I like bread. Not in an obsessive sort of way – I don’t dream about bread, or spend all of my waking moments thinking about bread – but in a steadier, more quotidian sort of way. It’s just part of the rhythm of life.
After three repetitions of the chorus from “10,000 Reasons” at church, I’m ready to call a time-out and connect with the maroon cushions, not stay on my feet for another four songs.
I tried to peel myself off the alley as the Spanish words got louder, men’s voices, but my Columbia pants stuck to the dirt. My bones ached and bowels churned. Montezuma was mounting his revenge and it was one of the worst hours of my life.
A stranger’s fingers grip mine. The words reverberate from my throat and into my ears. Liturgy is new for me–but stepping into the same words every Sunday works like a garden hoe on my heart. After weeks and months of hands grasping mine as we pray together, “Our Father in heaven,” two realizations have churned up from this regular tilling of the Lord’s Prayer.
God isn’t waiting for us to master the art of being a Christian—not in the way that we conquered first grade math, said goodbye to our teachers, and could count to a hundred on our own. He’s not expecting for us to navigate the politics at work, without his help. He’s not hoping that we’ll grow our own supply of patience, and not need his.
University was the beginning of the end for me. The end of innocence. You might think that statement hyperbolic, but I promise you it’s not. It is the end of innocence for most people. However, I think it can be a particularly jarring experience for believers. Everyone else goes to university expecting and hoping to lose their innocence; Christians go to university hoping against hope to keep it.