It happens everywhere—in the office or in a deli, in my dreams or in a conversation, even while exercising—you name the setting and I’m quite certain I’ll be looking for the God of my childhood. On the third Sunday of Advent something special occurred while sitting at the front of the nave in Trinity Episcopal Church in Shelburne, Vermont. This is my chosen place of worship, and though I’m an infrequent attendee, it is where I go when life’s darkness hovers and seeps into my soul. That day, recent horrific events got me showered and dressed and into my car for the ten-minute ride to the 19th-century church.
The parish, without a permanent rector for two years, had offered the position to a priest from Massachusetts, who, along with his family, accepted “the call” to be the new rector. I’d met him briefly at a monthly men’s breakfast, and decided then that in addition to seeking God’s assistance in lifting the veil of sadness from my soul I would “check him out.”
I used to sit in a pew, but several years ago chose the more private alcove where my free-associative form of worship—I don’t follow the liturgy, sing the hymns, or do responsive recitations—would go unnoticed. I do scribblings, bow my head, close my eyes, or look around at the stained-glassed windows while others diligently adhere to the liturgical form of worship.
I look for God.
At one point in the service, and I can’t remember where the congregants were in the liturgy or what my spiritual or earthly thoughts had been, I looked down at my hands. I was seated, legs apart with the backs of my hands resting on my inner thighs. My hands were cupped with only the fingertips of all ten curled fingers touching. The space between my facing palms provided an unobstructed view to my sockless feet and shoes—it was a warm December day.
I sat motionless as if transfixed, looking toward the floor.
There was nothing special about my hands other than that they were mine. I kept them in place but looked into the nave where other worshippers were reciting a responsive reading, the last line of which was, “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost”—words I’d said many times—but not today. I returned, with bowed head, to my hands.
That’s when it occurred to me—here I was, in church, holding my hands in exactly the same position my father had done. When I was three or four, seated in a front pew between my father and mother, nothing captured my attention as much as he did. I’d look at his face then down to his big hands, reach over and insert my hand into the space created by his cupped palms. I don’t recall that he ever looked at me while opening and closing his hands around mine, but I do remember how filled with surprise and joy I was every time I withdrew then reinserted my hand.
The paper and crayon I’d been given to keep me occupied at the start of the service couldn’t compete with the fascination I had for the game we repeated each Sunday morning at the Norwegian United Methodist Church in Brooklyn. I smiled again that morning, and allowed the memory of those Sunday services to bring light into my darkness.
My father was very certain about God’s existence, and the possibility of a personal relationship with Him—a loving God. My own faith is fractured by my frequent disbelief and tested by horrific life events—the cruelty and brutality that exist in the world. That said, I found inspiration in the memory of my father and the new rector’s sermon. For a time, the darkness that had enveloped my soul lifted.
There is something palpable about my father’s love for the young child I was when he entertained me during those services. The Old and New Testament narratives about God and Jesus’ love are not as palpably real to me as my father’s hands, and the love they conveyed while playing a simple game of hand hide-and-seek.
I attend church to seek relief and find comfort. I also enjoy the fellowship of other parishioners. I’d like to believe that God and I connect while I sit quietly in my chair at church, and know it with the certainty that I experienced the warmth, strength, and love of my fun-loving father in that pew many years ago.
Thank you, Dad, for the gift of you.
by 
Surely one of God’s blessings upon you was to have received the precious gift of your father’s love, as he played a simple game of hand hide-and-seek with you in church all those years ago. You are gifted still with the capacity to reflect back on that tender and touching time with your dad, as you seek God’s
solace for your soul in the face of some of life’s undeniable darkness. The paper and crayons you use today are the words with which you so beautifully describe the searching of your soul for God’s presence and love. Thank you for the gift of sharing your journey during this season of hope, light, and love.
Colette,
There is magic in the simple and often overlooked. Thank you for reminding me how we can find our way out of darkness by attending to that which is simple–in my case a game between a loving father and captivated boy. My hope is that we can all, each in her and his way, find hope that guides and strengthens us one step at a time.
