Church bell

I moved into my current place in November. I instantly loved the apartment, or maybe it was the idea that once again I would have a place to call completely my own that I loved. It felt so adult, so sophisticated with hardwood floors, black and stainless-steel appliances, high ceilings with crown molding. I felt so abundant. Little things like not having any closet space (no really, I have one very small clothes closet and nothing else), and a triangular room and a bedroom with eight corners were easily overseen. I am within walking distance of an excellent Asian Bistro (called Zen), super delicious. There is a yoga studio which attracts very snooty people close by too. I can look out my window and see the mountains. There were many positives.

In my quest for deeper Jewish understanding, I knew that this home would be an experiment. No one to prevent me from keeping kosher or to give me flack when I broke down and ate a cheeseburger. Only my alarm knowing if I really got up in time to do shachrit by myself; and only the walls to know if I was close to pronouncing the words correctly. Hebrew is hard enough, let alone at 5a, after very little sleep. These things I would do, I would try and I would give myself a break because as long as I was giving it my all, I could hardly ask more of myself. Fine, dandy, I can deal. And I can deal with most any of these things--except church.

When I came to see exactly which apt I was getting, I had a sinking feeling it would be this one. I'm on the corner of the property, just as you enter. (side note, this location in a complex seems very typical for me, eerie coincidences). Across the street, just outside my west facing window is a church. A white church that is trying to decide if it is new or old. It's new construction, with an old feel. I don't quite know how to describe it. It's also trying to give a small town impression, at least based on the exterior design. Every Sunday, the streets around my home fill up with church-goers. Some are friendly, some are not; most just go un-noticed by me and me by them. I'd hear the bell and it would be a twinge, a very audible reminder that I still in Colorado, a very dominant Christian society. For a while I would try to imagine the bell being the Shabbat bell in Jerusalem, letting the population know that it was the Sabbath. Or even the Muslim call to prayer which I heard when I lived right next to the old city seemingly constantly. My attempts failed-it was a church bell. I got a little relief actually when I started to work on Sundays; I'm out of my house before the newspaper is on my doorstep. But every day I drive home and I see it. I sit outside, and I face it. I was clearly experiencing a little bitterness (ok, more than a little).

Honestly, that all changed today. As I said before, it's a small church, in a small suburb of Denver (town of a thousand churches). I don't know what size their congregation is but I can imagine, small. I was sitting outside ready through the Mishkan T'filah after work when I heard a lot of commotion. I presumed there was a function there when I drove up because I couldn't find any parking. I tried to ignore it, feeling my bitterness starting to emerge. They were just so loud. There was no way I could concentrate. Finally, I just put the sidur down and began watching all the excitement. I wish I could say that reading the sidur enlightened me and brought my guard down, but I don't think that was the case. The first thing I saw was a dove. Then a flower girl, in the most adorable white and pink dress, throwing presumably rose petals to the wind. She giggled when they came back to her face and tickled her nose. Family members and friends and all sorts of ecstatic people came flooding out the doors in sheer merriment. The bridal party formed a line for the bride and groom to walk under, just like the movies. In another scene from classic romantic movies, the couple got in a roadster and drove off into the sunset--veil waving in the wind, pop cans clanking down the street pronouncing to all the union just formed. And I was there. I don't know them, I'll probably never see them again and wouldn't recall their faces if I did. But I was there. The moment two lives merged. The moment where 1 + 1 = 1 (or infinity, depending how you look at it). I feel honored to live next to this. I hope that spring and summer are filled with weddings at this quaint little church next door. And just like that, my bitterness dissipated and gave way to appreciation.