Chronic urticaria,” diagnosed the allergist cheerfully. “That’s doctor-speak for hives that won’t go away.”
He adjusted his bowtie; I gritted my teeth. It’s much easier to be cheerful when you’re not the one who has been dealing with daily itchiness for six weeks. “Could this be related to my other symptoms?”
“It’s more likely stress-related. Let’s see . . .” He flipped through my chart. “Since there’s nothing actually wrong with you from a medical perspective, I recommend you see a psychologist.”
I congratulated myself for not using my pen as a weapon. “A counselor. Excellent idea.” Failing to catch my dripping sarcasm, the doctor scribbled some referrals. This is how I found myself on Darla’s office couch once a week, asking the same questions over and over. What’s wrong with me? How am I going to live like this?
“One minute at a time,” Darla would say, but sometimes I could only get through seconds in therapy before breaking down.
“When Erin moved back from Tennessee, I was too tired to even call and ask if she needed help,” I wailed. “I hired a housecleaner and said it was a housewarming gift, but it was really an I-suck-at-life gift . . . The only way I’m keeping my job is lying: to my boss about where I was, to my customers about why I’m not seeing them often enough, to my friends about why I can’t make it to parties or book club. I called my human resources department about medical leave, but I can’t take it because we wouldn’t be able to keep up with the mortgage and the bills. I even pretend with Trent because I don’t want him to look at me as a sick person. Sometimes I get up and dressed only to fall back into bed the second he leaves the house, and I don’t wake up again until I hear his key in the door.”
The project was just one more thing I was failing at. Sure, I crossed more visits off the list—Christian Science, Unitarian Universalism, Sikhism, Seventh-Day Adventism—but they barely registered because I didn’t have the energy to research or get into the services.
I barely had the energy to dress myself.
“How do I keep going, Darla?” I asked from the couch, stretched out on my back because sitting up for the whole hour was too tiring.
“Don’t think about everything ahead of you, just the next thing,” she advised. She had become a fan of my project. “You’re becoming more spiritually healthy with each visit, and the importance of that can’t be overstated.”
“Redemption of my spiritual health one step at a time,” I grumbled. “It seemed like a good idea.”
If I was becoming more spiritually healthy, my body didn’t know it. Though it was only 2 p.m. when I left Darla’s office, I drove home and went straight to bed. For nearly a week. On the fifth night, I stumbled into the bathroom around 3 a.m. My joints felt painfully gummy, as though I’d been hanging from my hands and feet instead of curled up in a ball. Half my body was covered in a fresh rash of itchy welts; I had at least 150 unanswered work e-mails, a full voicemail box, and a disgustingly dirty bathroom. With oily hair and smelly frog pajamas, I was the poster child for shlumpadinkasI everywhere. I sank to my (dirty) red bathmat and ugly-cried.
A composite memory bobbed to the surface of my mind: the hundreds of times my dad had sat on the edge of my bed when I was sick as a child, stroking my hair while he prayed for me. Sometimes he prayed in a rush of holy tongues, but mostly it was regular old English words that seemed powerful when coming from his mouth, as though a fever or the chicken pox had to disappear when he mandated it in Jesus’ name.
I was in bad shape, kids. Bad enough that I did something I never could have imagined a few months prior. I went into the closet and called my dad, Former Commander of the Bat. He may have retired from workaday yellow-bat spiritual warfare, but once a prayer warrior, always a prayer warrior. I didn’t really think praying would make a difference, but what did I have to lose?
Dad answered, groggy. “Hello? Are you okay?” I could almost see him on the end of the line, looking like the Italian restaurateur from Lady and the Tramp, except with his hair sticking out every which way from sleeping. I filled him in on the situation, leaving out the part about how I hadn’t showered for . . . I couldn’t remember how long. There is a limit to how much information one’s father needs at 3:05 a.m.
“Dad, do you think you could . . . pray for me?”
He didn’t seem surprised that his twenty-nine-year-old daughter, widely known to avoid supplication, needed urgent divine assistance. As he prayed, loud and mighty, using all the words that several months prior would have thrown me into a PTCS panic, I slipped into my little girl self and let my daddy tell my Sickness exactly where to go. Instead of shivers of PTCS, I felt comforted.
“You know, Rebecca,” Dad said when he was done, “I’ll always pray for you, but you know how to do it yourself.”
“Thanks, but no.”
He yawned. “You have all the tools; you just need to use them.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
We hung up the phone, and I knew the Sickness hadn’t left. Not that I’d really expected it to, but a girl can hope, right? Or, maybe a girl can (gulp . . .) . . . pray?
