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The Church Off the Map

Finding a good fit in a church community is very important to Dave and me.  Years ago, before we moved back to the mainland from Hawaii, I conducted a thorough search of area parishes to help us pinpoint a neighborhood.  I actually sent letters to over a dozen church communities to request information and included SASEs for return mail.  Based on what little replies I received, we chose our neighborhood and were happy with our choice.

When we moved back to Virginia Beach, we returned to our former parish in hopes of regaining our place in that community.  For the most part, that worked out well, although, “our place” wasn’t a held position so there was some adjusting, but nonetheless, we did find our new place in short order and enjoyed our time there until again it was time to leave.

Choosing a new parish here is not so complicated.  When we Googled Catholic communities prior to our house hunt, not so many names popped up.  In fact, in the area closest to Dave’s office, two parishes were listed; Church of the Incarnation in Charlottesville and Shepherd of the Hills in a place called Quinque.   We asked among our friends at St. Mark’s and many had heard of Incarnation and reported it was a dynamic parish with lots to offer.  On the contrary, Shepherd of the Hills was only known as a mission parish from the church in Elkton and no one knew where Quinque was.

Our first Sunday in our new home, we decided to go with the known entity and attended Mass at Church of the Incarnation.  Located about twelve miles south on Rt 29, it sits on a pretty lot on hill overlooking a Marriott Courtyard and a Toys R Us.  The worship space was modern and comfortable, the people were friendly and the Liturgy familiar.  After Mass, Dave stopped one of the choir folk to get a feel for group and was welcomed warmly.  I think it’s safe to say we would be happy there.

Last week, we decided we would give Shepherd of the Hills a try.  First, I printed out a map with directions so we could do an evening drive by.  Mapquest let us down!  Now that I look back, I think the map took us to the PO box at the Quinque Post Office instead of the actual church.  Luckily, Quinque isn’t very big so we were able to navigate ourselves to our destination with ended up being exactly five miles door to door.

To get to Shepherd of the Hills Catholic Church, you have to turn off the highway onto a winding two-lane country road.  Incredible views of the Blue Ridge are off to the right as you head round the bend where the church sits on the left.  Mass was scheduled for 8:30 AM.  On Sunday morning, with a less than ten minute drive-time we arrived about ten minute before Mass was to start.  However, people were just beginning to trickle in and Mass didn’t actually begin for another fifteen minutes or so – sort of like “Hawaii time”.  No one seemed concerned about the delay, in fact Father actually held up the procession waiting for people to be seated.

Mass was simple but complete.  The choir was in fact a duet; a woman on keyboards and another on guitar.  The worship space well lit and airy, and the tone relaxed and informal yet reverent.  As I sat there, I thought how nice it would be to be a part of this community but with such a small music ministry, I didn’t think it would fill Dave’s needs.

On our way out, Father stood at the door greeting everyone.  As I extended my hand he took it and said, “Tell me your name.”  I introduced myself and then Dave piped in.  We told him we’d just moved into the area and we were checking out the local parishes.  He smiled and said he’d keep his fingers crossed that we’d choose them.

As we drove home, Dave said he thought maybe a smaller parish would be better for us, that they looked like they could use us.  I agreed.  Plus, he said, it was such a short drive and we’re early risers anyway.  I agreed as well.  So, he concluded, we should continue to attend Shepherd of the Hills for at least the next few weeks to get a real feel for the parish  How could I argue?

 

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Stuffy Head – Clear View

I’m not feeling very peppy today.  My nose started running as soon as I was up this morning and soon the sneezing began.   I had planned a trip to Lowes to get materials to customize my pantry.  Well, after dropping Dave’s car off for it’s state inspection, I did make it to Lowes but now that I’m home, my energy and motivation have left me.  The good thing about this (if there is one) is that in my current state of unemployment anything I don’t do today can be done some other day – like writing a witty blog.

I did change to header to my page.  I was going to “borrow” a photo of the Blue Ridge from the web when I remembered we had some snaps in a box we took on our honeymoon.  Notice the grainy effect.   This photo was taken with an Cannon 35mm camera from the last century.  The image may be old, but not so nearly old as the view.  I am gifted with vistas similar to this when I drive to Lowes.  Even with a stuffy head, I know how special that is.

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Closing the Gate

Going back to an empty house for a final look is tricky business.  It is important to keep emotionally divorced and focused on the task at hand, systematically going through each room with a critical eye.  I find that even in writing about it, I need to stay removed from the sentimentality I could so easily apply to each room and area that we worked so eagerly to make our own in the six years we lived on Shelborne Ct.

