Take me to the river

I missed church yesterday, and that is NEVER EVER a good thing for me. My mom's in the hospital and I was back at the ol' hometown to kinda keep an eye on stuff for her, and bring her chai.

I hate it when I miss church. It makes me spiritually ouchy, and then when I come back to work and the everyday life, it's like trying to drive a car on the rims. Sparks have been flying all day long.

I really expected myself to get tired of the liturgy, tired of the SAME service every Sunday and occasionally during the week. But I have found the opposite to be true. Each line of the service is so theologically rich, from the Creed, to the pre-communion prayers, to the hymns for the day's saint and the Mother of my God, and to the veneration of the Precious and Life-giving Cross as I leave. It connects me and grounds me in a way I cannot begin to explain. But I'm going to try anyway.

The service feels like a rushing river -- the prayers, the litanies, the readings, the entrances. It moves along, gathering me up and carrying me in a rush of words and incense. I chant with fervor as I pray the Lord's Prayer--asking for forgiveness and His provision. I bow, I cross myself, and I kneel--each action connecting me physically to my faith. And there are parts of the service where we know we join with the angels, singing with the Cherubim and the Seraphim--Holy God! Holy Mighty! Holy Immortal! It is my spiritual home. It is the wings to my soul. It is the cry of my heart.

This is my church.