God is on Facebook

My move back to Edgartown this past spring to my childhood home, the actual house in which I grew up, a move that involved much laborious, hands-on renovating and repair, all jammed into about a ten-week period, with multiple trips to Boston, and deadlines, was just about the most challenging couple of months of my life, physically. It's amazing, isn't it, what one is able to accomplish when there's a deadline (my husband always used to say, "The amount of time you have is the amount of time it will take to complete a task").

My move back home was part and parcel of the obvious dead-end I had hit in my Jewish life, both professionally and spiritually. The paltry, extremely part-time and much-less-than-satisfying job that I had ended up with, a job that used about 5% of my time and talent, had ended suddenly in April (by e-mail, the day before Passover: "We can't afford a cantor"). And with no job on the horizon - due partly to the economy, but in all honesty, even though my Hebrew was very good and my voice was certainly good enough, there were many occasions where I simply was not accepted as a Jew - all I had to show for my Judaism, after twelve years of intense study and involvement, were less than a handful of true friends and a couple of kosher kitchens; no God that I could touch or see, and after having spread myself thin by working in multiple temples and Hebrew schools over the years, I had no real community I could call my own. I had ended up as a not-untypical Jew - non-affiliated and barely observant (keeping kosher was the last to go; I loved keeping kosher. I always said, keeping kosher is like a Jewish GPS; three times a day I knew where I was on the planet). A person who is Jewish by birth, who never even sets foot in a synagogue, at least has familial ties and traditions - primordial memories - that help to maintain a Jewish identity. I didn't even have that. I was empty. I had nothing. Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests... but I didn't have a home.

All those hours that were spent painting and repairing my grandparents' house, moving boxes and furniture, relocating my entire life, had begun stirring memories of my family - my beautiful Methodist grandmother, and my childhood and my religious roots, and were awakening a longing that I couldn't identify at first, but that I would soon recognize as my need to come home to the church - to the Roman Catholicism I had loved but had left twelve years ago for what I thought at the time was a higher calling that would engage even more of my musical talents and spirituality.

But what to do? I called my friend, Passionist Father Vincent Youngberg, a priest I had made friends with years ago and with whom I had remained in touch, and could barely form the question, as it was such a scary thought: "Have you ever heard of someone who converted to Judaism and then unconverted and went back to Christianity?" He responded, "Well, no, I've never heard of anyone who did that, but if someone came to me under those circumstances, I would take that person into my arms." The tears that flowed during that conversation told me I was on the right path.

On Sunday, June 17, I wrote in my journal: I really need to get back to church. God is calling me home.

I deliberated for a couple of days, trying to work up the courage to go to Michael - my former-parish-priest-become-friend-and-confidant (I wonder, sometimes, if he ever knew that at times, even while I was deeply engaged in Judaism, he was more of a mentor and guide than any of my rabbis or teachers). I was terrified, really (of what? Admitting failure? But I hadn't failed - I had accomplished what I had set out to do, in spades - most of it, anyway).

On Tuesday morning, I woke up and said to myself, I think today's the day. I think I'll walk down to the rectory tonight and visit Mike.

At some point during the morning I opened my Facebook page and saw that my daughter, who with her partner had set out the day before on a road trip from Los Alamos, New Mexico, home to the Vineyard, had posted a status update that included a phone-photo, taken from the car, of a 50' cross on the side of the highway, a photo titled, simply, Texas. Okay, great, they're on their way, and isn't it great that I can follow their progress - while in the back of my mind thinking, hmmm...now that's a weird photo for my non-religious daughter even to have taken, never mind to have posted onto Facebook.



Texas

Later in the day there was another status update from the road, from her partner, from Oklahoma. Okay, great progress. Wait a minute - it's another 50' highway cross. Okay, what's going on here? Two photos of crosses, from two of the least likely people I would think of to post photos of crosses onto their Facebook pages.



Oklahoma

Ahhh - got it!

Down I went to the rectory, and instead of sitting back in an end-of-day, reclining pose, perched myself upright and said, "I'm ready to come home." And Fr. Mike - unflinchingly - did exactly as Vincent said that he himself would do - he opened his arms and gave me a welcome-home hug that may as well have been from God, himself - oh, wait...

But the story isn't over. The next morning I went to Mass - my first Mass and Holy Communion in twelve years - came home, opened my Facebook page and - yep, you guessed it - there was another photo from the travelers, in Kentucky now:



Kentucky

By now, a couple of other Facebookers had picked up on the cross theme, including my daughter-in-law, who queried, "Hey, what's up with all the crosses?"

I chimed in with, "Oh, I get it. Yesterday's were for the Father and the Son, today's is for the Holy Spirit," which got a couple of Likes and chuckles, but here's the thing: I wasn't kidding.

There's no place like home...

(related post, here)