So We Beat On

Even the men are old. A healthy mix of generations fills the church, but I notice the old men. Most, if not all, are related to me. They sit in the pews on the right side of the sanctuary. I sit next to my cousin on the left. Husband and wife, mother and father, brother and sister divided by the center aisle. The pews are filled with aunts and uncles and cousins. They are great aunts and once-removed-great cousins and second uncles and third and oh I can’t keep track. But we are family.

I lift the hymnal and open to page 86. These are old and familiar and sung a cappella. The traditions and rules and since of right-n-wrong runs deep in this church filled with my family. Some have softened over the years, and they’re different for men and women, whether you’re married or single, young or old, converted or not. No beards. Only black suit-n-tie. Skirts below the knee. No slacks for women. Heads covered. No musical instruments except the human voice.

Over the years I have recoiled against these rules and regulations, and I still do. I felt rejected when they rejected my divorced mother. But this day I rest in the love of generations, even the old men. My second and third great uncles once-removed are in their seventh and eighth decade, and leave their homes every week to gather together, to love and be loved.

Our voices rise, filling the sanctuary. The words swell deep in my third chakra, my solar plexus, that space deep in my belly, and rise to join generations that have come before and will follow after. Surprised at the ease, the months (has it only been eight months?) of mindful breathing and meditation and core stretches and poses done with my yoga family are paying dividends today. My voice is strong and gathered and resonates. And I smile.

My cousin leans in, “the words are so good.” She too ran from the legalism.

“I know.”

We smile, and we know. Despite the traditions or maybe because of them, this place, these voices, the truth of these words fills our hearts.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

The Flying Lessons
Be honest with God.
Feel the pain no matter how big.
Trust yourself.

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