This weekend, when we went back to collect the items that the movers wouldn’t take, our time was very short.  I think we’d planned it that way purposely.  We left here just after lunch on Saturday so by the time we hit Newport News, the east bound traffic was already building to its ugly summertime self extending the last twenty miles of our trip by an extra forty five minutes. This, coupled with the general Kempsville weekend traffic as we slugged our way from the interstate to the house reminded us how quickly we’d become accustomed to our new rural routine.

By the time we reached the house, we were running late for our dinner plans so we divided and conquered – Dave took the garage and I took the inside of the house.  My room by room eval went well.  I even discovered a fudge pop in the freezer!  I gathered the remaining cleaning and forgotten items and helped load the car.  I was doing just fine until I opened the back gate to toss my Popsicle stick in the garbage when it hit me.

Opening that gate into the yard we’d transformed from a patchy lawn rutted with dog trails into a lush, shady outdoor escape, was easy.  It was closing it for the last time that was tough.  I’d become so attached to each plant and blade of grass, so connected to the earth itself.   We  invested so many hours of preparing the soil, planting each perennial, bulb and shrub.  We weeded. We cultivated.   We watered.  In return we were rewarded with year-round beauty which we anticipated with the enthusiasm of young children counting down the days before Christmas.  Each new green sprout and flower bud was worthy of dinner conversation.  It was our yard that rooted us to our home because it was what connected our home to God.  Saying goodbye to that connection was tough.

Driving back the next day,  the traffic stayed behind us as as we drove further and further west.  Turning off the interstate onto Rt. 33, we drove the last twenty miles to our new home through the green landscapes that are now a part of our everyday life.  With the Blue Ridge mountains peeking between the breaks in the trees and the endless green around us, I feel the tingling of new roots beginning to sprout.  We have a new patch of green behind our home waiting for tending.  Each season will bring new sprouts and opportunities for connection to creation.  And so it begins.

 

 

 

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Green Acres We Are Here!

When I told my sister Barb we were moving to Ruckersville, she asked me if it was close to Hooterville.  At the time I laughed and said no, but in the time since, I’m beginning to wonder.

I’m not claiming there is a trio of beautiful young women with a “Jo” at the end of their name in town, nor has Mr. Haney arrived at our door with an offer too good to be true.  But in some very distinct ways, we are very much like Oliver and Lisa Douglas; leaving our “city” life for that of the RFD.

The first thing that struck me was the seemly long distances needed to travel to get to where I want to go.  In some cases, it really is a “furr piece”.  We drove eleven miles to go to Mass on Sunday- and it only took a few minutes longer than our accustomed four mile trip to St. Marks.  In others, it only seems that way – the closest Walmart, an icon of modern civilization, is only about two miles from the house, roughly the same distance from our old house to the Walmart on Princess Anne.  But, to get there I have to turn left onto US29, climb a hill, travel through a deer crossing and turn left on US33.  For me, this is a much different experience than just driving a few blocks through a few couple of traffic lights.  The suburban landscape is familiar, the rural is not.  Everywhere I turn there are rolling green hills.

Mind you, everything I need is here, without all lot of stuff I don’t need stuffed in between.  It is a change I can get used to, without much hardship.

 

 

 

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14,000 Pounds and What Do You Get?

The transfer of our household goods and worldly possessions is finally complete.  After seven long days of  gathering, packing, loading, unloading, unpacking and disbursing in some of the hottest, steamiest July weather imaginable, we are here!

In the finaly weigh-in, our loads totalled a whopping 14,000 pounds!  The loading day went great until they hit the attic.  Over the past six years, Dave had stowed away and out of sight, the parents’ nightmare – the kid stuff that stays behind after the kids are long gone.  Even though we’d spent countless hours weeding through our own book and memorabilia, we’d overlooked the many boxes containing the stuff Maggie and Andy had collected and left with us in safe keeping.  And, while I enjoy seeing the rough neck boxes of Legos and Barbies, the heavy book cartons of college texts do not leave me with the same warm fuzzies.

On the delivery day, Maggie came up and helped with unpacking the kitchen.  It was fun to open the boxes with her and unwrap the dishes until we realized that the items we will use really only needed a couple of shelves.  Many more shelves needed to be reserved for the other stuff – the parents’ revenge – stuff your parents give you to preserve when they downsize.   Again, I enjoyed seeing each water glass and serving dish and the warm memories of my life as a young person but don’t really care for climbing the ladder over and over again to nestle them on the way top shelves.  I told Maggie I felt as if we were a travelling Smithsonian exhibit.  She said she hoped someday she’d have a place big enough so she could take some of these things off my hands.  All I can say is, me too!

