Hold on... I think this is going to be a very stream-of-consciousness type of entry (although definitely less risque than yesterday's).
We had terrific thunderstorm yesterday in the late afternoon/ early evening. The worst of it came at the time I needed to leave for Vespers. Many streets were flooding, visibility was very bad. At one intersection I saw a basketball float by.
As I zig-zagged my way through the streets, trying to find an un-flooded underpass, I reminisced about the many times I've walked to Vespers in the rain. First, at camp- "Rain Gear!" we counselors would announce, and then we'd lead our young charges to chapel, taking the long route around the hill instead of straight across the grassy top, as a precaution again lightning.
Then I thought of seminary, where you'd simply put on your jacket and dash to the chapel, just a few dozen steps from the women's dorm. I loved this part of life there- twice daily chapel, just a stone's throw away. No sliding down the icy hill in winter like the male and married students.
I arrived at our cemetary chapel and dashed inside. Attendance at Thursday Vespers is usually sparse (10-15), but was even more dainty today, the rain keeping people from venturing out. But I didn't mind- as much as I love it when there's a big choir and full pews, I always look forward to Thursdays. It's quiet and calm.
At first I was the only singer, but partway through Ps 140, an alto came in. So we sang a duet- she's got a lovely voice that blends well with mine. The Obikhod tones are difficult to sing, in terms of expressing the text. But with two people, you can move more easily, more expressively- you can actually make them more melodic, and less like extended chord progressions. It was so nice- and as we sang, I wondered how I could help the larger choir
learn this expressive singing, at least a little bit.
After church, driving home, the rain having stopped and the flooding receded, my mind was full of seminary. I was thinking of my sister, who is there now, slightly jealous of her access to the calm, orderly, beautiful services (like the one I'd just had) every day.
Going to chapel was never hard for me in seminary. (Applying myself to my studies was- I fudged on the reading A LOT). I would skip a service every now and then, thinking I needed a break, but I never felt better for having done so.
Suddenly, I remembered my first Holy Week there. The services were long and numerous, and I felt myself getting more and more stressed out, my voice getting tired.So I decided I needed to take a service off. It couldn't be one of the daytime ones- they would need the singers. It would have to be one of the big nighttime ones- they were well attended and I wouldn't be missed.
Inevitably, I was asked to do something (by the then-dean's wife) for that particular service. And I said no, explaining I wouldn't be there. "She'll understand," I thought. "She was a P.K. like me, she's grounded, she's realistic, she knows that sometimes it's just too much."
When I told her she gave me a long look, and I geared up, ready to defend myself if need be. But she just said, "okay," and went to find someone else for the task.
In the end, I went to the service anyway. When I came in, I took the empty chair beside her. She reached over and patted my knee. I waited for her to speak, to say "I knew you'd come," or, "Changed your mind?" But she didn't. Just patted my knee, and it was enough.
I was overcome by a desire to have her close by, to pat my knee and understand without saying a word. I've been going through a faith-crisis of sorts lately, but I won't say much about it here, because frankly, it's too personal to just put out there- I'm nowhere near ready to speak of it.
I'll just say that there are times where I don't know what I'd do without these quiet Thursday Vesperss. Even when my faith seems most troubled, the services keep me coming. Sometimes it's just that the order makes me feel that I've got some structure in life. Sometimes it's the beauty of the glow of candles or the incense's aroma. Sometimes the shimmer of gold on the halos of the icons is enough. And always I think- there's the Eucharist.
Even when the doubts are strongest and I'm the angriest at God, I think, "but I must have communion." And that tells me- there must be truth there. So I cling to those things- to the Chalice, to the structure, smells, candles, and gold, and let them be enough for now.
