by Elisa P.

Every other week, I have to work on Sundays. It’s been this way for years, even before I got married, and I have always felt like my spirituality and relationship to church and religion has suffered for it. Well, this year, my workweek fell on Easter. Knowing that Easter and Christmas are my most important spiritual weekends, I reached out to find a Palm Sunday service. Yes, yes, General Conference was on Palm Sunday weekend, but with two kids who can’t sit still for five minutes, let alone ten hours, I knew I wouldn’t be spiritually nourished by General conference talks.

My mother’s cousin’s church had a good Palm Sunday service, so I reached out specifically to him to learn of their meeting time. It was 9 AM in a location half an hour from our house. Tricky with kids who get extra wiggly whenever it’s time to go somewhere, but we could do it.

When we arrived, we were greeted at the door by someone who knew our names. Our children were escorted to the childcare room (which caught us by surprise, as we were not expecting childcare), and my cousin helped us know what we would be doing and where we would be going.

First was the waving of the palms. The pastor started with a call, feeling similar to a hosanna shout, full of triumph and joy. The congregation responded in kind. Then, we all went around the outside of the church (where they have both lawn and drought-resistant landscaping beautifying the land, as well as a dormant community garden). The congregation sung, and I tried to sing along. Unfortunately, I’d lost my voice and could barely croak out the alto part.

First was the waving of the palms. The pastor started with a call, feeling similar to a hosanna shout, full of triumph and joy. The congregation responded in kind. Then, we all went around the outside of the church (where they have both lawn and drought-resistant landscaping beautifying the land, as well as a dormant community garden). The congregation sung, and I tried to sing along. Unfortunately, I’d lost my voice due to a cold and could barely croak out the alto part.

When we went inside is where the real magic happened and the Spirit of the Lord took hold of my heart. Every piece of the Palm Sunday program was centered on Christ. Every song. Every prayer. The Palm Sunday reading started with Jesus entering Jerusalem on a donkey and ended with his Crucifixion. A woman read Jesus’s lines. The congregation read the lines of the crowd wanting to crucify their Lord. A woman blessed the bread and water. A woman gave the sermon afterwards, all focused on the wounded God who Heals. And invited those to become like the wounded God who Heals.

During Communion, I felt the Spirit so strongly as I watched members of the congregation come to the circle to partake of the bread and wine. It was intimate, reverent. Hands gently cupped when waiting for the bread. Arms gently crossed over their chest to signify they’d already received the bread. Those who did not wish to drink wine partook sybolically, bowing their heads as the wine cup was offered. Quiet, gentle whispers of “The Body of Christ,” “The Blood of Christ,” as the pastor and deacons gave them this offering.

I wanted to partake, to run up and join myself in Communion. To be a part of this community, small and intimate and fully immersed in the mission of Christ to mourn with those that mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort. But I didn’t. I was not part of this church. I had a cold and was wearing a mask, afraid to spread it to others in the congregation. I sat and cried and felt the Spirit and wanted to become better. My husband looked at me, confused, and I just said I was okay.

At the end of the service, there was coffee hour. We retrieved our kids, and our oldest immediately glommed onto one family sitting at a table and chatted with them. They welcomed him without reservation. After we got our refreshments, we were invited to another table with more available seats. My husband retrieved our oldest, and he immediately started chatting with a kind old woman. She was hard of hearing, and I was hard of speaking, so between the two of us she thought my son was a trans boy and asked him what name he preferred. Just like that. Without reservation. Full of love.

I wish to be part of a church like that. Perhaps our church is like that, or at least is striving to be like that. But when I think of how hard it’s been to become a part of my own ward, with so many people thronging to a meeting where we sit passively, then go to another meeting where a press of students sit passively and try to engage in a lesson that so often focuses on what seems too often to be a topic divorced from the scriptures it contains, and then force my way through a throng to go home, I often wonder if it’s possible the way our church is now. Each week I come, I feel like a stranger. Granted, I have not gone often due to sickness and work, but it’s how I feel.

When I went to my cousin’s church, I never wanted to leave. I felt welcomed from the moment I arrived to the moment we left the building. The Spirit told me of the goodness of the message and the sincerity of the people. Every message spoke to us of Christ, His sacrifice, His succoring of us to come unto Him, and of our duty to reach out to those around us. Every person I interacted with welcomed us as we were, and welcomed those around them as they were. Every interaction was intimate. Every word was spoken in love.

Let us be more like these people, these Followers of Christ. We’ve got quite a ways to go, and it’s going to be an uphill battle. But let us reach out in love to others. Let us remember the Wounded God who Heals. And let us be like Him.

Elisa is a medical laboratory technologist and a mother of two. While she is grateful for a schedule that lets her be a stay-at-home mother every other week, she wishes for a day when she can feel like she’s not split between two worlds.