For Lent, I'm writing here about memories of significant moments from my life in faith.
There are no home pregnancy tests, this is not yet that era. Instead, a couple of days after I began think there was something up, I had to make an appointment with my doctor.
I was living on the top floor of a four-story walk-up on Beacon Street in Boston. Sounds fabulous, doesn't it? It was a beautiful building, and we'd fallen in love with the apartment when we walked in and found a new kitchen, hardwood floors, a huge bedroom (and a smaller one), a living room with enormous windows and wonderful light, and not one, but two fireplaces. It was a dream.
On the other hand, our landlord was a pilot. And he was a little forgetful. As in, forgetting to have necessary repairs made in a timely fashion. Forgetting to let us know when he'd be out of town (which was often, and for extended periods). Forgetting to have heating oil delivered in the middle of the winter.
So, my memories of in that apartment are mixed at best. We only lasted through one lease.
But I digress.
Here was something: I thought I might be pregnant. I was twenty-five years old, in the middle of some career complicatedness, but it seemed a good time to be pregnant for lots of reasons. My then-husband was gainfully employed at a Boston law firm, and without quite saying it explicitly, we'd given each other all kinds of signals. This was a good time.
And now I might be pregnant. So, I made an appointment with my doctor.
The appointment was on Ash Wednesday.
My doctor was in an HMO located downtown, not too far from the financial district. My first job had been working for the HMO for about three and a half years, first in a health care facility (which I loved), and then in the marketing department (which I hated, loathed, despised, and abominated). But I still believed in the concept, thought for sure it was the wave of the future. (It was; just for a shorter future than I'd anticipated).
I met with a doctor and she took a blood test, looking for the presence of hCG (human chorionic gonadatropin). It's there not too long after implantation, and is a pretty good indicator of pregnancy. The more of the hormone you have, the more (weeks) pregnant you are. She said they'd call me.
After the appointment I walked to the Paulist Center, in search of ashes. My worshiping community was still at Boston College in Newton, but the Paulist Center was locally beloved for its wonderful liturgy and progressive theology. I remember walking through the city at twilight, a freezing/ drizzling late afternoon. I'd not been to the center too many times, but I always found it warm and welcoming. There was a late afternoon service, and I settled in. I don't remember much about it now (except that the music was wonderful). I remained in my seat, forehead newly-ashed, as the other people filed out. I didn't make a move to leave.
A priest walked around, straightening up the space. He smiled at me.
"I am wondering if you could do me a favor," I said, not even aware of what was about to come out of my mouth.
The priest looked at me expectantly.
"I wonder... could you hear my confession?"
That word, "confession," is a signal as to my age. Catholics younger than I am would probably call the sacrament "reconciliation." I'd grown up with the dark confessional and the priest behind a grille. And he knew who I was, and I knew who he was, but the grille promised of a kind of anonymity and also strongly implied that this conversation would not come up when you saw him on the playground (or at the youth retreat). The newer model was supposed to be more conversational, seated together, face to face.
When I think about how I see it now, I think of the Lucinda Williams song, with its driving Cajun beat:
'Cause I want to get right with God.
Yes, you know you got to get right with God.
I started to cry, which probably indicated to the priest that something was wrong. "I think I'm pregnant," I said, which I am pretty sure convinced the priest that something was definitely wrong. I quickly moved to clarify.
"Everything's fine!" I said. "I'm happy about it! And I want to be ready. I mean, if I'm carrying a baby..." I trailed off. I truly had no words to articulate what I meant... or, if I had them, I was embarrassed to say them out loud.
What I think I meant was:
I want to do this right. I want to start with a clean slate. The cleanest.
If my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, then, well, I want to put my house in order.
I want to be worthy of carrying this baby.
I want to get right with God. Now more than ever.
The priest was utterly nonplussed. He smiled and nodded, and said, "Ok. Sure." And he heard my confession.
The church I pastor has a prayer each Sunday that we call a "Prayer for Wholeness." (We used to call it a "Prayer of Confession.") Presbyterians are more accustomed to "corporate" confession-- the entire body, confessing its sinfulness together (or, in our case, praying for spiritual healing and wholeness). This has been my primary experience of confession for nearly half my life, and there is something good and important about it. Whether we are aware of it or not, whenever we say "we" in corporate prayer, we are praying, not only for ourselves, but also on behalf of others... those present and those absent. Corporate confession reminds us that the primary experience of God that is described in scripture is in no way personal, or one-on-one. The idea of a "personal relationship with Jesus," for example, can't really be found in the New Testament. (Which is not to say that, as Christians, we shouldn't bother with prayer. I am firmly in the pro-prayer camp, on the basis that reminders of God's presence and caring are always good, reminders of our utter immersion in God are proper, and startlingly powerful.) What we find in scripture is a God who engages with communities, who calls people together, who puts people in one another's lives and brings them along as one. This is one pretty good explanation for why we have churches. The prayer of confession or wholeness, prayed as a community, can be a source of hope and consolation, as well as a reminder of our connection to one another, in our fallibility and struggle, as in all things.
But this memory came tearing back into my consciousness this week after a long forgetfulness. I'm not sure why. Maybe the experience of being home for a week, the space for reflection that offered? I'm not sure. But I cannot overstate how strongly I felt about it, how desperately I wanted that priest to hear my confession, because there was a good chance I was carrying a baby inside me.
