Making Peace with God

In my agnostic but spiritual, skeptical, anti-patriarchal kind of way.

I had tried three times now. Every time I attempted to enter one of the churches of my childhood, the door was literally locked. Don’t churches want people to come in? What kind of church is closed on a Tuesday afternoon?

It had been an integral part of my book-writing plan—to sit in the pews of the churches in which I grew up, since clearly it was inappropriate and unrealistic for me to sit inside the homes of my childhood. What idiot would let a stranger who claimed to once live in their house sit in the middle of the living room cross-legged trying to channel her old self through some sort of meditative nostalgia séance?

Because that’s what I wanted: to occupy the same space I once did, to find some sort of integration or healing or reclamation. And yes, I could drive by my houses and dorm rooms, but I couldn’t sit there and “get in touch with little Stephanie.” I could take a selfie in front of all my old schools, but thanks to the gun violence climate, strangers are not allowed in to sit in tiny desks and go into a fugue state imagining tangrams and the Oregon Trail.

But churches? Everyone was welcome (I mean. . .), right? And I couldn’t get in.

My first attempt at “Operation Go Back to Church” occurred a few months before I filed for divorce, right after the funeral of a beloved family friend. On our long drive back to their home, my parents and I had taken a detour to visit the church I belonged to when I was 6-10 years old. I eagerly walked to the front of the building, imagining what it would feel like to walk inside, only to find that the doors were locked.

Locked! I had been so desperately longing to see if the carpet was still the same in the youth room, if the gymnasium still had an old Pepsi machine in the hallway, if I could see my ten-year-old self—cast in the impressive lead of Elijah—belting out, “GOD! With a capital G!!!!” from the pulpit. And I didn’t get the chance—because church was closed.

It was my maiden voyage in my nostalgia pilgrimage—the idea that spurred me to write my memoir. I was going to visit all 17 of my former homes, and as a bonus, I would also visit churches, schools, and other significant places like dives where I drank coffee with roommates and bars where I threw up all over my shoes. It was a solid plan.

The first time I tried to visit the church where I was baptized, I walked covertly around the facility, but there was a wedding taking place in the sanctuary. Plus, two of my college roommates were with me, and it’s hard to get in the “cosmic connection with one’s highest self and the divine” zone when you have witnesses. So I tried again, alone, nearly a year later.

I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and started by attempting to open Door 6. It was locked, which was not shocking, given the sign outside: “Office Hours: Monday-Thursday 9:00-6:00; Friday: 9:00-12:00.

Of course it was nearly 2:00 on a Friday. And yet, relentless hope always intact, I walked around the perimeter, opening every door from number 6 to the main entrance. At Door 2, I uttered a plea out loud to whomever might be listening: my guides, my angels, my friends on the other side?

“Why won’t any of my old churches let me in?” I questioned in a whisper. My subconscious mind answered, “It’s a sign. You aren’t welcome here. You turned your back on the church because it hurt you so badly. You can’t come in.”

My next thought was, “It’s probably because in my manuscript I wrote that I wanted to smoke a joint and then go meditate or have a Zoom therapy session inside the sanctuary. That was irreverent.”

I approached the final door. It was, of course, locked. And yet, just inside the glass, I saw a woman walking by. She saw me wave and came to open the door.

“Can I help you?” the 20-something asked kindly.

My heart was pounding with hope. “Hi! I was baptized here, and I’m from out of town, and I haven’t been inside in over 20 years, and. . .”

I was absolutely unprepared for what happened next. I started to cry. I was even less prepared for the words that tumbled out next, and more surprisingly, the fact that they were genuine. “I just wanted to come inside and pray.”

“Of course!” she said, ushering me in as I babbled with gratitude.

“Really? Oh, thank you so much. Homer Larson baptized me 45 years ago, and I haven’t been here since I sang with the Wartburg Choir over 20 years ago, and it would mean so much to me.”

She told me Homer Larson now had a new chapel named after him, and I could go there, unless I wanted to sit somewhere else? She wasn’t sure if the sanctuary was open today.

I seized the moment. “If the sanctuary is open, it would mean so much to me to go in.”

She led me there, and once again, the door was locked. But she fumbled for her keys and tried one. It opened, and more tears poured from my eyes.

“Thank you so much. I promise I won’t take too long.”

“Take as much time as you need,” she assured me. “I’ll tell the janitor to lock up behind you.”

I knew exactly where I wanted to sit, and I put my hands at my heart, then let them fall open at my side while tears coursed down my cheeks. I felt an immediate sense of peace, of homecoming, of welcome. I didn’t hear the voice of God or angels singing, but I felt something—a quiet nudge that everything was OK, that I would always be welcome here.

I remembered the stories of toddler me, imitating the mighty Homer in the pulpit, banging my first and shouting, “And the Lord SAID!” on the kitchen table. The oft-repeated caricature was a staple in our family lore. I remembered a magical but intimidating plastic play structure in the nursery; I remember my earnest questions in middle school Bible camp that were met with gentle laughter from my counselors; I remember feeling panicked and awkward and woefully irrelevant amongst my 12-year-old peers who knew things about sex that I did not. I remember singing in the balcony with choirs in childhood, adolescence, and college.

I felt the ghosts of old versions of me—a tiny child who somehow gleaned that I was both good and bad while sitting in the pew—a curious creature who lived to explore dark hallways and stairwells and ran around Bethel Hall in search of freedom and the softest chocolate cupcakes with white frosting. They were all there, and so was I.

I knelt near the altar where they served communion, heard the church bell chime 2:00 and laughed and cried. I said goodbye to my old selves and stood to leave, murmuring, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” unstoppable tears streaking my cheeks while l smiled so hard my face hurt.

I stopped to sit in the new chapel, and since I was the only person in the building aside from the man cleaning the floors, I let myself wander. What I really wanted was to go up the stairs, the dark, magical stairs that were burned in my childhood memory. I saw the janitor, headphones over his ears, turn the giant riding vacuum away from me, and like the Brat Pack running away from Principal Vernon in The Breakfast Club, I turned on my heel and darted up the stairs.

I found my choir room, the Sunday school classrooms from nursery school and middle school, the old vestibule where I once hugged the wrong Dad legs. As a child, I longed to explore dark buildings alone—it was a creepy, secret delight of mine. And here I was—the sole (unauthorized) inhabitant of this magical building where once upon a time, I learned to fall into the pull of the divine. It was delicious, and I crept down the stairs, waved at the janitor, and walked out to my car.

I wasn’t sure what exactly just happened, or how to describe the way I felt. I think it was peace.

• I am offering a $30/annual subscription special this summer to thank readers for their support and to make it more affordable. Last Friday, I shared my first bonus column of the summer for paid subscribers, The Song That Made Me Leave. If you have the means and would like to read more of these posts, subscribe here:

• After two amazing sessions of Writing our Eras, a prompt based creative writing workshop that focuses on Taylor Swift’s music, we are offering a July session by popular demand! It’s a 3-week long community class that beings July 10th. Swifties and non-Swifties, and writers of ALL levels (even absolute beginners) welcome! Sign up and learn more here.

• We had an utterly gorgeous guest post on Midstory last week. If this kind of writing about marriage and divorce speaks to you, sign up for an interest list for our fall HerStories workshop “Writing Divorce” here. No commitment, just to stay in the loop!

• I have two Moms Unhinged Comedy shows coming up, CO locals! One on July 14th in Louisville and one on July 17th in Denver. I would love to see you there! These shows are SO much fun!

XOXO,
Steph