History cannot be unlived*

November 16, 2004 | Category: In My Life

This is an anniversary of sorts for me.

Just after my birthday in November, 1994, I donned my cassock for the last time.

It was a sevice led by Boston's Bishop Thomas Shaw. He was newly elevated to being a Bishop and I was newly back from Europe. Somehow I had been asked to assist in a Unity service he was going to lead.

Before the service, the Bishop made a point of finding me to shake my hand. I quickly tucked the last of my hair up in a bun as he held out his hand to me. "You worked with Bishop Griswold?" he asked, all egalitarian and earnest.

I nodded. We shook.

The courtesy address for a Bishop is "Your Grace" - the same as for a Duke or Duchess. But Frank Griswold is the only person I have ever called that. So with other Bishops I do that thing you do with prospective in-laws - wait to make eye contact and avoid any kind of reference at all.

"We're glad to have you with us here," Bishop Shaw said, very kindly. "I think I was told that you'd resigned from the Chicago Diocese, but you should come by the diocesan offices..."

"I think that it's my last service 'in uniform'," I interrupted, with a smile and sad eyes. I pointed to the pews with a lift of my jaw. "My mother is in the congregation..."

"Oh," he said, understanding my motivation. We continued with making smiley faces but we each pulled back into ourselves even as he let go of my hand. "The offer's open if ..."

And it was done.

The service went well. They used me as a glorified sign language interpreter. My part in assisting was given to a bright-eyed sycophant.

As a civilian, I still tried to make it work in Boston for another 3 months. Riding the salty ferry into the city every morning for an assortment of temp jobs. Combing through thrift shops for an office-worthy wardrobe. Fingering momentoes of my previous life and then tucking them back into my suitcase at the back of my mother's closet.

My brother had already moved back home, so I slept on the couch. Carefully putting away all the bedding every morning.

As the crocuses pushed up in the first taste of spring, 1995, I called my girlfriend Dee back in Chicago. "Help," I cried. "I want to come home."

The next day, I got up and left a note for my mother, and took my suitcase to the airport. My mother caught up with me there a few hours later. I used that true and old tired line "It isn't YOU; it's ME."

Dee was there when my plane landed. A week later I had a temp job at the TeleCo. 2 weeks after that, we moved me into the apartment building that would be my home for the next 6 years. 2 years later, I met CD and soon he moved in there with me.

On the 5th anniversary of this time, CD and I went downtown to look at all the shop displays. It was cold and there was a little bit of snow. CD and I had just reconciled after a hard time. We'd began couple's counseling and just returned from a mini-break up in Door County.

He carried our bundles. I held a paper cup of coffee. We made our way, in the dusk, over to Huron Street.

"This was home," I said. Althought there have been many more people who have spent much more of their lives in the Cathedral and Diocesan Offices than me. Still, for a time, this had been the center of my purpose in my life.

CD stood, somewhat impatiently, as I pointed out where my office had been and all the little landmarks. That was the little chapel where I had led services. That was the hall where I presided over Bingo.

And now 5 more years have passed. A decade since I was in black. And it still seems like if I just reach behind me, it is still there. Just. The last "Amen" ringing in my ears.

* "History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again." - Maya Angelou

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