Roger
Colette,
There is magic, and thank you for responding. I have recently rediscovered how vital patience is–let the darkness be, and in it find that strength we all have, and then the complex journey becomes more simple–before it’s complexity reemerges. We do, as you write, become stronger one step at a time.
Thank you,
Roger
A beautiful reminder of the simple gifts from childhood which sustain us. May we all find hope and love this holiday season. Without your visit to church, this gift might not have been given again!
Margie,
You are right about my church-visit–simple gifts that sustain us when least expected, and I hope you and your family as well as the rest of us sojourners find hope and love in this holiday season.
Roger
You have a powerful way of expressing what life presents, and the remembrance of those little moments or events that remain with us throughout our lives. There is a strength in your writing that “paints” emotion beautifully.
Tom,
You are the intrepid one, and whatever my words do, your life, well lived in all aspects, gives me hope for myself.
Thank you,
Roger
I am reminded of the difference of mere remeniscince and thoughtful rememberance. This kind of rememberance contributes to our sense of integrity, enables joy and provides hope for our own contributions to legacy.
Alan,
Thanks for this reminder–there’s something special about thoughtful remembrance. When we can do it with patience it takes us to a more enriching space in our souls. I’m uncertain about my legacy, but sure about the power or thoughtful remembering–thank you.
Roger
Beautiful story, Roger. I envy the relationship you had with your father. Daddy’s hands. I’ve been sitting here trying to remember any childhood memories of my dad and church and came up with….
My dad was not a church goer, worked two jobs, but took the time and energy to drive me and my sister to the Hoover Baptist Church in South Central LA every Sunday. He’d drop us off and pick us up. One Sunday after church, I hopped into the back seat of the cavernous back seat of his 1946 dark blue Plymouth only to discover to my complete horror that the man behind the wheel was some stranger. I felt like the Road Runner with spinning wheels, trying like mad to get out of there while screaming, You’re not my dad! I was five. The man just looked in the rear view mirror and didn’t say a word. I think he might have been as shocked as I was. It’s actually a very sweet memory for me. Thank you for helping me dive in and get it.
Jo Anne,
Merry Christmas, and thank you for reading, commenting, and most of all continuing to dive in and find “sweet memories” in the midst of running from Wylie the Coyote who hounds us all.
Roger
Roger
Once again a gift you give to us in your poignant and powerful reflections. Thank you for shining a light that only a reluctant and genuine disciple can share with others.
Rich
Rich,
A gift that is poignant, powerful, shines a light, and given by all of us, each in our own way, that embraces our reluctance and discipleship–that’s what brings us into the circle of humankind–truth is I couldn’t write without you and others who read and comment, or read and don’t comment–we share much beyond the words, a kindred spirit and desire to find and embrace truth. Thank you for being on this journey.
Merry Christmas,
Roger
Roger,
So powerful the words you have written above. Am happy that you reminded me of sitting with my Dad & Mom first St. Peter’s in Yonkers & then St. Matthew’s in Hastings on Hudson. Thank you for sharing!
John,
Thank you for sharing what it was like to sit with your Dad and Mom at St. Peter’s ad St. Matthew’s. I don’t know whether you squirmed as I did but now years later I’m grateful for the pew-sitting experience.
Merry Christmas, John,
Roger
Any memories that make us feel closer to the ones we love are always welcome. N matter where you feel them. Your expressions are so clear and made me think of my father and all he left me with. Thank you my very good friend. Hope the New Year brings you peace and happiness.
My very good friend,
Thank you for writing this response. A non-college educated railroad man, educated in ways books cannot offer, gave you gifts that you’ve carried through your life even in times when you didn’t sense his influence or presence. Your son has felt his presence through you–a wonderful gift–as have countless students and athletes with whom you’ve had contact, and so too has a guy to whom you offered a coaching job that developed into a lifelong friendship. Railroad man, who I never met, thank you.
Roger