Out loud in my closet, my voice a hoarse whisper, I revived words that had been dormant for years. I suspected this was a knee-jerk reaction based on my childhood and too many healing services. But still:
I prayed.
I SKIDDED INTO THE synagogue parking lot twenty minutes before service time, worried I might already be too late to snag a seat. But instead of the sea of cars I’d expected, policemen were setting up orange cones in an empty lot. I’d read that Yom Kippur—the Day of Atonement—is like the Christmas Eve of Judaism when it comes to attendance: Everybody shows up for Grandma, whether they like it or not. Did I misread the start time?
“Happy New Year!” greeted a policeman when I exited the car.
“Happy New Year!” I responded, thinking he must be referring to the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, which had occurred ten days prior. Turning toward the synagogue door, I noticed a lady taking tickets from an older couple.
“Am I supposed to have a ticket?” I asked the policeman, who guffawed like I was joking.
“You forgot your ticket? Good luck getting past Dinah!”
Before you judge what happens next, please consider I was not only awake and out of bed on a Saturday morning; I was dressed in my best conservative attire and had driven thirty minutes. Dinah or no Dinah, I was not leaving without the full Yom Kippur experience. I surveyed my options.
• Option 1: Talk Dinah into letting me in. I mean, I sold stuff for a living! And I once talked my way into a sold-out event where bestselling author Elizabeth Gilbert was speaking. Surely I could sneak into a freeII religious service. While I was thinking this, Dinah turned away two people.
• Option 2: Go in the back door. Policemen were everywhere; I did not want a full synagogue experience that began and ended with me in handcuffs.
• Option 3: Find an ally. This possibility presented itself in the form of a hobbling old man. He looked like he needed help walking; I needed help walking in. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement?
The elderly gentleman greeted me joyfully in Hebrew; I muttered something under my breath that might be construed as Hebrew before brightly adding, “Happy New Year!”
“So nice to see such a pretty young lady, coming to synagogue early!” he said, patting my arm. “G-d” forgive me, I took the opportunity to grab his elbow just in time for Dinah to see us.
“Moses!” She waved. “It’s so nice your granddaughter came with you!”
(Yom Kippur was the Day of Atonement; my slate was already pretty dirty—what’s a few more chalk marks before repenting?)
He didn’t hear; I kept quiet and flashed a demure smile that I hoped communicated “just another nice Jewish girl helping Grandpa.” He handed off his ticket while I pretended to fumble for mine.
“No ticket?” Dinah knit her brows.
“No,” I conceded miserably, sure I was about to be ousted.
“No problem,” she winked. “You take good care of your grandpa.”
I settled “Grandpa” in his seat, then followed Vinnie’s Rule, slipping into the fourth row on the right side directly behind an old lady—who immediately decamped as if my sitting had offended her. Now there was no one in front of me; who was I going to follow?
No one, apparently, because even the people behind me weren’t paying attention to the praying and reading happening at the front; everyone was just milling around, taking their time, chatting with friends on the way, apparently disregarding the rabbi’s speaking and singing. I assumed this was normal and began taking notes. Lovely stained glass—looks very much like a church, except with Hebrew writing everywhere . . .
Almost immediately, a gentleman pounced. “Put that pen away! What are you thinking, writing on Shabbat?!”
“Oops . . .” I tried to apologize, but he threw up his arms in a disgusted, “Kids these days—who needs ’em?” gesture.
A young guy—“A doctor!” he quickly informed me—plopped into the seat next to me: Did I come here often? Was I meeting my family later? Would I like to get married? He was joking, but there seemed to be a little desperation behind his glasses. He was a handsome fellow, if you’re into dark, wavy hair and liquid brown eyes. This cannot be happening again! I thought back to the Buddhist Meditation tea. Does Thirty by Thirty broadcast spiritual pheromones?
“I’m already married,” I shifted uncomfortably, realizing I had forgotten my ring on the bathroom counter.
“Oh,” he laughed it off. “Too bad!”
“Can I ask you something, though . . . ?”
“Joseph,” he supplied his name. “Sure.”
Confession time. “So . . . I’m not Jewish.”
His brows shot up.
“I thought today would be a good time to experience the synagogue, but the thing is, I’ve been so sick that I didn’t do research on Yom Kippur—or Judaism for that matter—beyond what I know from growing up.”
My former brand of Christianity maintained a complicated relationship with Judaism, sort of like a boyfriend they’d broken up with but couldn’t ever get rid of because they had a baby together. That baby is Jesus, which makes God the baby-daddy. It takes fancy theological river dancing to sidestep the “Are God’s chosen people in hell?” problem. This same set of Christians respects any Jew who plays for Team Jesus so much he even gets his own VIP title: “Completed Jew,” someone who is Jewish by heritage but Christian in belief and practice. This term always bothered me, like the Jew in question was only half a Jew before accepting Jesus into his heart, like in that famous movie scene—“[Jesus,] you complete me!”
