It was a beautiful fall day when I first found myself in the chapel of Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary. I was sitting in the back pew with my one-year-old and her dad during Friday worship. Like many children that age, my daughter started to make a lot of noises when she realized her voice echoed. We tensed up and began to leave. From behind us, arms surrounded us as a family and a voice said, “Her sounds are welcome here as a part of our worship. Please stay.” We stayed. A year later, I began seminary with a toddler in tow. We lived on Louisville’s campus, which quickly became our community. Those words from that first time in the chapel rang true, my daughter was always welcome in the chapel, even when she ran clear up the aisle mid-worship.
I did not grow up in a religious family. We rarely went to church — only for a funeral, wedding, or baptism. Yet, I found myself called to ministry. I love my family of origin, but I often feel like the odd one out when we gather. I have amazing friendships I have built over a lifetime, but there too I feel a bit different. Even in church, I can feel like a fish out of water. I love the people in all these areas of my life and I am well-loved by all these folks. I just never felt as though I fully found my place.
Seminary changed that; it was the first place I ever felt as though I belonged. While that first welcome in chapel helped, it was not just that moment. My daughter was welcomed to come to class with me when emergencies came up — professors had grace for all sorts of life that was happening; I was able to bring my pets to live in campus housing; and I grew to know and love my neighbors. It is tempting to remember this time as some sort of utopian experience. It was not. It was a very human experience. There were disagreements, arguments, and personalities that just didn’t jive. Alongside all that, it was a blessed community. One where neighbors showed up to help unload my moving truck, popped by to introduce themselves, and ingredients for dinner were dropped off when I was without a car. At seminary, my daughter met her first friends, both her own age and from several generations older than her. Our neighbors became like honorary grandparents to her, sharing their nightly cheese and crackers with her as she ran down to greet them.
I was living in community and studying theology. It was a place where the questions I pondered were often shared by my classmates. Where the ideas I had about Jesus’ love had a home. It allowed space for me to be challenged and cared for. I could speak openly about my faith and theology in ways I never could before and have struggled to do since. As a pastor, I must tend to my words to be sure they both comfort and challenge which often means holding back some of my own thoughts as I listen and pray with others.
It took me a long time to warm up to that community, it was outside my comfort zone to allow people to care for me. Yet, when I needed to travel suddenly when there was a death in my family, people showed up to care for my cat, stocked my kitchen, and cleaned up the mess we left behind. While I certainly left with a master’s degree, I also left having learned how to live in mutually caring relationships. I have lost touch with most of the people I spent those years with, but I remember them, and I am grateful for each of them. Today, I look back and long for the sense of belonging I knew there. It was a place and time where all of who I am could come to the table and find welcome.
