Community

It is so hard to build when we need it most

Chaos, family, protests, love … Fighting the first, needing the later

Artwork by Annie Allen

Never has it been more important than now, living in our divided country, to form communities; communities for conversations, communities for support, and communities for acting.

If you, like I, are distressed with the state of our country and world, I urge you to call and write your representatives, organize action groups, and openly state who you are and what you stand for. When you stand up, you are reminding other people that they too can stand up, and doing something is always better than doing nothing.

I also urge you to reach out to someone who "is on the other side," and have a conversation. I did this recently with a dear friend of mine. We care about many of the same issues, but have drastically different ideas on the role of government, the facts about most everything, and ways to find solutions to global warming, rising prices, and basic human rights. This conversation was painful and important. I don't want to divide the world into two categories. I don't want to only live in my bubble of facts and beliefs. I want to create bridges that will allow us to come together as we move forward to save our democracy and our planet.

Lastly, I am reminding myself to choose love. I grew up in a family where my mother and father had many different basic beliefs, but disagreements were not the center of their relationship. Instead, they focused on having honest conversations about real issues, giving back to those in need, and standing up for what they thought was right. Disagreement and love were never mutually exclusive.

It is with love and hope that I urge each of you to act on your beliefs, because it is only in action that we can change the world

On a Tangent: Growing up the right way — going to church with love, laughter, and plenty of doubt

Community for me growing up meant Sunday dinners at my Grandmother's house, campfire girl meetings and summer camps, and most of all church. Church was a place where I sat with my father through long sermons, watched my mother lead and participate in music, and connected with other children and then later young adults my age. Church for my family was a place to worship God, but more importantly, it was a place to gather with other people and be a part of a community.

I learned my parents' beliefs about religion and what was important in their lives by watching and listening. I did not hear my mother say: "I am a Christian," or my father say, "I am agnostic." These beliefs only became clear slowly over time as I watched my mother pray and read the bible, and listened to my dad complain and question the pastor's sermons and the focus of his church men's outreach group. Mostly, I didn't pay much attention; these lessons were like background noise that I didn't really hear, but which sunk into my subconscious just the same.

"Marieski, would you like to say grace?" my father would always ask each night as we gathered at the kitchen table for dinner.

"Dear God, thank you for this food," were almost always her simple words. We would all bow our heads as she said the blessing and join in with the "Amen" at the end. And that would be that. We would then move on to talk about our plans for the week, funny or sad or happy things that happened that day, the latest escapades of our dog Trigger, or some ordinary something else. The prayer started our family meal, but the bible and its tenants were rarely what we talked about.

The other time that prayer was a ritual for me growing up was right before bed when my mother would "tuck me in." She taught me to say a simple prayer to God about what I was thankful for. She also taught me that prayers weren’t to be used to ask for more Barbies, a new puppy, or a victory in an upcoming sporting competition.

The best part of the nightly "tuck-in" though was never the prayers. The best part of the "tuck-in" was when my mother would settle down in the bedroom with me and read or tell me stories about the adventures she and her six siblings had while they were growing up. These stories made me feel connected to my much larger family whom I rarely saw as they lived on the opposite coast of the country.

My father, a math professor and the main breadwinner for our family, was less involved in our daily rituals, but he always made time to do things with me. He taught me how to ski, took me hiking, and played games with me. He really liked games like Mastermind, where you have to use clues and logic to solve a puzzle.

"The thinking required by this game is what mathematics is all about," my father would tell me. "You are good at this. You will be a good mathematician."

I always liked hearing my father's praise, but in addition to learning deductive reasoning I also gained a window into my dad's brain. I could tell that logic and thinking were in some ways his religion.

"Do you believe in God," I remember asking him.

"I am not sure if there is a God or not, but I might as well believe in him in case he exists," was often his reply.

I wondered if this kind of belief would be good enough for God. But then, I too was uncertain as to whether there was something more and liked the idea of erring on the side of caution without a required commitment.

Despite my father's shaky beliefs, he was a regular churchgoer, I think mostly because he wanted to support my mother. My mom would often sing or play her violin during a church service, and my father loved to watch and listen to my mother's performances. Perhaps he, like I, loved to see her transform from a timid housewife into a bold musician. When she played the violin, she stood tall, held her bow high above the violin, and then brought it down with sure strokes across the strings. Similarly, when she sang, she looked like a confident meadowlark, calling out its beautiful song for all to hear.

After church, my father would always tell my mother how beautiful the music was, and then he would analyze the quality of the sermon. More often than not, he did not like the message. He would say things like: "Bill (the preacher) didn't have anything to say today; he just went on and on about nothing" or "Do they expect me to check my brain at the door?" Occasionally, the sermon would meet my dad's standards, and he would say, "Bill gave a good sermon today."

I was usually surprised that my dad had heard enough of the sermon to have an opinion. He and I would usually sit side by side in a pew, and partway through the service, my father would fall asleep. He had a technique for sleeping at church. When he began to get sleepy (most every Sunday), he would open a bible or a hymnal and bend his head over the book so it would look as if he was praying. However, this system had a problem: he snored -- loudly. It was my job to elbow him when he started to snore or when it was time to stand up and sing a hymn.

My mother was the only one in the family who was devout. She would not only pay attention during Sunday sermons but would also read the bible at home. For a time, I followed her example and also read the bible, especially the New Testament, the part of the bible she told me was most important. This opened the door for us to have conversations about Jesus’ teachings. His lessons that I remember most were: accept the outcasts because we are all sinners, if someone wants your coat, give them your shirt as well, and live a simple life following God rather than seeking riches.

But I really learned these lessons more by watching my parents. I witnessed them hosting refugees who were waiting for permanent housing, raising a foster child, and inviting (much to my brother and my dislike) congregation members to our Thanksgiving dinner because they had no place else to go. In addition, my dad would visit men in prison, and plan activities and march in war protests with his Veterans for Peace group and my mom would give away anything she had if she thought it would help someone else. I remember always being almost confused that she would take her pot of "Marie money to spend how she wanted’ and give it to a charity. My parents did not talk about God while doing these things; in fact, they didn't talk much about doing these things at all.

Today, as I am seeking community and ways to build bridges, I look to my parents' examples. They cared about the world and were active participants in making it a better place. And maybe it was easier to act then than in today’s bitterly divided America, but I believe that no matter what, they would have had hard conversations with anyone willing to openly discuss issues, and they would have acted…even if it was unpopular or hard to do.