“Cold or flu?” Joseph asked, all his doctor-y antennae up. He appeared to have heard nothing I said after the word sick, and I feared he might pull out a stethoscope and a tongue depressor from under his seat.
“Both,” I sidestepped the question. (I needed zero more doctors in my life, even cute ones.) “Anyway, I know Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement, but what’s it really all about?”
It was Joseph’s turn to be uncomfortable. His collar appeared to be choking him. “Uh, I may not be the best person to ask. I’m Jewish but not religious.”
Hmmm. Maybe PTCS is really PTRS—Post-Traumatic Religion Syndrome?
Joseph cleared his throat. “I’ll do my best. Yom Kippur is a day of fasting where you repent of the old and promise to be better. It’s about making peace with God and others, but it’s also about staking a claim to the generations of people who came before you, to the religion of your people.”
I nodded. “Why are you here if you’re not religious?”
“Aside from the fact that my mother would kill me if I didn’t show?” He laughed wryly. “I guess for me, it’s about connecting with my family and my heritage. You can’t change the religion you were born with, so you might as well learn to celebrate it.”
“Especially if your mother will kill you if you don’t?”
“Yes! Especially then.” He caught a glimpse of someone behind me. “Speaking of my mother, there she is. I better get going.”
“Thanks, Joseph,” I said. “Happy New Year.”
I looked around the rapidly filling synagogue, wondering how many of the people were practicing Jews and how many were culturally Jewish—here for Grandma, as it were. I also wondered how many of them had some form of PTRS. Joseph had said that if you can’t change your heritage you should celebrate it, but I felt a little jealous that he was able to claim the family and community aspects of his heritage without all the religious stuff. Joseph was still Jewish whether he practiced or not. If only I could be Christian-ish, I thought.
The idea was so big that it knocked my mind out of the way of my feet, which propelled me to the ladies’ restroom. I locked myself in a stall and took out my pen and journal.
What if instead of constantly warring with my religious past, I think of Christianity as my country of origin? Could I claim everything helpful as my heritage, my birthright, and get rid of the rest? Could Christianity be the bedrock of my transformation instead of something to overcome?
I heard my mother’s voice in my head.
“Don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater.” Was this Christianish thing a way I could keep the baby, dry it off, and adopt it, while still getting rid of the dirty water?
“Thankfulness is the antidote to unforgiveness.” Could being Christianish allow me to be thankful for people like Mrs. Easton and forgive all the spiritual bullies?
“When you choose grace, grace chooses you.” Could being Christianish allow me to choose grace?
I sat back. I didn’t know the answers to all these questions, but I knew this was a Day of Atonement, even if I was in a bathroom stall breaking the Sabbath rules. To me, atonement meant redemption: the redemption of everything bad for good. Christianish.
I tested my Christianish theory by thinking about atonement in the parlance of my childhood: Redemption is like exchanging beauty for ashes, gladness for mourning. These words from Isaiah 61 were the best ones I knew to talk about atonement, but ten minutes prior I wouldn’t have used them because they were too churchy, too PTCS-triggering. But now . . . I remembered something Elizabeth Gilbert had said at that event I talked my way into. “Take whatever works from wherever you can find it, and you keep moving toward the light.”
Beauty for ashes. I thought the words of the Bible verse again, mentally moving toward the light. It felt awkward, like a baby colt trying to walk.
But it sure as hell didn’t hurt.
“I’M GOING TO TEST the Christianish theory by going to the Vineyard,” I told Trent over chocolate frozen yogurt topped with strawberries. Even though it was so chilly that we needed heavy coats, fro-yo was a weekly ritual.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that?” Trent asked, spooning his peanut butter and toffee combo. The Vineyard was the same church that had caused the hives right after college.
As I considered his question, I looked over Ohio State’s campus oval. There were hardly any leaves left on the trees now; winter was closer every day.
“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “But there’s no other way to find out. Plus, I already have hives regularly. What’s the worst that can happen?”
We looked at each other and started laughing. Who knew what awful things could befall me at a church that sounded like it belonged in Napa Valley?
“I’ll be on standby while you’re there,” Trent promised, “like a spiritual ambulance team. Except with wine instead of IV fluids.”
I SAT IN THE parking lot staring at the Vineyard, which looked more like a Super-Walmart than a church. The last time I’d been here, I’d placed myself in the last row of the back balcony. It was dark, which I knew would hide my inevitable tears. I’d hoped the distance between me and the altar would give my soul space to breathe; instead, the place had nearly given me a panic attack. And now I was going to walk in there again, sit in a pew, and deal with whatever came up.
