Sketchbook Memories: Octavius' New Hobby

The late afternoon sun hit the postcard and illuminate the idyllic lake-and-tree picture of the upper peninsula. Marty sighed. On the last day of school, Marty and Will decided to penpal over the summer while he was away in Michigan. They promised to write each other every week, even if nothing exciting happened. So far, Marty had written seven postcards to receive nothing in return. Should he continue to send words that seemed to fall on the deaf ears of his friend?

Marty sighed again. A promise was a promise, even if his friend didn't write back. He placed the postcard in the mailbox, flipped up the flag, and turned to walk back down the gravel lane. Even if he was not Will's best friend, Will was Marty's closest friend in California.

The move had not been easy. Marty didn't care for his new step-father or the fact that he had to move from one side of the country to the other right before starting middle school. True, living next to the ocean was not a bad perk, but it was all so different. Marty felt lonely more often than not, and he missed being surrounded by his cousins. Meeting Will gave him a break from the nagging desire to hitch-hike across the country and leave behind his new life in California. Will taught him how to surf and skateboard, as well as where to find the best ice cream on the West Coast. If California didn't always feel like summer, Marty would miss spending lazy sunny days exploring with his new friend. But Michigan had cousins, sailboats, and biking through the woods until the sun set or the mosquitos sucked dry your last drop of blood.

Maybe it was silly to be angry or disappointed. Marty was having fun in Michigan, and he was glad to share his memories with his new friend. If he wrote enough enticing letters, maybe Will would even come visit for part of next summer.

Still, though. Seven letters. Marty knew the post office might lose one or two here and there, but seven consistently? That would be cause for rioting in the streets and an overhaul of the whole mail system. No... maybe Will just lost track of time in the land of sun and beaches. Every day starts to feel disorienting-ly the same, and seven weeks could feel like two days.

- - -

Nothing. Not a thing. 

Junk mail, sure. There was always junk mail and those credit card offers that fueled his parents' fire pit. But no letters. Not from Michigan, not from nowhere. 

At first, Will would check the mail with excitement. Now, it was just a ritual on his way to the beach. Will was sure that Marty would have been different than other want-to-be penpals. Shoot, they both read letter correspondences of famous dead people and joked about their own letters being published someday. 

Unfortunately, you can't publish nothing. And that was the extent of Will's correspondence with Marty. True, he wrote a couple of letters at the beginning. But it was difficult to keep it up with no returned discourse. You can't keep firing ideas out into the void like that. His last letter was four weeks ago. Four pages. Filled with J's in different script. If Marty wasn't reading his letters, at least he could practice his handwriting skills. Now, Will could state proudly, without refute, the ability to reproduce a perfect J in 237 different scripts. How about that for fame? 

Of course, he would forgive Marty of the many reasons or excuses given for not writing. Life happens. But after getting that all sorted out, he might torture his friend for a little while with script quizzes or another viewing of "Helvetica" before letting on that everything was okay. 

Sketchbook Memories: Fishy Drifters

Sigmond was at a complete loss at their surprise. He had been telling them of his plans for months. Even still, the Accounting Firm of Oceanic Investments' manager doubted Sigmond's bravado at leaving, not only his very secure job, but also his very safe home at the coral beds. Why in the world would he not settle down to raise a few hundred baby seahorses of his own? What could he find out there that wasn't offered by the Firm?

Still, the lure of the ocean pulled him like a mid-August current and he knew his path would be decidedly different than the thousands of extended family making up the Firm. Barely looking back, he trudged his suitcase to the far, far coral and waited. 7:03 his pocket watch told him. The taxi should be arriving soon.

Sigmond chuckled to himself as he remembered the puckered look of their faces. He, Sigmond Bartholomew XXIII of Investments Group 437, leaving in search of more fish and the sea. Who could have guessed it? Should his travels go well, perhaps he would consider making good on a friend's invitation to visit the surface. What would they think of him then?

He checked his watch again. Where was that blasted taxi? The watch read 7:03. Worthless thing, this pocket watch. With the salt water corroding the gears year after year, it was a surprise the watch held together at all. He kept it for the sentimentality. This pocket watch was a gift from his late father, and even though it never told the time, Sigmond liked having it near him. The round watch filled his pocket nicely and gave him something to do if he got one of his nervous spells.

Now, for instance. He practiced taking it out and putting it back into his pocket with the refined swish of his tail. Out, in, out. 7:03. In, out. There was comfort in knowing every important moment in his life happened at the same time, never a second too soon or too late.

A sound reverberated through the coral and Sigmond turned his head. Ah, the water taxi. Right on time. As the blurb, blurb of bubbles drew nearer, his heart quickened. This was it. Now was the start of his greatest adventure yet! With a flick of Sigmond's tail, the watch was back in his pocket and his luggage in tow. If only his father could see him now!

The Great Parade of Sins

It happens every Sunday morning since I was brought back into communion.

I wake up early to get ready for the new day and the liturgy. As I prepare to say my pre-communion prayers, a weight of doubt settles on my chest. In Orthodoxy, communion is not simply a matter of remembrance, but through the prayers and mysteries of the service, the bread and wine becomes the actual body and blood of Christ. Communion is not to be taken lightly, as that bread and wine is a piece of the Son of God, the essence of all life and goodness, swallowed and consumed for the healing and salvation of my very own body and soul. Preparation - prayer, fasting, confession - is necessary to receive communion, lest I drink and eat judgement and death upon myself. Have I done enough to prepare for communion?

The answer is always no, and thus starts a Sunday morning phenomenon that I have come to call my Great Parade of Sins.