I have absolutely no memory of what the priest and I talked about, but I know it did not take long. I was soon walking across the Boston Common and down Beacon Street to my apartment in the wintry drizzle, ash streaking down my face.
Now I felt ready.
I was living on the top floor of a four-story walk-up on Beacon Street in Boston. Sounds fabulous, doesn't it? It was a beautiful building, and we'd fallen in love with the apartment when we walked in and found a new kitchen, hardwood floors, a huge bedroom (and a smaller one), a living room with enormous windows and wonderful light, and not one, but two fireplaces. It was a dream.
On the other hand, our landlord was a pilot. And he was a little forgetful. As in, forgetting to have necessary repairs made in a timely fashion. Forgetting to let us know when he'd be out of town (which was often, and for extended periods). Forgetting to have heating oil delivered in the middle of the winter.
 |
| Obviously not Boston. |
But I digress.
Here was something: I thought I might be pregnant. I was twenty-five years old, in the middle of some career complicatedness, but it seemed a good time to be pregnant for lots of reasons. My then-husband was gainfully employed at a Boston law firm, and without quite saying it explicitly, we'd given each other all kinds of signals. This was a good time.
And now I might be pregnant. So, I made an appointment with my doctor.
The appointment was on Ash Wednesday.
My doctor was in an HMO located downtown, not too far from the financial district. My first job had been working for the HMO for about three and a half years, first in a health care facility (which I loved), and then in the marketing department (which I hated, loathed, despised, and abominated). But I still believed in the concept, thought for sure it was the wave of the future. (It was; just for a shorter future than I'd anticipated).
I met with a doctor and she took a blood test, looking for the presence of hCG (human chorionic gonadatropin). It's there not too long after implantation, and is a pretty good indicator of pregnancy. The more of the hormone you have, the more (weeks) pregnant you are. She said they'd call me.
After the appointment I walked to the Paulist Center, in search of ashes. My worshiping community was still at Boston College in Newton, but the Paulist Center was locally beloved for its wonderful liturgy and progressive theology. I remember walking through the city at twilight, a freezing/ drizzling late afternoon. I'd not been to the center too many times, but I always found it warm and welcoming. There was a late afternoon service, and I settled in. I don't remember much about it now (except that the music was wonderful). I remained in my seat, forehead newly-ashed, as the other people filed out. I didn't make a move to leave.
A priest walked around, straightening up the space. He smiled at me.
"I am wondering if you could do me a favor," I said, not even aware of what was about to come out of my mouth.
The priest looked at me expectantly.
"I wonder... could you hear my confession?"
That word, "confession," is a signal as to my age. Catholics younger than I am would probably call the sacrament "reconciliation." I'd grown up with the dark confessional and the priest behind a grille. And he knew who I was, and I knew who he was, but the grille promised of a kind of anonymity and also strongly implied that this conversation would not come up when you saw him on the playground (or at the youth retreat). The newer model was supposed to be more conversational, seated together, face to face.
When I think about how I see it now, I think of the Lucinda Williams song, with its driving Cajun beat:
'Cause I want to get right with God.
Yes, you know you got to get right with God.
I started to cry, which probably indicated to the priest that something was wrong. "I think I'm pregnant," I said, which I am pretty sure convinced the priest that something was definitely wrong. I quickly moved to clarify.
"Everything's fine!" I said. "I'm happy about it! And I want to be ready. I mean, if I'm carrying a baby..." I trailed off. I truly had no words to articulate what I meant... or, if I had them, I was embarrassed to say them out loud.
What I think I meant was:
I want to do this right. I want to start with a clean slate. The cleanest.
If my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, then, well, I want to put my house in order.
I want to be worthy of carrying this baby.
I want to get right with God. Now more than ever.
The priest was utterly nonplussed. He smiled and nodded, and said, "Ok. Sure." And he heard my confession.
The church I pastor has a prayer each Sunday that we call a "Prayer for Wholeness." (We used to call it a "Prayer of Confession.") Presbyterians are more accustomed to "corporate" confession-- the entire body, confessing its sinfulness together (or, in our case, praying for spiritual healing and wholeness). This has been my primary experience of confession for nearly half my life, and there is something good and important about it. Whether we are aware of it or not, whenever we say "we" in corporate prayer, we are praying, not only for ourselves, but also on behalf of others... those present and those absent. Corporate confession reminds us that the primary experience of God that is described in scripture is in no way personal, or one-on-one. The idea of a "personal relationship with Jesus," for example, can't really be found in the New Testament. (Which is not to say that, as Christians, we shouldn't bother with prayer. I am firmly in the pro-prayer camp, on the basis that reminders of God's presence and caring are always good, reminders of our utter immersion in God are proper, and startlingly powerful.) What we find in scripture is a God who engages with communities, who calls people together, who puts people in one another's lives and brings them along as one. This is one pretty good explanation for why we have churches. The prayer of confession or wholeness, prayed as a community, can be a source of hope and consolation, as well as a reminder of our connection to one another, in our fallibility and struggle, as in all things.
But this memory came tearing back into my consciousness this week after a long forgetfulness. I'm not sure why. Maybe the experience of being home for a week, the space for reflection that offered? I'm not sure. But I cannot overstate how strongly I felt about it, how desperately I wanted that priest to hear my confession, because there was a good chance I was carrying a baby inside me.
I have absolutely no memory of what the priest and I talked about, but I know it did not take long. I was soon walking across the Boston Common and down Beacon Street to my apartment in the wintry drizzle, ash streaking down my face.
Now I felt ready.
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