megfowler.com

Tonight, I read three different pieces of scripture to an audience filled with people who knew me as a child, but don’t know me anymore.

And as I got hugs and “Oh! You grew up cute!” words and winks from old men, I felt oddly at home in a place that hasn’t been home to me in years.

I am different now, so different, and the things I say and think have changed. But they haven’t changed at all, these people, save for the gray in their hair and a slower step as they make their way down the aisles.

It’s the craziest thing to step back into your history and find whole parts of it completely intact — and yet completely foreign, at the same time.

My dad returned two years ago to the church he pastored when I was in high school. Things have changed a great deal since he was there last; the congregation has shrunk, the neighborhood has roughened significantly, and the building itself is in a state of disrepair.

The church had moved to that location when he was still pastor, hoping to reach out to families at the nearby military base, and thousands of other people arriving in town to set up their homes and lives.

They moved from a classic old church to a squat converted office building, from the tiny downtown core to the suburbs. From the familiar into mystery.

It was a gutsy choice, and it paid off at first. Standing room only on Sunday mornings. Classes full of fidgety little kids singing songs. Mothers’ groups and seniors’ groups and groups for people for whom there were no other groups.

This is the church he left behind when he left a few years later, called to a different place and a different group of hopeful souls. They were very much alive.

And I’m not sure how quickly it happened, but things began to suffer a bit in his absence.

Then they suffered a lot.

The base closed down, the slumlords moved in, and the church suffered break-in after break-in. They set up a clothing bank and support systems for families who were low on resources, and even as they continued to give all they could, their numbers shrank.

Wealthy families left the church, seeking easier digs.

People who felt their children weren’t “safe” moved on.

Soon it was all old people and die-hards and folks from the neighborhood who were drawn in by the warmth and the tiny, determined group that showed up every Sunday.

And then they called my dad and asked him to do what he could to get them back on track. Maybe onto a better track.

He’s been there ever since, working full-time on a part-time salary, playing his guitar to lead the singing, searching his heart to preach all the truth he knows.

My mom teaches Sunday School, hugs everyone who needs one, and out-cooks everyone else at the potlucks.

This is what they do. Because it’s what they love.

And so I did it with them, since it’s Christmas, and, well… that’s my family.

Here’s how it looked:

The advent wreath my mama made.

My natty father, rockin’ near the Christmas tree.

A totally random child who wanted my camera.

And, last but not least…

Something I’ve seen from the back seat a thousand thousand times over my 32 years.

It’s not that my parents and I agree about everything, or that we ever will.

It’s not that things are always easy in any of our lives.

It’s not that we don’t fight… because we do.

It’s not that my faith is the same as it was back then — though I wouldn’t say it’s better or worse, just different.

It’s not that I don’t long for a family of my own, with a husband and kids and a tree.

And it’s not even that I will ever be the same girl I was at 5, at 15, at 25… or last year.

It’s just that they are not people who give up on anyone.

That they love without holding back.

That they tell me they are proud of me every chance they get.

That they are my mom and dad, my first and best home, and the best thing about any of my Christmases.

And that’s how we found ourselves driving back from a tiny, struggling church, fighting the wind and the rain on the roads, listening to Dylan Thomas talk about Christmas in Wales, and thinking in our own hearts and minds how lucky we are to have each other, to have a home to go back to, and to know what it means to hope, even when that hope is laced with questions and concerns at times.

So.

No matter what else I can say about my life, I can say I am coming from a blessed place.

What I do with it from there is my problem, or my joy.

Tonight, it is all joy.

To each and every one of you, I send my Christmas Eve love and my best, best wishes for your hearts, your families, your hopes, and your futures.

I am thrilled to know y’all.

And no, I don’t know why I get all of this abundance either. I sure haven’t done much to deserve it.

Except for this, any chance I get…

Because that’s how they taught me to live.