I hastily cover my half worn off yellow sparkly nail polish with dark blue, as if that is somehow an improvement…Fellow looks at me cockeyed but says nothing. I think to myself, “What a wise man.” 
We rush out the door.
A big black Hummer from Whistler has jammed my Mini into a tight parking spot. Its big wide militarian fossil fuel guzzling bumper wishes me, “Namaste”.
I desperately want to make fun of this…but we’re off to become official members of the St Andrews Wesley United church. It’s mandate: compassion, peace, inclusion, equality and justice. So…dude…like totally…namaste.
Fellow is wearing his new wool coat, his new pants and his new shirt. He looks gorgeous. My friend, Donna-lea Ford, is a wardrobe consultant, and she took him for a shop and I tagged along making notes so I never get him the wrong thing for Christmas, you know? My closet will be next. But I begged her to wait until February when I hope to be rid of my “fat pants” forever. (Hey. It’s the first week of Advent, right? The first first candle is “hope”.)
So, we stand at the front of the church, my gorgeous Fellow, me and my dark blue nails, Nora and the Boy by our side. We are joined by a pastor’s kid who is done avoiding his father’s wishes and a spiritual wanderlust who has studied all the Eastern religions and decided Christ makes the most sense to him. The board of the church shuffles in behind us and they lay hands on our shoulders. In front of us, the congregation vows to welcome us, “We will.” I am sandwiched by such a wide range of humanity. My eyes scan the congregation. I see the patient loving Dad with his rockstar scrambled hair pulling back the hands of his challenged son who is too rough with exploring his father’s nose. I see two men dressed entirely in lemon yellow suits (a Lions and Eskimos game on today) I see a woman who has brought her own drum. I see an elderly couple from Scotland. I see a family from Fiji: their little girl with spidery sproingy dreads. I see a handsome gay man and his mother. I see teenagers in H&M sweaters. I see a multitasking Mom listening while digging in her purse. I see a quiet little fellow with just a candle blow of hair. I see a huge sprawling woman whose breasts are large enough to rest on the pew in front of her. I see a sharp urban couple in black tailored jackets. I see a comb over. I see a big purple purse. I see a baby doing fist pumps at the twelve apostles. “I will.”
Compassion, peace, inclusion, equality and justice.
I am surprisingly moved. I decided on membership mostly out of practicality. It was happening, my fellow was joining, I figured I “should” join a church at some point but never found one I liked, never really tried. It was time. I guess. Do I need it? I dunno. Why not.
Today I say, “I do” and I end a fifteen year rebellion. Today I say, “I do”, because I actually have found a group of people who believe something similar to me. But I think I am moved because…because I now belong to a community. I don’t freelance here. I belong. And I could potentially belong for the rest of my life. It’s that sturdy.
My mind races. Where else do I feel I belong? I belonged to King Edward and Main but that house got torn down. I belonged to the farm but the farm got sold. I belong to Nonna but she’s coming on 88. I belong to Pacific Theatre but only show to show. I belong to my audience as long as they find me interesting. There is no where I call home. Not really. Not really.
And my spirit sighs and says to me, standing in the fold of this spiritual family, “Good choice, Lucia.” And a part of me settles kerplunk like a stone. Solid. Smooth. River worn.
