How I Found a Church Home
And stopped believing I was a visitor
I stood when my name was read from the guest book at Second Baptist Church. Worshipers twisted around in their pews to get a good look. Having visited other churches, I knew this routine. Behind anonymous smiles, they were appraising the relative demureness of my attire and rating the level of Christian piety in my demeanor. I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
I met the gazes of those who’d turned to look, giving them a queenly nod.
After all the visitors had been introduced, Pastor Howard spread his arms, the full sleeves of his white robe like angels’ wings. “Won’t you please remain standing and allow us to give you a proper Second Baptist welcome?” He paused. “Okay, church, let’s go to work.”
A wailing chord exploded from the organ. Windows rattled. Floorboards shook. A wave of chatter rumbled over the pews; hellos bounced off the walls. Laughter rose to the ceiling and rained down on my head. The congregation surged into the aisles and bore down on me, a sanctified tornado with arms poking out like telephone poles torn from the ground. Before I could duck, the arms consumed me. “Welcome.” “Nice to have you here.” “Welcome.” “Morning.” “Bless you.”
I could only stammer. “Thank you. Thank you.”
The next time I went to Second Baptist, the guest book lay open on the welcome table, every blank line a puzzle. How many visits before you were no longer a visitor? I signed in, but felt a little guilty when my name was announced. Pastor Howard smiled as usual. “We’re happy to have you with us again this morning.” He moved on to quiz the other guests. “Where are you from?” “How did you find us?” “Do you have a church home?” Then he spread his arms. “Okay, church, let’s go to work.”
Windows rattled. The floor shook. The organist pounded the keyboard — he’d added a drummer for reinforcements. I was less of a novelty than the first time; there were breaks in the hand-shaking. I eavesdropped. Behind me, two ladies hadn’t seen one another since one of them had hip surgery. Another pair hadn’t met since Mother Jones’ funeral.
Sundays marched by, and the landscape took on a familiar shape. The third pew from the front had extra legroom. It was reserved for a clutch of bent-over matrons who parked their wheelchairs and walkers in the added space. Behind the disabled parking sat Sister Pearl, who frequently strode in late. She always paused to greet me, kissing the air beside my cheek and leaving a scent of citrusy perfume in her wake. Her pew filled in with a white-haired couple, a spotless but squirmy kindergartner who I learned was their great-grandson, and a woman who ran the Thursday night marriage class. I sat behind Sister Pearl.
“Church, let’s go to work.”
The organist got a head start on the chatter explosion, and he’d called in a trumpeter to supplement the drummer, but they still lost the battle for decibels. I had stopped signing the guest book, which ended my right to the official welcome. I remained seated in content obscurity, until a woman leaned out of the tornado and reached for my hand. “Good morning, how are you?” I opened my mouth to answer, but she was washed downstream. Here came another. “Good to see you.” And another.
Me? Why?
“Okay, church, let’s go to work.”
Was I now part of the church that must go to work? Should I join in or stay out of the way? An ace bandage around my knee (thanks to a yoga-induced sprain) gave me cover. I feigned temporary disability. Pretended to study the hymnal, then pretended to search through my purse for tissues. But no one asked why I wasn’t performing my churchly responsibilities. No one glanced at me with suspicion. How long could I justify my ambivalence? After all, a visitor is a person who needs to ask directions to the restroom. By this time, I knew three different routes.
Another week went by. The guest list was short, only one name. A young woman who looked as though a gust would blow her over.
That was me, the first day I had stood as a visitor. Then the Second Baptist welcome had rolled over me. One by one, those Baptists had taken my hand, and each encounter was the calm in the middle of the storm. It was fitting to pass the welcome along to a solitary young woman.
I could do that. Say hello. Turn around. Return to my pew. But this greeting thing was fraught with peril. It could be a surreptitious test for those who inhabited the limbo between guest and member of the family. I waited to shake the young woman’s hand and turned to reclaim my seat. The crowd was going in the opposite direction. I squeezed through sideways. Bumped shoulders. “Excuse me.” Stepped on toes. “Sorry.” I listened for muttered criticism but heard only cheery voices.
After I got back to my spot, nervous energy kept me on my feet. A soprano who’d tut-tutted my bandaged leg the week before was marching toward the visitor. She stopped beside me, waggling a finger. “Should you be standing? How’s your knee?” A deaconess descended from the platform and waved as she approached. She would point out my faux pas. Disapproval would be dripping from her voice. She rested her hands on my shoulders. “I’ve so enjoyed seeing you smiling out here every week. I hope you’ll be coming back.”
“Okay, church. Let’s go to work.”
Windows rattled. The floor shook.
I let the tornado suck me into the aisle. I surged toward a family who had just been introduced. I shook their hands. “Welcome. Nice to have you here.” The crowd swept me toward the sanctuary doors, across the back row where the ushers sat, and down the aisle on the other side.
Brother Organist nodded a greeting without missing a note. “Morning, Miss Dawn.” A woman sitting beside her walker reached up to hug me. “Hello, sugar.”
Momentum was slowing as I reached Sister Pearl. She took my hand in hers and kissed the air beside my cheek. It was an offering, granted Sunday after Sunday, without fail. I breathed in the scent of her perfume, citrus, not too sweet.
The tornado petered out and dropped me on the very spot it had lifted me from. The pew behind Sister Pearl. My seat.
