Flutterings

Oh, bless. I hurried home from services this morning, eager to finish the story that'd woken me up -- only to realize that not only was my laptop inside, so were my keys. Fortunately, my office keys were in my purse, so I'm here eating lunch and tackling various things I won't have to do later.

It was a good morning. I woke up with the start of a new fic in my head -- one I'd had zero intention of writing (it'll be for the lupin_snape Back to School challenge, and I've generally very little interest in stories from the Marauder era), but it was there, and so there was no help for it but to shrug on my robe and start typing. (For those of you wondering about my non-fandom writing -- yes, it's still ambling along, I'm just not in a place where there's much I can talk about here.) I tore myself away very reluctantly in order to dress and drive to church, but it's just as well, because the last lines weren't really gelling in my head until I was on the interstate.

Church was lovely this morning -- the theme was "Tell Me A Story I've Never Heard Before," and there was enough variation between the two services that I didn't mind hearing the sermon twice (as this morning's lay leader, I had to stay through both). The epigraph on the order of service was "It takes a thousand voices to tell a story" (a Native American saying), and the meditation and sermon both drew from Meister Eckhart's statement that "Every creature is a book about God," as well as Emerson.

Reverend Gail told stories about Emerson's controversial speeches at Harvard Div and drew some of the heartiest laughs from the congregation when describing John Norris, one of our senior members for whom our church office building is named (specifically, how he's staunchly supported the church for nearly half a century even though he's often gone against the majority grain -- for instance, in lobbying for an organ and choir robes, but also at last month's water communion: when asked why he was dancing in a direction opposite to everyone else, he told her "I'm the counter-current!"). For the children, she told Kay F. Stone's story about "The Curious Girl."

In her sermon, she also observed that "it is in our memorial services that I see why living as if revelation is forever unsealed is so rare -- and so fine." That is, the UU custom of "celebrating" a person's passing primarily with stories about their life in this world (as opposed to focusing exclusively on stories of their ancestors or the world to which they've purportedly passed) is a way to lift up that life as a book about God that often astonishes and moves first-time visitors.

The first two hymns were set to tunes from the Genevan Psalter, "Here We Have Gathered" and "Where Is Our Holy Church?" (the latter which I've programmed for the service I'm leading in Cookeville next Sunday). There is something about the old, traditional tunes that makes my heart so glad -- a certain majesty and a certain bone-deep comfort to be had when I sing them -- so it was good, standing there next to the minister, singing together with the sun pouring in through the windows. The choral anthem was Timothy Snyder's setting of Emily Dickinson's "As Imperceptibly As Grief", one that I personally find profoundly moving -- so it was also a lovely thing, to see the man in the pew behind me visibly stunned by the piece and for him to tell me afterwards, "I'm staying through the second service anthem so that I can hear it again." The closing hymn was "This Little Light of Mine," and in the second service (which tends to host a fuller and looser house) it bloomed into a full-out, multi-repeat rendition, with gospel stylings from Jason in the front and Vivian in the back, and various other musicians in the congregation throwing in harmonies, and Brian Foti sauntering down to the piano and adding tambourine to the last verse-and-a-half.

It was new member Sunday -- seventeen new members signed the book, and the congregation promised them to "join our strengths, talents, and commitment with yours. You are a part of us and we are a part of you." There were UUs visiting from several other states, including Boston's Arlington Street Church, of which I have fond memories (they have a really nifty tradition there, where in lieu of applause, congregants express approval for announcements and pronouncements by whirling their hands above their heads. It probably sounds weird, but when I visited there, I saw it in action and it worked.)

I lit a candle in memory of my father, who's been dead now for six years as of last week. As I said to a friend afterwards, in my case part of the sorrow is that I don't miss him more. He did his best; I try my best.