Running in Central Park this fall has been interesting. I’ve only needed my gloves once so far. The ground seems ready to be frosted by a morning chill, but there are still many, many trees heavy with cinnamon, turmeric, clove, and cayenne colored leaves. Yet the bare trees lining the blocks adjacent to the park are decked out in twinkly lights, ready for Christmas. Being in the park feels like a physical representation of walking or running through liminal space. Fall is lingering, taking her sweet time before succumbing to the cold.
Part of me longs for winter – there is a sureness, a stability that comes when one season finally surrenders fully to the next. But I am also really enjoying the late fall warmth this year. I like running over frozen ground with the possibility of warming-spiced leaves still twirling around when a breeze comes through. Our family is navigating a transition – one where I thought we would have arrived into the next season by now. Instead, we’re lingering in between. I’ve mostly written about it privately, but I’m going to share a glimpse into that season here.
First, a scene from last September.
Norah sits on my bathroom floor, picking out a color to paint her nails. I stand in the doorway with my eyes on her and my mind on my to-do list - fold the laundry, start dinner, schedule Conor’s doctor appointment. She holds up a bright purple and a teal, puts them back, then finally settles on a soft pink. The bottle rolls back and forth in her palm. She takes a deep breath, then sighs. She looks up. Her eyes find mine.
“Is that the color you want today?” I ask, holding out my hand. She squeezes the bottle and looks down at her hands with a furrowed brow. I wait, trying not to get impatient.
“Mom, how come we don’t go to church anymore?” Her words are soft and slow and her eyes stay on the polish in her hand.
I take a deep breath. A knot forms in my stomach. Usually I pride myself on explaining big concepts in ways my children can understand. But there are so many complicated reasons why we don’t go to church anymore. I have no idea how to answer her question. “Well,” I look up at the ceiling, “Daddy and I are just–” I look back down to her sweet face and force a smile. I wonder how so many more freckles now dance around her curious eyes. “We’re figuring some things out right now,” I say as I bend down to her level. I pick up a bottle of dark red polish, thinking about how specific I want to get with her.
The church we have been a part of since she was two holds, for her, nothing but good memories. How do I honor her experience while Brett and I grapple with so many hard things? I take another deep breath, answering as honestly as I can. “We’re not sure if our church is the best fit for our family anymore.”
She touches a few of the polish bottles in the basket.
“But,” she looks up at me with tears in her eyes, “I still want to be a Christian.”
“Oh honey!” I look right into her eyes. “Going to church isn’t what makes you a Christian. There are lots of different churches where Christians go.” I squeeze her hand and move a little closer. “And some Christians don’t go to church very often, but they still love Jesus.” The words spill out of me. “There are a lot of churches in this city and all over the world filled with Christians.” I feel like I am stumbling over myself, grasping for the right thing to say. Norah holds my gaze.
“What do you think it means to be a Christian?” I ask.
She looks at the colors in the basket. She stares at them long enough that I think maybe she didn’t hear me. Then her eyes find mine again.
“I think it means that even if you’re lost, you’re never alone.”
The knot in my stomach loosens a bit. With tears in my eyes, I say, “I think that’s a really good way to put it, Norah.”
Since that conversation on the bathroom floor 18 months ago, we did go back to our church a few times, and each time I realized that I could no longer take a full breath while there. We had a lot of conversations with trusted friends, spent months and months processing and praying and discerning privately, I spilled many words on pages I’m not sure anyone else will ever see, and, eventually, we let our pastors know we would not be returning to the church we called home for the first seven years of our time in NYC.
And then this past summer we entered this liminal season. Where would we go next? What would our Sunday morning rhythms look like? We have friends at many other churches around the city, but we have been hesitant to jump into another community. Partly because, while we left the institution of our church, we did not leave the people. We remain very close to many of our friends from that church – some of whom still call that church home, and some who have left like us. We have wanted to prioritize nurturing those relationships and making sure they’re strong as we find our footing in a new community. As Emily P. Freeman often notes, we needed to create some space for our souls to breathe.
There were a few things from my conversation with Norah on the bathroom floor that have stuck with me. The first was when she noted that she still wanted to be a Christian. I realized that the majority of her experience of people practicing their Christian faith was in one church. In her then 8-year-old mind, this was the way to be a Christian. This one way of worshiping, of interpreting Scripture, of serving. We could tell her about other churches and even ask friends who go to other places what they do differently, but it wasn’t her experience. To be fair, it wasn’t ours either. I grew up Catholic, so I have that background, but other than a class in college, I haven’t visited many other churches.
