And some days you don't fit. 
You won't. 
You can't. 
Not all the time, anyway. 
No one does.

And on these days you might have difficulty explaining yourself to others--what you think, feel, experience, wrestle with, dream about...

"They don't understand what I'm trying to say," you think to yourself. 
"Does everyone always struggle this much to understand me?" you wonder.

You might get a sense of what Alice felt like when she ate that tart that made her grow too large to fit thru the keyhole as you make your lunch and gobstopper-sized tears fall from your eyes onto your plate.

It's a strange place to be in...

...especially if you're someone the world is used to hearing talk and laugh and be silly.

"What's wrong with her?" they think to themselves.

And sometimes they'll even be brave enough to ask you to your face.

But because you don't make sense today, trying to explain to them your state of mind is likely pointless.

And thus continues the confusing, blubbering, chaotic circular pattern of your life for the day.

-----

Ah, but there is always some form of redemption in the midst of these strange days--sometimes that form is in the form of spaces where you need merely show up and exist, with your only care in the world being taking note of your chest as it moves up and down and up and then down once more, again and again as you remember the Breath that initially gave you life and continues to sustain your existence even today, on this, one of the strangest days. 

This space was my haven today. 

Created by my classmates with love & reverence, we reflected on rainbows as signs of God's hope and promise.

I didn't have to say anything or explain anything.

I just had to sit, listen, and take it all in.

Maybe strange days like today serve as reminders for those of us who feel as though talking is how we make it known that we're here and accounted for in the world that 

There is goodness in listening. There is goodness in stillness. There is goodness in silence.

In such spaces, no explanations are needed. 

In such spaces, we need only to "be."

It is for these spaces that I give thanks today.

Church is weird.
Worship is weird.

Especially when it's happening beyond the walls of the typical buildings in atypical fashions such as:

Playing dodgeball with a group of rowdy teenagers
Spreading mulch in a fairy forest
Singing familiar songs with 20,000 some odd unfamiliar people, and 
Trying to be present to and with a grieving soul

But all of these places is where I found myself face-to-face with the living, moving, breathing, working God this weekend.

Agreeing (somewhat insanely) to be a chaperon for a youth lock-in at church gave me the freedom I needed to step away from all of the stress of school and "moving home to adult world" logistics and embrace the Spirit of God evident in a group of young people I've had the privilege to watch grow in their faith over the past three or so years as we colored and laughed and prayed and played games and made s'mores and sang together.

Being invited to help a person who has been so instrumental in our growth throughout seminary with weeding and spreading mulch to nurture the blooms and buds of her fairy forest of a yard opened my eyes to the goodness of the sun, of nature, of friendship, of new life and the care that is necessary in order for the new life to be noticed and appreciated for all it's worth.

Looking around an arena full of strangers who hugged their loved ones close to them as they sang in unison the lyrics of a song that implied that sometimes the crappy times of our past help lead us to the happiness that we experience today in our relationships and what a gift such happiness is now, even if we had no inkling that such joy existed during the difficult times we previously experienced. In the midst of the joy and bliss and gratitude of random people all around me, I felt the risen Christ encouraging us to be thankful for the love in our lives in all its various forms and to share that overflow of God's love until we have none left to give.

Gazing into the brokenhearted brown eyes of my friend and colleague as she openly and vulnerably answered my question of, "How are you doing today?" in regards to her unimaginable grief of the recent and unexpected passing of her husband and best friend of 35 years. As I was reminded yet again that I had no words to comfort her other than that I heard what she was saying and that what she was feeling was real and important for her to confront head-on--which is her approach to grief, she has to "name it," she says--I was in awe of how nearly palpable God's presence was with us. Even in the midst of such agony and raw emotion and my amazement at what a strong yet suffering human being sat before me, I think we both knew we weren't alone. God was there with us at that table as the sunny morning shifted into the grayness of the afternoon and as we sat in the reality of what a broken world it is that we inhabit. 

----
I used to wonder about Matthew 18:20. What did Jesus mean when he says, "For where two or three are gathered in my name, I'm there with them"? Now, I think he was just trying to emphasize that there really is strength in numbers...even if it's just a little number. We are reminded that we are not alone in this world when we experience it, face it, question it all...together. We are reminded that God is, in fact, with us in the midst of it all, good and bad.

"Together"--in whatever shape or form that takes, in whatever time and whatever place--is where we belong.

It is where we find the abiding Spirit of God, breathing life into us again and again, so that we can face the upcoming moments of life with the assurance that God's love never leaves us, not even for an instant, as we face the typical and the atypical, the work and the play, the suffering and the joy, of our everyday lives. Thanks be to God.