 

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Bill and Hillary

Bill and Hillary arrived at my door early this morning. No, we weren’t entertaining the former president and Secretary of State, Bill and Hillary are our packers.   I thought it ironic that I fit right in as a “Monica”.

Eight hours later, the house is almost empty and reaks of cardboard.  I also realized that Bill and Hillary drove away with half of our belongings and I don’t even know either of their last names or have a contact number for them.

Moving involves so many leaps of faith.

 

 

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Labor and Delivery

The packers will be here in a few hours.  This past weekend, while the rest of the country celebrated our Nation’s independence, Dave and I worked on our breaking away from our life here in Virginia Beach.

The eating and goodbyes continued.

I told someone yesterday that is move is kind of like a pregnancy.  There has been the waiting and anticipation of new life, and now we’re entering labor.  It’s going to be a long haul, hurt like hell and then the new life will begin.

Well, at least there won’t be the interruptions of crying during the night.  At least I hope not.

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The Nearly Old Woman and the Sea

The sunburn on my shoulders and forehead is still red and achy.  I can’t believe I did this to myself….

Last weekend, Maggie and Jan decided to take advantage of an opening in their calendar and  called to say they wanted us to join them for a day at the beach.  We all knew it was our last chance before the move, so we did.  It was the perfect day – mid to high eighties, cool breeze off the water and waves big enough to play in but not so rough that there was much danger of being rolled on the beach.

And play we did.  After not too much time in the sun we headed for the water.  Once we passed the beach break and got “used” to the water temperature, we went out to shoulder deep water to ride the waves.  I’m not sure what it is about wave bobbing that makes me so very happy but it surely does.  I even turned to another woman about my age doing the bob and remarked that it was my favorite thing in the whole world.  And, at that moment it was.  It was as if I’d become ageless.  I was me at 55 but also me at 35 and 15 all at the same time.  I was weightless – which is a good thing at any age.

Just what is it about the bob that is so addictive?  As I jumped through a wave, I was already looking forward to the next.  As my body tired, I still wanted more.  Time was irrelevant.  The world revolved around me and the unending supply of waves.

This is how I got the sunburn.  It was totally worth it.

 

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The Long Goodbyes

Our move has entered the phase of goodbyes.  The past few days have been jam-packed with quality friend time which almost always involves food and ends with lots of hugs.  In a lot of ways, it’s been like a funeral, which I guess is only natural.  After all, I am dying to one life and moving on to the next. (It must be all that preparation I did for my Baptism prep classes that direct me to this conclusion.)  Honestly, I’m really enjoying the commradary.

Every hug, every encouraging word and even the sad faces lift me up.  They are prayers in action, wrapping me in the protective warmth of my collective community, like a warm sweater to keep me warm as I set out from this place.  With all this, how can I feel sad?  I am loved; I am so blessed.

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Cleaning closets

Dave and I started gleaning through our closets about a year ago.  Our motivation at the time was our parish yard sale.  It was a long process of emptying the contents of these dark recesses onto the floor outside to evaluate the worth and necessity of each item.  This past weekend we completed the process by giving the garage the once over.

Naturally it was a very hot and muggy day, the kind that would make most people decide to put the job off for another, more temperate day.    So, faced with the lack of future rescheduling possibilities, we sorted, rearranged swept and loaded the back of the CRV with yet another load of stuff to take to a charity shop.

While we were in work mode, I was distracted by children’s voices from the house next door.  Having been raised as the oldest sister by an oldest sister, my ears are finely tuned to detect mischief and when I peeked out the garage door, I discovered my skills are still in fine working order.  I saw the neighbor’s eight year old dressed only in  his white briefs, shod in one white shoe and one black shoe, standing outside his bedroom window next to a bar stool attempting to coax his younger brother to join him in his escape!

Instead, I joined in on the escape, from my cleaning, and asked him if his mother knew he was standing in the yard in his skivvies.  He said no and decided to hastily return to his room via the window.  Once inside, he stuck his head out and nonchalantly began to ask who was going to live in our house after we moved, as if his window comings and goings were nothing out of the ordinary.  Then his brother joined in by pulling down the sash on his head.  This was followed by some muffled squeals, yells and the abrupt shutting of the window.

Later, when the whole family trickled out of the house to get in the car (parked conveniently in the front yard) I told his mother about the escape.  Although she was a little embarrassed and frustrated by her sons’ adventures, I know she appreciated my watching out for them.  Despite what you think of Hillary Clinton, it really does take a village to raise children.

God only know how I got from cleaning closets to Hillary Clinton.  But, for this morning at least, my escape time is over.  The lawn awaits before the day becomes one of those really hot days. . .