Places matter to me.
When I think about milestone moments in my life or “eras” where I situate a past self, I always imagine a place. And if I visit such a place, memories and images flood back.
The first time I walked into my elementary school cafeteria as an adult, I recognized the place at once: up the stairs I would find the library. I knew where to go to get to my second grade classroom (with the sliding chalkboard wall/doors). I knew the path to the yard where we had PE. etc.
Returning to the cul-de-sac of my childhood home, I remember the remnants of that house after Hurricane Andrew (1992). The glass sliding doors that were blown out. On a small table there was a tub of Breakstones whipped butter that we kids picked at with our fingers while my parents assessed the damage. We ate so much canned corned beef during that time that I have never been able to bring myself to eat it again (the smell of corned beef also brings me back to that time).
In middle school I remember the narrow “lawn” where we used a tennis ball to play “football” after school. I remember the rough grass, the humid heat, the rain water that I’d use to wipe my glasses (it worked so well!), the back field where my friend Alex would throw the tennis ball so ridiculously far. I remember the feel of the payphone outside the school where we would make 800 number calls just to see who would be on the other end. Seems so foreign now but I remember it; I can still feel it.
In high school I had “stuy park” behind the school. So many memories there after school with friends and “dates” with people I liked. My first guitar that fell down the stairs of the “gazebo” and snapped its neck. So many Ultimate discs that ended up in the water during our after school games.
In undergrad I had the steps on Lowe plaza. Being there brings back all kinds of memories: falling into the fountain, late night jam sessions, sitting there — a lot of just sitting and being. I think of the high “perch” where I spent countless hours not being in class. Every year we go back to the tree lights on campus, a part of me goes back to early days of dating and the proposal.
These are place-memories I can easily write here.
But places also bring painful memories.
This past Sunday, I revisited my old church. We did not part on good terms. Actually, it’s complicated: I did not part on good terms with the elders/leaders, but I had no issues with the congregation. But they share the same space — a space I also once shared until I was pushed out.
And in the interim years, I have largely avoided any contact with that space because the thoughts and emotions would overwhelm me. In the early days after my departure, seeing a former congregant on the subway would throw me off balance for the day. I would constantly wonder what they thought. What they knew. What they might tell others (Just as, when our senior pastor disappeared, so many of us who were left hungered for any news of him).
When I was guest preaching at other churches in Flushing, I would avoid the route that would pass by the church. The rhythms of entering into that space, year after year, early every Sunday before anyone else would be there, was a spiritual discipline of sorts. Getting breakfast for music team members and unpacking the closet to set up the auditorium was grounding spiritual routine. A regular prayer with my hands and feet. Setting up the space so that those who would soon enter that space-made-holy would be formed in some way for good. Biking by that street without my body experiencing some inclination or remembrance of those rhythms was difficult.
Through many uncomfortable family gatherings, additional sightings on the train, and thoughts that wander into my mind at the most inconvenient times, I had to do some hard introspective work to gather myself again and know myself apart from the patterns and rhythms I had maintained for so many years. I had to reexamine faith foundations I thought were settled, and in the process I discovered a more expensive and beautiful faith than the one I had known and believed; I’m still discovering and seeing more of that expansive beauty. Yet in all of this discovery and learning, the knowing of place — that place — still eluded me.
Could I bring myself to be in that place again without fear; not knowing whether I would shutdown in some way or other; whether I anger would flare up unbidden? I needed to know with my body that I would not be paralyzed. That a chance encounter at Queensboro Plaza or on the 7 train would not linger in my thoughts longer than it should. Until I went, I felt as though I would never know what would happen.
So I visited.
And overall, I learned what I needed to know about my state of processing. I think it was God’s care for me that I ran into a friendly face one block away from the church. We walked in together; there may have been more trepidation had I walked in alone. Yes, I had some awkward, and seemingly strained, handshakes; in any case, I’m grateful for the attempt. And I know I need to leave space for the lack of contact as well; our conflict was deep and healing has no time schedule. But aside from those, I’m grateful for the warm embraces and genuine connections.
In the span of a few hours I felt like I ran the gamut of emotion: fear and anxiety, excitement and joy, grief and disappointment, and in all of it, a deep straining for hope. I have a better sense of myself in relation to that place now. And though I don’t think I’ll ever fully separate from my love for this first congregation of mine, I do feel free.
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