It was my memory of that class in college that encouraged us to linger in this in between season. During the course of the semester, the professor of the course on world religions required her students to visit at least six different religious services. My friends and I spent an afternoon in a Sikh temple where the women were separated from the men during the service; we spent a Sunday morning in a Greek Orthodox church where we were grateful to be wearing comfortable shoes after standing for most of the three hour long service; we went to an evangelical church where we were greeted by classmates who attended there every Sunday; we spent a Saturday morning at a Jewish Synagogue right near our favorite bakery on the South Hill. I can’t remember how many we ended up attending, but I do remember that it was one of my favorite courses at Gonzaga.
And now, almost twenty years later, we have tweaked the experience for our family. Instead of finding a new church home, we are taking this year to tour the churches of New York City. We are choosing to linger in this liminal season, to stretch it out and walk slowly through it. We are not visiting churches to find a new place to worship on Sundays. Rather, as a family we are entering each sanctuary with curiosity. How do people worship here? Who gets to preach and teach in this space? What is God doing in this community? How do they practice serving the poor and vulnerable here? Do the people who attend this church look like the people who live in the neighborhood where the building is? How are leaders held accountable?
We are not just slipping in quietly and observing, but we are making sure to attend the coffee hours and ask questions of the people who regularly worship in these different spaces.
So far, we have been to a small church where the woman preaching invited the congregation into a time of lament when she read off each of the victim’s names from the mass shooting in Buffalo and we prayed for their family members. We visited an Anglican church in the West Village where the pastor prayed over and celebrated a family who had been a part of their church for five years but was moving to a new country. We went to a large church in Brooklyn where the choir sang for an hour before the pastor even got on stage and they invited everyone in the congregation to two different homegoing services for members who had recently passed away. We went to a church in Queens where the room was easily the most diverse place we have been in New York City and the pastor emphasized their value of emotional health as individuals and a community. A few weeks ago, we went to the Catholic church just a few blocks from our apartment, where we remembered the value of contemplation and ritual. In so many ways, that church felt like coming home.
We’re in the middle of Advent now, and this is the first year we don’t have a church to call home. But I have a much greater sense that regardless of where we spend our Sundays, I do have a home in the trinity. Between the gentleness of God, the kindness of Jesus, and the wisdom of the Holy Spirit, our family is known and loved. We may be wandering, and perhaps even look a little lost, but as Norah reminded me on that bathroom floor, we are not alone. When I remember that, I can fill my lungs to capacity.
I don’t know how long we’ll stay in this liminal space, visiting different churches and seeing the many ways people practice their faith. There have already been a few churches where we feel a tug to stay. There are also many more churches in the city we would like to visit. Regardless of how long this in-between season lasts, I hope we will stay curious about how & what other people believe and that we will continue to visit other churches to actually experience the way others worship for many years to come.
I’ve been a bit of a writing hermit lately, but I feel myself crawling out just in time for winter, ready to share more of my words publicly again. Norah told me that her favorite season is winter too, because she likes that she can see her breath in front of her. That’s as far as we’re looking right now, just to the end of that white puff of breath in front of our faces. So as the warming spiced leaves eventually fall to the ground here in NYC, we’ll be here, wandering through the wilderness with our hearts postured toward the mysteries of God.
I want to leave you with a benediction. I wrote this last weekend at the conclusion of a half day Advent retreat where we spent most of our time together in silence. Take what is helpful for you, and leave the rest behind.
May I linger in God’s goodness, receive Jesus’s kindness, listen to the Holy Spirit’s wisdom, and trust my own body to tell me how she hears them.
May I have patience after saying yes and believe the Trinity is working to do everything they have promised, even if the waiting season is long.
May I remember my individual heart is more precious to God than a thousand churches.
May I stay curious in the waiting and notice the slow way seasons change.
May I keep a cautious gaze on the mysteries of God.
See you in the new year,
Jodie
P.S. If you are in an in-between season, perhaps you can consider lingering there instead of looking to what might be next? Take some time to stretch yourself out, look around, see what you might do differently in this season. Maybe even treat the liminal space like a season of its own. What do you want to learn? What are you curious about? How can you create space to spend time inside the questions instead of carving out answers?
P.P.S. A few things on the horizon:
I’m preparing for our annual planning day and thinking through my personal goals for next year. On one hand I enjoyed writing only a few letters this year since I know how busy your inbox can be. On the other hand I would like to write these a little more often. If you have a strong preference on how often you’d like my newsletter in your inbox (I am not offended at all if you say only a few times a year is enough) would you hit reply and let me know?
I’m also preparing to start an MFA program! I have wanted to go back to school for a while now, and it finally felt like the right time. This winter I will be attending the low-residency program for Creative Writing at Seattle Pacific University. I am eager to learn from the faculty there and very happy to have the opportunity to visit Seattle a couple times a year for the next two years. The first scene in this newsletter was an excerpt of an essay I wrote for my portfolio as part of my application.
Thank you for sharing your heart so beautifully.
The thought of lingering in liminal spaces is going to stick with me - something I want to ponder as I find myself in one, looking for the exit. Thanks for your words!