We are family...

At first this was going to be a post about my night last night. I had my first “gig” for Bethany where I talked about our adoption experience with Gracie at a local church. It was a praise and prayer service and typically they have various ministries from around the area come in order to share with their congregation their needs and how they can be praying. Cool, right? And since Saturday was the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, Sunday was Sanctity of Life day, having an adoption agency was a natural fit for the week. And trust me, I’ll get to that. I’ll tell you all about my speech and my reactions to the differences between their traditions and my own faith traditions. But as I’ve reflected on last night, I realize that I first must let you know something.

These people who I talked to, who prayed for me, are my family. And not just in some mambi-pambi metaphorical way because we all wear crosses and know the words to Kumbaya and Jesus Loves Me. As in, the basis of Christianity is that through Jesus’ death and resurrection, the Christian is adopted into a new family. A family where Jesus is not only Lord, but brother. Where we are taught to pray “Our Father.” Not just to remind us of who God is to us, but also to teach us who we are to one another. Brothers and Sisters. Flesh and blood. We belong to each other, permanently. Our liking one another or even agreeing with one another has nothing to do with it.

And because this is a family that resides here on earth in the fallen world, it can get hairy sometimes. And that is putting it nicely. Think of your family of origin: you have that one cousin who can’t seem to keep a job, the Aunt with the crazy hairdo, the nephew who insists on teaching your kids dirty words, the uncle with a drinking problem, the in-law with a million diplomas who talks like he’s hosting an NPR program, the grandma who wraps up her cat for Christmas. So it’s no wonder that when we, The Church, all get together, we find ourselves feeling like we’re in a National Lampoon’s movie. It’s no wonder that last night, at a Church different from mine, I channeled my inner Clark Griswold and thought, “Oh, Eddie. If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”

But like it or not, these folks are my folk. I fully plan on spending eternity with them. So if I use the term “they”, please note I am not meaning “THEY”. They are my people. They don’t look like me, worship like me, pray like me, but they are loved and redeemed by Jesus, JUST like me.

So please, as I relay to you some of the events from last night, be mindful of who you chuckle at. Because you ARE going to laugh. It was hilarious. But please don’t laugh at my family. Laugh at me. Laugh at the fact that at one point all I could do was pray in my brain, “Sweet Jesus, forgive me for feeling awkward and judging these people, and please don’t let me pee my pants.” Because peeing in my pants was a legitimate concern. Several times.

First off, I couldn’t find the church. It meets downtown in a building that sort of doesn’t look like a church. And my GPS told me I had arrived when obviously, I had not arrived. So I’m circling around, trying to make sure I’m not driving down a one way street incorrectly, trying to find a spot to parallel park my behemoth Suburban, while simultaneously fighting the butterflies in my stomach that are genuinely making me fear not just peeing on myself, but worse. As in, if I didn’t find the church soon, we’d have a real problem on our hands. And our tights. And perhaps, our shoes.

When I find the church, I start to consider what I’d learned about the Church and its congregation from my contact at Bethany and also the pastors at my church. Its members are diverse, hip, young, socially conscious, and they have a heart for adoption. They have a sizeable fund at their church just for helping its members finance adoptions. They have several families who’ve adopted from all over the world multiple times.

I was nervous about all the logistics—what to wear, would I talk too long (I don’t think I did), would I fidget (holding a microphone gave me something to do with my hands), would my new haircut drive me bonkers and be in my face the whole time (it wasn’t)? However, it would have been nice to know that this was a charismatic church. Had I known, I would not have fretted over whether I could wear jeans (I did not) or my Frye motorcycle boots (I did). I would not have spent 20 minutes in prayer that afternoon begging God to help me not sob uncontrollably the entire speech. (Bonus—I did not cry the entire time. Everyone else did. A lot. As in, at one point I actually said, “Wow! For a bunch of people gathered to praise God, we sure are doing a lot of crying!”)

It was a prayer service, so I figured that at a prayer service they would lay hands on me. I’m not crazy about strangers touching me, but seeing as the last time people layed hands on me and prayed over me I was in the hospital pregnant with Henry, I figured I was due. At least this time I’d bathed in 48 hours and was wearing underwear, right?

I was not expecting, however, for the lady next to me to be speaking in tongues.

It’s not uncommon when a group of people are in prayer and one person is praying aloud for others to quietly chime in their “Amens” and “Yes Lords”. Not really my bag, but whatever, I’ve come to expect and even find comfort in it. But not someone whispering in parseltongue next to me. At first I thought perhaps she was foreign and just praying in her native language. I peeked. Nope. She was shaking and speaking in tongues.

There was also a woman who softly sung "Holy Jesus, Hallelujah for Elizabeth" and things like that as though she were some weird Bat Mitzvah canter. This is when I began repenting of my own self-righteousness and begging for bladder control.

I was uncomfortable. And when I feel awkward, uncomfortable, or just don’t know what to do, I laugh. I laughed when Sloan first kissed me. (Not the reaction he was hoping for.) I laughed at a classmate’s mother’s funeral because my buddy Sarah had to hold hands with an elderly nun. So I also prayed they mistook my quaking body as those uncontrollable sobs I was so afraid of.

And at the end of the service, there was sort of a prayer altar call. Not an uncommon occurance, right? In fact, at the end of every service at my church, the Pastor invites those who would like to be personally prayed for to meet with an Elder at the side of the sanctuary. But these people were invited up to the front. And since I was a speaker at the service, I was sitting in the front row. So basically, the people seeking prayer were two feet in front of me.

And at one point a young man came up. And what I witnessed I really have no words for. I can only describe it as an exorcism of some sort as the gentleman was pounding the floor, yelling "F#*^ You Satan!"

I opened my eyes and looked around—in part to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, and also to be ready if Jesus showed up with snakes for us to wrangle. Perhaps the Frye boots were the right choice after all. Literally, I quoted Chevy Chase in my mind. “If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”

And while it was shocking, and different than what I am used to, I was moved by what was happening. This man was being freed. Any fool could see that he’d come to the service carrying around something. Guilt. Shame. Fear. Grief. Anger. All of the above. And though I didn’t understand the motions he was going through, I connected with him. I knew those burdens; I carry those burdens. And freedom? The freedom of having those things that strangle you, grip your chest so you can’t sleep at night, eat away at your selfhood, nailed to a tree and done away with forever? Well, that does (perhaps) merit shouting an F-bomb or two.

What was even more moving was how a trio of men came around him, held him, got down on the floor with him, cried with him, and assured him of Christ's power to forgive. Of him being a new creation. I heard them saying over and over, “You are loved. You are forgiven. God is for you. You are His. You are loved. You are forgiven. You are His.”

But yeah, as the service ended, I told the pregnancy counselor with me, "Yeah, I'm Presbyterian. We may have a few hand raisers here and there, but we. Do. Not. Do. This. It's cool, but wow."

But wow, indeed. How awesome and wack-a-doo my family is. Heaven is going to be a RIOT!