Beyond the Pews

On seeking sermons from the matriarchs while flipping gossip pancakes.

My Grandmother passed away two years ago in May and the grief, oh the grief rocked me. I write about her often because she was so important to me. I love the notion of people living on through the stories we share - well that and the tattoo of her face I have on my arm. I also write about her because the details I share often stir up details from your past, present or future. And well if that isn’t the magic and connection of storytelling that I am here for, I don’t know what is. If you have the time and ability, press play, I read this one for you.

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She liked to sleep in. I liked to sleep in even more. My visits to see my Grandmother worked out really well for us. I would pick a weekend to come visit and take a much needed reprieve from my college life. The independence all at once at age 18 was a lot for me and well, I flew off the handle a bit. Visiting my grandparents was a way to slow down, recalibrate and remember who I was while I tried on 44 different personalities each week at school. I always felt very much at home within myself with my Gram.

As irony does though, every time I would drive the two hour drive from school to her home in the corn fields, I would take a wrong turn and get actually lost. There was no smart phone GPS calculating my every move then and after about 20 minutes on an open road in Indiana, my mind was on a different planet.

“Hello”

“Grandma, it’s Jacki.”

“Oh hi. Where are you?”

“Well, I don’t really know…”

“Jacki! You can’t be serious. You missed the turn again?”

Every single time. And yes I could have printed out map-quest for the 80th time but that would mean I would have to go the library across town and press print and swipe my student ID card and pay the 80 cents. And then, not lose the directions on said paper? Rare feat in that time of my life.

So I would finally make it about an hour after my estimated time of arrival and the sound of the gravel under the tires, the storm door that was all glass that was rarely ever closed, and the smell of her house that rushed me every time - it was a mix of lake-house and vanilla. *sigh* Here I am.

She would welcome me and I hugged her and asked where Grandpa was (as he was always out doing something in the garage or taking the golf cart to see the deer in the nearby meadows). As if a well-worn path on a mountain, I veered directly toward the large mason jars that lined the wall of her kitchen for her homemade granola.

And we would then go through her agenda for the weekend. Her life didn’t stop because I was coming in town and I could join her for anything and nothing that I wanted to. I always joined her for everything even a boring trip to the grocery, I was there to push the cart.

One Summer many, many years ago, I lived with my grandparents for a week in their RV parked in Northern California. They did the RV across America life for years in their retirement and I would press the button to slide out the living room and pull out the bed from the couch each night. One day, I went fishing with my Grandpa. I rarely did anything 1:1 with him and we left for hours that day and I read books in the boat while he fished on some magical lake in the Sierras. We didn’t talk much that day as he was a man of few words in his personal life. I loved it all the same. Only now do I realize that my Grandmother most likely need a minute alone, she loved alone time. And my Grandfather obliged by taking me out on the boat.

So like I said, anywhere she wanted to go, I would go. And that often meant accompanying her and Grandpa to Saturday evening mass. My Gram sang in the choir and counted the church money after service. My Grandfather passed out the gluten free communion option. This was their community.

“That is what you are wearing? To church?”, she would ask me.

“Yes. Grandma, I really doubt Jesus cares what I am wearing!”, I would reply.

*cue eye roll

Once we got to church, this was my Grandmother’s domain. The way she would grab my hand and lead me to a certain pew. It was confident, assertive and I would be respectful here - even in that ridiculous outfit.

Sing. Stand. Listen. Sing again. Stand up. Listen. Repeat.

Oh how my Grandmother sang so loudly.
And oh how quiet my Grandpa was.

One weekend visit, I was there for a double trip to church. We would be attending Saturday evening service and then return again the next morning to make pancakes for everyone for after the Sunday service.

Anywhere she wanted to go, I would go.

So there I was in an apron, a hair net and my favorite fancier sweatpants in teal blue that were from the Jennifer Lopez collection (they actually had JLo monogrammed on the bottom right leg). It was me and 12 blue hairs flipping cakes that morning. And they loved that I was there and they also were on me to keep flipping cakes and hustle.

I was up earlier than I would have preferred. My grandparents were notorious for staying up late watching gameshows and then a movie. For how old they were, they could hang!

I am stirring batter. Flipping cakes. Eavesdropping. Repeat.

This was the glory of gossip beyond the pews in my Grandmother’s church community. I loved every second of it. My Gram had introduced me to everyone upon arrival. I met Edith, Kay, Delores, Jan and so many others. And then they were off and running. They would talk about this local gathering and what happened, fill one another in on health issues of so and so’s husband, plan an entire funeral dinner in 7 minutes and then update on last the last service and how funny Father Ron was. The love of the local priest by the elder women sounds so similar to a high school crush - weird. And then there were the teachable moments amidst the gossip, the older woman who was so sassy named Edith would turn to me to and tell me a recap and how to live better.

This was the church sermon I came for.

I wish I could but I cannot pinpoint the exact lessons I learned in those moments but I can feel them. I can feel the community in my bones. I can feel scathing judgement in conversation and it somehow being a deep conduit for connection, trust and even in a roundabout way, real love. I can feel laughter from long lives lived to be shocked to see the day that someone would wear sweatpants to church followed by a many ‘well back in my day….’ notes. I can see, hear and know acts of service for the better good. I can taste wisdom in pancakes made with the normal ingredients and then infused with the cackles of older woman up early on Sunday to serve …. serve God, their community, themselves and their curiosity with a touch of FOMO.

And even more, I can still feel my Grandmother so proud and sometimes shocked that I am there. When I could be at college with all my friends and all my different personalities definitely not at church doing what every other young person is doing on a hungover Sunday at Indiana University, I chose to be with her.

And it was sacred there. So much more sacred than any moment in those church pews with the incense burning and the stained glass windows and the kneeling parts. It was beyond the pews for me.

And I wonder, isn’t always beyond where we think all the sacred will all happen?

I will tell you this, never once did those old ladies flipping pancakes throw out a one memorized scripture. Not one. There was never a ‘what would Jesus do?’. Not one. Nor was there even a prayer or sign of a cross done, we were too busy.

Too busy prepping and readying to feed God’s children, as Father Ron would say an hour later as he blessed those gossip pancakes.

Rumi said this:

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.

I’ll meet you there

… beyond the pews.