Nothing.
Blessed nothing.
I don't think I've had a weekend where I have nothing planned for a couple of months. It's like a state of 48 hour bliss. Sure I've got things I'd like to do -- laundry, vacuuming, crocheting, watching football, etc. -- but I don't have anything scheduled. It's lovely. Truly lovely. I may wear elastic waistband pants all weekend . . .
Last night was the Harvest Dinner at church. As usual, it was a lot of fun and a lot of work, and I know that I wasn't nearly one of the hardest workers. I worked for three and a half hours. Some people worked all day. Kudos to them for pulling it off once again.
Those of you that know me well know that I've got . . . er . . . "issues" with organized religion, and you may be a little surprised that I still help out with fundraisers at church, and even enjoy myself. But even as I've come to develop my own views on faith and spirituality that separate me from my church, I do still hold a very soft spot in my heart for it. Notice that I still call it "my" church, though I don't share its views on some of its fundamental beliefs.
It's an odd relationship I have with Epworth, and it is unique to that one church. I certainly don't feel any affinity towards any other UMC out there. (United Methodist for those that aren't familiar with the acronym.) I attended one Sunday service at Choctaw UMC while I was in Oklahoma with Zac. He occasionally attended and I thought it would be the right thing to do to try and stomach an hour of church for him. Once we got home he let me know that he'd never invite me to do that again. I was a little dismayed that I wasn't able to cover up my feelings better during the service. I hope no one besides Zac noticed me, because I certainly didn't want other people at church thinking, "Why did he bring her? - she obviously doesn't want to be here."
And I honestly don't think I should be attending services at a church. At the end of the day I think it's an affront to people that do believe (and to their version of God) to sit there with nothing but an overwhelming desire to roll my eyes as I argue against them in my head. It seems like the best way for me to respect their faith is to not pretend that I share it.
But then there's Epworth. I know the building like I know my parent's house. I know every square inch, the way different rooms and hallways echo, what drawers the plastic table clothes are in, how to correctly wash and sanitize dishes after a fundraiser, etc. I am completely comfortable in the building. Besides my parent's house, my grandparents' houses and Clara Barton Open School, it's probably the building I spent the most time in while I was growing up.
And then there's the people. For better or for worse, they're like family. Some of them I adore, other ones irritate the hell out of me. Like the guy who told my mom that he was pretty sure that I wouldn't make it through college and would probably drop out before I graduated. Yeah, he said that to my mom. (Note to that guy - have I showed you my law license lately? Screw you, you jerk.) But I care about the people there and I appreciate the fact that they don't point out my absence on Sundays anymore. They seem genuinely happy to have me there when I am, and we leave it at that. I honestly, I am genuinely happy to see them too. (Except that one guy.)
I don't feel like posting about all of my disagreements with the teachings of the Methodist church (and the Christian church generally). That would take days and days. But in the end, Epworth will always be my church. And though I don't believe in some of what the church believes, I do occasionally find some things from my Methodist upbringing that I do whole-heartedly believe:
Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can,
To all the people you can,
As long as ever you can.-- John Wesley
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