Sing Hallelujah

For most of my life, I had a pretty solid fear of public speaking. I was a shy kid, prone to a stress-induced stutter, so talking in front of a large group has never been my idea of great fun. School did little to assuage the fear; I had one teacher in elementary school who delighted in making hyper-critical remarks about my work, my appearance, my unfortunate taste in corduroys and sneakers whenever I’d stand up in front of the class to give a report. I hope Miss West soon realized that she was not cut out to be a teacher and sought work more suited to her personality. Say, as a prison matron. Or a proctologist.

Age, confidence, and experience has made public speaking a little easier. Teaching an adult continuing education class helped me get over a great deal of my fears because I had to think on my feet while talking and instructing others. It helped that I had the best class ever of motivated, good-humored students who ranged in age from 19 to 78, students who listened and responded and learned from what I taught them.

So when our pastor asked me to speak in front of our congregation, I didn’t even consider saying no. “Just talk about your experience at the prayer vigil,” he told me. Can-do easy, as my pal Oscar likes to say. Sure, I had a few butterflies in my stomach when I walked up to the lectern, but I saw Johnnie smiling at me from her seat and Mary nodding her encouragement. I spoke at both services. I didn’t stutter, lose my train of thought, or trip and knock over a candle, thus ensuring that St. Paul would count three fires in its colorful history.

Then our pastor called and asked me to speak at the catered congregational dinner at the convention center. I gulped a bit, envisioning the larger group, the white cloth covered tables, the potential for me to trip over my own feet and take down an innocent waiter who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I said yes, thinking I would just expand a bit on my prayer vigil talk. Except our pastor wanted me to talk about something else, something more private. He wanted me to talk about my faith journey, about how I came to be a member of the church. Even worse, he told me he was going to ask Charlie to talk about his faith journey. “Don’t have me talk after him,” I warned our pastor. I reminded him that when Charlie spoke about his faith journey at a prior event, I bawled so hard that I made really alarming snuffling noises like a congested bloodhound. “You’ll be fine,” our pastor assured me cheerily. I knew right then that my goose was cooked. When he’s that cheerful, he’s up to no good.

The week leading up to our big dinner was crazily busy and stressful. I didn’t have much time to think about what I was going to say, much less spare the energy to be nervous. I knew I would talk about absent friends who encouraged me in a low-key way to visit the church, about how I felt peaceful and whole during services, about how the new member classes radically changed my ideas about God and Christ and the Bible. Aside from that, I hadn’t a clue about what I’d say.

Bet you’re not surprised to hear that Charlie spoke before I did. And as expected, 99% of the folks at the tables in the big room were either outright weeping or stuffing their napkins in their mouths to muffle their sobs. The man is lethal, but in a good way.

When Larry passed me the wireless microphone, I had one of those “Oh, crap!” moments. I had on new shoes, some nice flats from Target, and I felt one foot skid a bit in something on the floor (maybe a mashed green bean). “Y’all, I have on new shoes, so if I fall, don’t take pictures of me with my skirt over my head,” I said by way of launching my talk. Laughter mixed with calls of “Take them off!” followed me as I made my way to the front of the room.

The weirdest thing happened. I opened my mouth, and words came out. Intelligible words, even, strung together to form cogent sentences. I didn’t stutter. My voice didn’t shake or rise in pitch as it normally does when I forget to breathe. Heck, I even kept breathing.

I looked at all those faces looking back at me, and I told them my story. I told them about growing up in a Catholic church where I felt nothing that came close to joy, about catechism lessons that left me with more questions and my teacher’s anger. I told them about feeling like I was so far out of God’s reach, so far removed from His love and grace, because for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt unworthy of, well, everything. I told them about the lifelong battle with depression and the dark pit that waits at my feet for the slightest stumble. And then I told them about the friends who invited me to the church, who gave me time to work up my courage, who sat with me in the pew and talked about the strength and comfort that came from being filled up with God’s grace. I told them about that first Advent service and how I kept trying to hide the tears that kept leaking out of my eyes. (Pastor said later that he saw me crying during that service and thought to himself, “Yup, I just scared off another one.”) I told them about being flabbergasted to finally hear the real message, the one I never heard in all those years of attending Mass: that God loved me just as I was, perpetually cranky, potty-mouthed, impatient, stumbling, wholly and utterly imperfect. I told them what the church meant to me: family, redemption, belonging, acceptance, knowledge, peace. I told them about missing Mure and Mawavi and Quickbeam so terribly but still feeling the echo of their friendship whenever I’d sit in the pew we dubbed as ours, and how I would always consider their act of kindness a literal life saver. I told them that no matter what would come our way in the future, we were blessed. We were loved. As a church family, we had each other’s back. We could lend our strength to someone else who needed it, and in doing so, become stronger.

I don’t remember much about the walk from the front of the room to our table except that my knees got weaker with each step. Delayed reaction, I guess. Ute grabbed me in a hug that I felt all the way down to my feet in those dang slippery-bottom shoes. I leaned my head against R’s shoulder and cried. I still don’t know why. I think my heart was just too full. R told me later that he looked around the room while I was talking and saw folks swiping tears from their faces. He did not, however, see anyone blow their nose on a tablecloth hem, something I was tempted to do myself.

Later that night, home once more and freed from the skirt and shoes and feeling as stuffed as a tick on the back of a dog, I thought about my experience in front of the congregation. I’d never witnessed or testified, but I guess that’s what I did that night. I’m pretty sure I didn’t yelp out any Hallelujahs or even a “Can a sister get an AMEN?” (which would have been funny as hell and might have caused our Pastor to pee himself laughing). But in my own rambling way, I passed on the story of my faith journey in all its doubt and shadows and eventual light and joy. My only hope is that maybe something I said touched someone else who was feeling doubtful or lost, and in time, they’ll gather their courage and accept what is so freely given, even when we don’t ask for it. As the saying goes, “Bidden or not bidden, God is present.”

Sing hallelujah, y’all.