First, I see all the non-Lenten foods I may have eaten on Wednesday or Friday (days that are set aside for prayer and fasting by the Orthodox church). Then, all the mornings I was in a rush, or I slept too long, and didn't complete my morning prayers. Next come my fits of impatience, my stubbornness, my frustrations, my unkindness and slander for the people around me. All the ugly characteristics I have embodied in just the last week are marching back and forth in front of me. Heaven forbid my thoughts dredge up anything from my past! Of course by this point, I decide that I have not adequately prepared for communion, I am not worthy to partake of the body and blood of Christ. In years past, this is the point where I give up, do not say pre-communion prayers, and remove myself from communion entirely, hoping to schedule a confession and do a better job next week.

This, of course, is never the correct answer. When I have made this decision in the past, I realize my error halfway through the service as everything in me yearns for participation at the communion table. I have removed myself, now standing sad and mute at the back of the church. Why am I even here? I sometimes wonder, in moments of dark despair.

As a protestant converted to Orthodoxy, I hold a tension inside my heart. In regards to the communion table (and my personal salvation), this tension is between works and grace. My protestant upbringing balks at the idea of preparing for communion. Divine grace, it yells into my ear. Forgiveness through belief alone and not works.  Throughout the Gospel and the apostle Paul's letters to the early Christian churches, there is a tension in understanding God's movement toward us and our movement toward him. In protestant beliefs, this tension has been interpreted as an opposing binary between faith or works. On one side, there is only grace activated by our faith. God moves toward us, but only after we invite him to do so. In many circles, this invitation comes through a simple prayer consisting of several sentences. Taken to the extreme, the belief that God only moves toward us has lead to controversial (and some would argue, heretical) doctrine such as predestination, Calvinism, and the total depravity of the individual. The responsibility of grace and love is entirely in the hands of the Divine toward us lowly humans. Sadly, in circles holding these beliefs, there is very little grace left over to extend love to those around us.

The other side of the protestant binary is work based faith, or participation in religions that focus on good works as a means to salvation. Through our actions, we move toward God and the promise of paradise. Catholicism and Orthodoxy are lumped in with this description, though since converting I realize this is a labeling of the "other" by protestant doctrine rather than a belief held in the Church. My preparation for communion - prayer, fasting, and confession - can be seen as works (they are actions that I do or do not perform). The binary of my protestant upbringing whispers that completing these actions makes me worthy to participate in communion, while failing removes me. The tension between works and grace remains in my heart as I watch my weekly sins like a Sunday morning soap opera of guilt and shame.

No, I am not worthy to participate in communion.

A wise woman once challenged me on this thinking. "Who gives us the right to determine if we are worthy or unworthy to partake in communion?" Her words stay with me now, years after she confronted me. Rather than remove myself for fear of my own sins, I begin my prayers of preparation. The words strike at the chords of my heart, drawn taught with the works/grace tension. Like the leprous man who approached you, so heal my leprous and sick soul. Like the woman who touched your garment and was healed, so hear my prayers and heal me, though I be sinful and unworthy. Reduced to the simpliest meaning, each line breaths a simple request: Lord, have mercy on me.

I think on my week, the sins now parading around the living room and the kitchen, and feel the request deep in my heart: Lord, have mercy on me. As I struggle with knowing if I should take communion or not - if I have adequately checked all my boxes (I never have) - I focus on and repeat the words of the prayers: Lord, have mercy on me. When the time finally comes to receive the body and blood of Christ, to uproot my feet and move toward the chalice, I walk in the faith of God's grace and goodness. My great sin parade marches in front of me, now frantic and waving every arm and banner, shouting my unworthiness at a deafening screech. Their concerns are well placed: I walk like dry grass to the fire, a cold fear emanating from the black base of my heart, judgment and condemnation await me, the sinful and unrepentant. Still I approach, fixating on and crying out with every movement of my breath: Lord, have mercy on me. Lord, have mercy on me. Lord, have mercy on me. 

A portion of the divine, a fragment of Christ himself, is spooned into my mouth. I chew and swallow. As the prayers promise, I partake of the fire, though I am dry grass. O wonder! I am refreshed and not burned, as the bush of long ago, which was in flames but not consumed. Thankful to the depths of my soul and heart, my parade takes its leave and I sit in the light that is God's grace toward his creation. This grace is real to me. I am not burned or destroyed, though I am unworthy to have God dwell in me. I have not adequately prepared for communion - I have not fully repented my sins - and still God enters under the roof of my soul. If my faith is works based, I deserve damnation, judgment, and death for my sins. But, through faith in God's goodness I approach, trusting in real grace, real love, and real forgiveness. I have cried, Lord have mercy, and for one week more, God has answered my heart prayer and drawn me closer.

Week after week passes. My sin parade still visits me on Sunday mornings, and still my heart cries out its prayer of desperation. Again, I partake of God and am not consumed, but left in awe of the mystery that is God's love toward creation. The tension in my heart is loosening, the divide between works and grace blurring into a different understanding. I am beginning to experience terms that were always too abstract before: faith, forgiveness, and grace. The requirements and standards put forward by my church intensify my belief. The standard is there and I am here, far below, looking up at what I am meant to be. Every week, I fear condemnation. Every week, I breath repentance. Every week, I approach the chalice with faith. And every week, I experience God's forgiveness and grace. I turn to a new week with thanksgiving and conviction. Perhaps this week, I will do a little better - I can love better, be more disciplined, and more earnestly remember paradise in all that I do - by the grace of God who gives me breath to whisper: Lord have mercy.