My own Rhoda Morganstern, Rachel P., has been checking in. Ike B. has too. And many, many others. Bless you.
When I entered class, I made eye contact with my instructor, Chelle, and started crying. She hugged me, then went back to her office for a box of tissues. Then Phil D., my friend and the assistant instructor for the class, came up and offered me Bunny Grahams. BUNNIES! I was too angry and sick-feeling to eat this morning, but for some reason bunny grahams seemed so tasty, so happy, and kind to my belly.
I left class with that box. “They’ve been my comfort snack,” he tells me.
At lunch I find roommates; my dear friend Anna and her husband have a room opening up in West Seattle. (The situation is nearly perfect–it’s in a different neighborhood, but on the bus route to the school and my other friends.) Suddenly everything seems OK.
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I am not always sure what I think of the Church. I have never been convinced that to be a Christian means to be a part of a Christian community, confessing and taking communion every Sunday.
But when my world fell apart, my pastor and my community were there for me. I am prayed for. I am given food and drink. I am given goofy texts on the bus ride home, so I won’t cry (Bethany B.). I am sent emails with subject lines of “heavy” (Ruth N.). My friend Sarah is on call for every crisis.
I told my church community once (again–a church called Wits’ End, of course!) that I don’t like church, but I want to. And if I’m going to want to like a church, it would be Wits’ End. And I do like it; I know I am seen, heard, desired there. Right now, that’s what I need.
June 12, 2014