All My Churches

I don’t remember much of my first church. But I don’t remember much of anything before I was five. I called it the rainbow church because the halls were painted with rainbow stripes. I recently visited, and they had repainted the walls. I don’t know what to call it now.

When I was five, we attended a church that was in an old factory. A big room with high ceilings, I ran around everywhere and felt free. Mom says that during “meet and greet” I began the conversation by telling her age and weight. I don’t remember this. I do remember helping build our new church building, and then growing up in it.

I moved from one classroom to the next, losing teeth and the papers I was supposed to give my mother. When my sister was born there was a rosebud on the pulpit and a church announcement. In the classroom behind the baptismal I met Mr. Hedley, my favorite teacher. He attended my college graduation and gave me 25 one dollar bills. Fresh ones.

The big move was in middle school—to the upstairs classrooms. I was homeschooled, so church wasn’t religion to me—it was the outside world. I didn’t know anyone who didn’t go to church. Then I learned about denominations and all those arguments and disagreements that good people have. That surprised me. By high school, I learned that I didn’t fit with my old group anymore. That surprised me even more.

My family started going to a church where I belonged. We had meetings all the time, eating together, singing together, living together. There were about sixty members and we went by “chocolate” and “strawberry” when the question of race came up. After every service, everyone had a chance to share. They wanted to listen to you. Sometimes it took a long time, but every single person was heard.

There were rules like no pants and no whistling, but it was well worth it. I planned my week around church time because I wanted to be there. I knew something good would happen. Then something bad happened, but that story isn’t for today. I still love everyone dearly, but now I am a visitor there.

We spent a while “church visiting.” I liked most of the places. You never knew what you were going to get. I liked watching the people. I liked singing. But I didn’t like always being a visitor. Where you aren’t expected to be there or anywhere and it is all smiles. Life isn’t all smiles.

There was a church right down the street. This was the first church I joined as an adult. I had a station wagon and would pile all the kids in after church and we would get a burger somewhere. My younger sister complained that I stole all her friends. We found home again. But then changes took over and it wasn’t ours anymore. This time it took longer to find another church. My whole family was worn out with changing.

Brazil was now at least half of my life, and I was busy making it home. When I learned the language and lived on my own, I found my church in Paudalho. Church is a little different in Brazil. Pretty basic—a room (a house often), chairs, fans, and a guitar. Sometimes electrical equipment. Plus a whole lot of love.

Back in America, I followed my family to an old school building that had pure worship, chairs in the gym, fans in the summer, and coats in the winter. The pastor preached a chapter a week until the Bible ended and then he started again. Tattoos and black make-up sitting next to the preps. And most of all—they accepted me and my family. Now that I had home, I could be sent.

I continue to treasure beautiful friendships with people from every one of these buildings. Church is a place to be, to belong, to grow, to share, and yes, sometimes to leave. None of these churches need any other name or title than what I give you: home.