Dichotomy

There is a place I like to sit in church. If I enter the sanctuary and turn right, there are a couple of rows from which I generally choose. I like the short back row of the front section on some Sundays. I can watch the congregation, see the words of the readings and hymns on the screens high above the pulpit and feel warm and safe on the edges, yet included, in a crowd of people.

On other days, I sit in the front row of the back section of chairs. Though it’s mere feet away from the formerly described seat, it’s an altogether different feeling for me. Since there is an open area before me, I feel more exposed. People smile as they walk past and I often shift to allow them more room as they herd children to the bathroom or exit to answer a cell phone. I’m more outwardly focused in that seat. There’s more ‘what can I do’ where the seat slightly closer to the front seems to elicit a ‘who can I be’ feeling.

The interesting thing is that I don’t consciously decide where to sit. It just happens, and until today, I didn’t give it much thought. And had we not had a guest pastor who talked for nearly an hour himself, leading to moments of exasperation and boredom, I mightn’t have considered it at all.

I chose the third seat from the door in the front row of the rear section this morning. I tucked my gift under my seat, having received it upon entering the lobby.

I was “good morning”ing my way through the crowd of people when Sandy reached to shake my hand.

“Have we met?” She asked in typical Presbyterian fashion.

“I don’t think so.” I smiled and shook my head, offering my name and that I’d attended sporadically for several months.

“Did you get a welcome bag?” She asked, reaching for the last one on the table.

“No, I didn’t, but that’s really fine. I don’t need to take your last one.”

“Of course you do!” She insisted, placing the handle in my fingers. I didn’t even peek inside before finding a chair and smiling at the woman two chairs down. She immediately scooted over to introduce herself.

“It’s a pretty church.” I offered, not sure how to fill the post-introduction silence.

“Thank you.” She said, ducking her head graciously. “The windows have stories behind them, you know.” Since I did not, in fact, know, she told me that the pastel panes came from a church that had merged with theirs, the vibrant rectangular panes from the old building that had given way to the new structure and the top octagons had been specially designed for the new church. They’re individually exquisite, yet they don’t fit together. There’s no cohesive theme and I was rather relieved that it was supposed to look as though they came from different places. When you knew the story, it all made sense. You use what you have because the pieces are meaningful.

It’s a bit like how I feel about my book. There are these pieces that I have written – I uploaded them to another blog (carefully password protected since it’s not ready for readers) and looked at what exists and what’s clearly missing. The thing is that it’s not very cohesive. There’s dating, family, faith, professional goals, friendships, online journals… It looks a bit slapped together – like I failed to pick a theme and just chucked everything I could think of into a book. My feeling is that piecing it together is the important part. If I can find the underlying self in what I’m trying to say, it’ll make sense because there are separate facets of my personality that struggle to exist in the same space. The disparity between who I am in church wars with who I hope to be in a relationship and I get confused as to what the goal is. Who is it that I’m trying to be?

Interestingly enough, the title of the long sermon was “Who do you think you are?” And if I think past the family photos and the astronomy lesson he presented to the underlying message, I think the guest pastor was trying to get at the dichotomy of our existence. We are miniscule from the perspective of the universe. Teeny, tiny specks of dust. Yet I believe we are important to God – so important, in fact, that He sent His only Son to die for our sins. It’s making those two ideas fit together that can be a challenge. Find the humility and pair it with the comfort of knowing we’re immeasurably loved in an environment that is impossibly large.

Likewise, while defining who I am, there is a knowledge and acceptance of what currently is as well as a willingness to discover new interests and traits as I grow. The strong calling of faith – the joy of singing hymns and reading scripture – that gets overshadowed all too often by the lure of the secular. I’d rather check site stats and read new blog posts than do my morning devotional. Yet I stick to listening to my Praise playlist on my morning commutes rather than taking in a radio broadcast or a different iPod selection. I want to be in a relationship, yet refuse to call the man who has expressed interest in me. I’m terribly lonely sometimes, yet can guard my space with an almost vicious intensity.

It’s all about making it fit. Transitioning from one chapter to the next so that I incorporate past lessons without drowning in the pain of them. That I conduct myself with kindness while retaining some selfish energy. To make progress at work even as I make social interactions a priority.

“I think it’s the chapters I’ve been unable to write that could be the most important.” I told Friend over waffles this afternoon.

She nodded sleepily. I could do the same. Because when she asked if I was tying pieces together as she folded laundry, I just replied.

“Nope. Writing a blog post about tying book pieces together.” Eventually I’ll get around to actually doing it.