Sanctuary

 

I walked into the church for a real live service a couple of weeks ago.

I was hit by this real sense of overwhelming peace and comfort.  I wasn’t surprised, that sanctuary has always been a refuge, a place of safety, a place of peace, a spirit filled holy spot, for me.

It was for Marty too.  Even after the strokes.  I have to say our attendance was spotty at best because church was hard.  Church was hard because of Marty’s brokenness.  Which makes the spotty attendance kind of counterproductive, what better place to be when you are broken.

Going and doing anything outside of the home was hard.  It was hard to get Marty up, dressed, in the van, strapped down and then driven down to the church where you unstrap, roll around, get down and in the building.  We didn’t go to a whole lot of places that required quiet and punctuality.

When we did go, it was always worth the effort.  Certainly, every time we darkened the door at First Presbyterian it was rewarded with love, peace, and a deep sense of belonging.  Chronic illness gives you the exact opposite feeling, there is no justice or peace or belonging.  That’s part of the ball game you are playing.

Marty also had a couple of odd affects because of the brain trauma.  When we first came home she cried a lot.  Not tears, just the crying sounds.  To this day I’m not sure if it was sadness from the assault on her brain from the strokes or just the brain being broken enough to send weird signals to her body. 

We evolved from the crying to her saying, “oh, oh, oh” a lot.  She wasn’t hurting, it was just a verbal tic. That tic made it difficult to be anywhere quiet reigned, we weren’t quiet, and it was always disconcerting for me.

The very first time we got out to go attend a function we went to First Presbyterian in Dallas to listen to one of Marty’s favorite authors, Anne Lamott.  We hadn’t anymore gotten settled than Marty started humming, a new nervous tic.  She was nervous, so was I, maybe even embarrassed. 

She hummed through a lot of Lamott’s presentation until some cranky lady came up and said the humming was disturbing people.  I melted and we left. 

I wouldn’t do that today.  I learned not to be self-conscious or embarrassed by the odd things this disease foisted upon us.  Today I would have told the old crank to stick it.  I learned and grew a spine.

I told Jimmie, the preacher from long ago, that I was worried about being in church because some of these tics might disturb others.  Jimmie looked at me and said, “we will just hum along.”  Then at the top of the service he explained what was going on and put Marty and I at rest so we could enjoy the sanctuary.

I have been walking into that church for 30 years.  I have witnessed baptisms, weddings, stirring sermons, amazing music, and funerals.  Both of our kids preached from that pulpit, Marty was ordained there, and I got to lay hands on her, Marty sang there, I prayed there, and we watched over the youth of our church in that sanctuary.

Our daughter Erin was married there, and Jerry Barrett moved a pew for Marty’s wheelchair.  We loved Marty one last time at her funeral as my children and I spoke of why we loved this amazing woman and listened to Leslie, the preacher of now talk of that love and give comfort to our brokenness.

All in that same sanctuary.

That sanctuary is still a special place and when I walked through those doors one more time.  I felt safe, I felt full, I felt at home.

Man, it’s good to go home.