Hopefully, what comes up will not be vomit, I thought wryly before steeling myself to open the car door. On the long walk—the parking lot also resembled Super-Walmart—I gave myself the pep talk I’d practiced earlier that week:
Christianish means my old religion is my past, not my present or my future. It means my old religion is not allowed to define who I am today, who I will become tomorrow. It will not dictate how I feel about myself or the world. Christianish means my former faith will no longer keep me from seeking or finding new faith.
I didn’t believe a word of it, but I recited Christianish in my head over and over anyway. I said it as I breezed past the greeters and through the glass doors into the atrium. I repeated it so loudly in my mind that it almost covered the familiar PTCS-triggering taunts from the people and theology of my past:
“You can never find Truth because you already left it behind. You have no identity and no future. Your rejection of your faith is a disappointment to your parents, your church, and most of all, to God. You are worse than someone who didn’t ever know the Truth because you turned your back on it.”
The two competing soundtracks were in stereo as I took a deep breath and entered the sanctuary, as if they were warring for my soul, and possibly for the contents of my stomach. So I reminded myself of Mrs. Easton; the voices on that soundtrack had existed only in my mind. I simplified the chant I was dubbing over my past. Christianish. Christianish. Christianish. I chanted it like a meditation, clinging to it exactly the same way I had grasped on to each of my Thirty by Thirty visits. Each word gave me the next tiny thing to do, each formed syllable prompting one little step toward peace.
It worked. PTCS was afraid of this new soundtrack. The radical Christianish idea—that my past was not my future, that I had power to change the storyline—seemed to scare it off. I Christianish-ed myself all the way to the very front row.
I did not stand for the singing; I did not hum along. I stared straight ahead, concentrating on this new voice in my mind, waiting for a negative physical or mental reaction that—shockingly—never came. When the singing and the sermon concluded, I was still in one piece mentally, emotionally, and physically. No hives. No puke. No need to call my husband to come get me.
I knew better than to think this meant I was cured, but I also knew this meant my project was helping me make progress.
It’s good enough for today, I thought, waiting impatiently for the service to be dismissed. Just because I made it through didn’t mean I wanted to stay a second more than necessary.
But the service wasn’t dismissed. The music minister paused his guitar playing and whispered into the microphone. “The Lord’s presence is here this morning . . .”
Gag me. This guy was an archetype of every suave worship leader I’d ever known: a little too handsome, a lot too soulful. The lights were low; his eyes were closed; the piano strained softly behind him. This dude wasn’t feeling the presence of the Lord; he was feeling the adoring stares of a few hundred women who were ready to swoon over his spirituality.
“There is someone here today who needs healing,” he intoned, his voice sending a low buzz of Energy over my scalp.
I tried to shake it off. Uh-uh, no way, not into feeling Energy waves from music ministers.
“This is someone who has been sick for a long, long time,” he continued. “Someone who needs answers. You know who you are. The Holy Spirit is working on you this minute, prompting your heart to come forward for prayer.”
I didn’t feel the Holy Spirit, but I certainly felt the Energy. It was circling my body like a swarm of friendly bees, teasing my nerve endings. In my head I knew this cold call for entries to the “Be Ye Healed!” lottery was applicable to many people in this audience, but in my heart I felt it: I am exactly the person to whom this worship leader is speaking.
Absolutely not! replied everything in me . . . everything except the part that moved my muscles to stand and my feet to walk the short distance to the altar. I kneeled at the lowest step and started sobbing. I’d barely made it out of bed today, let alone to church. I was sick. I was painfully sick, and had been for a long time. This was not a PTCS breakdown, but a different breakdown altogether: I needed to do something with this Sickness, to put it down somewhere else, in front of other people. I needed Divine help.
This is what it means to be Christianish, I thought, as gentle hands alighted on my head, back, and shoulders. Soft prayers surrounded me like a blanket. “Lord, help our sister,” the voices prayed, their kindness drowning out the voices from my past. “Heal our sister with your power, in the name of Jesus.” More hands on my head, more weight off my heart.
I could not abide their theology. I did not agree with their politics. I didn’t even like their God. Heck, I still didn’t even like the word “God.” But in that Christianish moment, it didn’t matter.
In that moment, I grasped exactly what I needed from my past, yanked it into my present, and offered it to my future. Redemption.
I. \shlum-puh-DINK-uh\ n. Oprah’s word for a woman who looks like she had given up on herself. Ex: Frog pajamas are the ultimate shlumpadinka attire.
II. I discovered much later that it was not a free event; many synagogues charge money for a seat for the High Holy Days. My apologies to the rabbi.