I don’t often go to church. I plan to go, I wish I did go, but the plain simple truth is, I don’t. The only time I go is when I’m visiting my brother’s family, because they go.
I like church. Well, I like THEIR church. The idea of Unitarian Universalism really speaks to me, of deeds before creeds, and of making the world a better place for more people. It’s a practical religion. It’s open and accepting. So, if I ever do “return to the fold”, that’s probably the place for me. Certainly I feel very comfortable in their congregation.
My only problem is, I always cry at church. I don’t sob, I don’t wail, but I always cry a little bit. I’m not always sad, sometimes I’m just overwhelmed, I think, or feeling in a safe place to let it go. I’m a little embarrassed by it, so I try to be as quiet as possible about it. Usually no one notices. That’s how I like it.
This particular congregation has a kick-ass choir, with an awesome pianist. At the end of the service, they presented a new piece, a postlude written by the pianist/choir director, “Peace is in Our Hands” (although I must admit I heard it as “Voices in Our Heads” when they were rehearsing it beforehand, but I was out in the foyer).
Great. There was a young man playing the bongos in this piece. I met him at a church potluck last month, and I remember him because he has the same name as my youngest nephew, and he went to Trent U here in Peterborough, so we had a little chit chat.
Years ago, when Ron Toufar had the Garden Cafe, he held coffee houses, and lots of people, me included, would go and sing and play long into the night. Ron loved music, but he didn’t sing or play any instruments, except the bongos. He was an enthusiastic impromptu accompanist, and I always found it quite endearing.
We lost Ron a few years ago, too young, and I miss him. I hadn’t seen him often over the last ten years of his life, but he always took an active interest in me, we chatted online quite often, and he was always very encouraging of any sort of creativity. He was a great, great guy.
So, I went up to the young man, after the service, to tell him how much I enjoyed the bongos, because they reminded me of Ron – AND I BURST INTO TEARS AND CRIED ALL OVER HIS NECK.
I’m such a jerk. I’m so embarrassed.