I found “god” in the tall pines and sunset views of Green Lake.  Along the rock labyrinth in the woods and through the barefoot singalong in the chapel.  I wouldn’t say any of these were miraculous but I felt a profound sense of connection to something bigger while participating in the Mom & Me summer camp at Pilgrim Center.

As I child I have some precise memories of being in the more traditional “churches” that peppered my youth.  The first memory I have was from the day when my dad’s grandmother died.  She wasn’t someone I really knew or felt connected to, but somehow I felt this reckoning with mortality, even as a very young child.  I remember the first church service I attended shortly after we received the news.  One of the hymns in that service was “How Great Thou Art?” and something about that sweeping melody and all the references to being in awe of this beautiful world and all its beings left me with goosebumps.

I attended the more conservative church that my dad’s family belonged to in Menomonee Falls each Christmas Eve.  All of my little cousins would perform in the pageant and we were always arriving right as the service was beginning so we had to cram into the overflow balcony seating.  The messages always felt ripe with guilt and shame, even though we were, in theory, there to celebrate the miraculous birth of Jesus.  Instead the minister would somehow work in a reference to the crucifixion and suck all the joy from the room.  But, it was still Christmas Eve after all, and my younger sister and I would quickly fill that bucket of joy right back up as we sang a different melody to Away in a Manger and giggled before skipping right out of that church and into my grandma’s living room for food and gifts and the overflowing energy of dozens of cousins.

As newlyweds, my husband Tim and I found a church in a new town we recently called home.  I loved the choral singing and before long we both joined the choir.  This became my first real church family.  They were kind and interesting.  Progressive and talented.  They baptized my babies and held me when I shared the loss of a tiny soul to miscarriage during the All-Saints service.

During this time, I also discovered the place where I could feel god the most acutely: in nature.  The church was connected with an outdoor summer camp that ran amazing programs, including a series of “& Me” camps where adults (moms, dads, grandparents) could bring a young child to experience camp together.  And along with all the “typical” camp things like arts & crafts or nature hikes or campfires, there were some other reflective times where we focused on being present and practicing gratitude.  Where we sang along to fresh but familiar songs while barefoot in a chapel with massive windows that overlooked the lake.  And where we came together to share evening vespers, relaying moments of awe and gratitude, before piling into one big heap of humanity to share bedtime stories.

One year, my eldest wanted to share our favourite bedtime story, which ends with the passage, “Hope and peace and love and trust.  All the world, is all of us.”  And in that moment, nothing could have felt more true.

We later relocated to Toronto, leaving all of our friends and relatives (blood, chosen and church family) behind.  We found a new church home in our new home.  More busy with 3 and soon 4 children (plus work and soccer and all the chaos of life) we were less active but still felt the sense of community that a church offers.  Bob, an elder member of the church, taught my children Sunday School for years – both in person and through Zoom, during the COVID years when life shut down.  Bob was curious and thoughtful and patient.  He always assumed good intent and made a significant effort to know and care about each of my children.  Once, when Christmas was approaching, I was trying to quiz my littles around why we celebrate Christmas.  They were a little slow, and so I gave them a clue… “it’s somebody’s birthday?… somebody we talk about at church…?”  And suddenly, my oldest son, who was probably 8 at the time, blurts out “Bob!”  He’s confident he’s just nailed it.  Instead, I had to explain to him that, no – the whole world doesn’t celebrate Christmas because it’s Bob’s birthday (which its not).  Perhaps the core religious teachings and figures have been lost on my children but I’m certain the sense of community and kindness has not. 

Last year, one of my best friends visited us in Toronto.  While I tried to offer her lists of exciting options to do or explore, she was insistent that she really wanted us to help her understand what we love about this new community we’ve adopted.  So I took her to church.  Not for a service, but for a concert of a black, indigenous folk artist who was playing in our sanctuary.  This performance included amazing music, wonderful storytelling, and a panel of community and religious members who addressed themes of generational trauma and how to move forward.  In the pews I saw Bob and others from our church family.  And as I heard the artist, Julian Taylor, singing “they tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds” I again, felt that vibration of connection I’ve now associated with god or the great mother or the universal spirit, whatever you choose to call her.

I am forever grateful for the journey that my church experiences have led me to explore.  This journey led me to more people and connections, and an eagerness to celebrate a bigger flow and awe for life.  It led me to study the Tao Te Ching and to perceive the vibrations of the earth and the ancestors.  To believe in the inter-connectivity of life and all beings.