“For within Her is a spirit
intelligent, holy, unique, diverse, clever,
active, incisive, pure, clear, invulnerable, benevolent, sharp,
irresistible, kind, loving, steadfast, dependable, serene,
powerful, astute, penetrating and most subtle;
… so pure She pervades and permeates all things.
She is the breath of God, the reflection of God’s glory.”
Wisdom 7:22-25

At last, we are moving. In a need to leave the tiny one-bedroom apartment we have been covid-sharing in Massachusetts, and desiring to find an architecturally interesting live/work space with abundant square footage, G went looking: from an old bank in upstate New York, to a retired fire station in rural Massachusetts, to a deconsecrated Catholic church in eastern Ohio. It is the latter where she found a place to start her creative life now that her academics are complete. This is where I will go next, at least for a turn.

The parcel includes the church, a rectory, and a “nunnery” as the locals call it, all in varying states of disrepair.

The rectory is where we are starting. Many of the windows of the rectory are broken, the doors do not close securely, there is detritus everywhere. Clearly used for transitory housing, there is mail on the ground dated 2002. When the realtor showed us around, she poured an opened container of ammonia down the sink, and seconds later we heard the sound of liquid hitting the basement floor. Gas lines were cut. Electrical lines uncertain. Peeling paint hangs suspended from the tin ceilings, held on purely by the oil in its chemistry. Vines climb the exterior walls, stairs, and creep toward the doors. Some have grown mature grapes. There are holes in walls, ceilings, floors, balconies, everywhere.

Paint has been used indiscriminately as if an adult-child were let loose in Benjamin Moore. Poorly rendered animation, random black and white checkerboard, walls painted crimson red with charcoal grey, an entry and kitchen in black with bright yellow trim, the living room in varying shades of brown; most applied with naïve strokes, fanned brush marks bleeding color into color. An attempt to paint over tile, and tile’s refusal to allow its adherence. Names written in “tag” font.

There is an almost palpable sense of fatigue and a macabre innocence to the way the place has been abandoned. A cabinet with many months’ supply of feminine pads. A working slide projector. There are chalkboards in several rooms and broken padlocks on a few doors. Filthy everywhere, it is quite beautiful through a blurry lens.

Situated on the edge of the Ohio River, the rectory has an antebellum flavor with a large balcony off of the master bedroom and a matching front porch beneath. Here one can watch the river at work, hear an array of birdsong, and feel tumbled back in time, imagining simultaneously the resurrection of this space and its previous role housing men of the cloth in comfort.

By contrast, the nunnery—where the women lived—is a puritan white box, three thousand square feet essentially stripped, although there are whispers of erstwhile charm: the carved newel post, a few remaining old windows with quarter-sawn trim. There are similar white walls and crimson wall-to-wall carpeting as in the convent where I once lived in Catholic boarding school.

The previous owner got bids to demolish the nunnery, but from what I can tell, the demolition price is close to its value on the open market. Such is the state of things. At a minimum, it needs to be completely gutted. There was an alleged lead poisoning leaving the building to be temporarily condemned until abated. For now the nunnery is empty save some un-installed windows, a bathtub and two old toilets, also un-installed. In one room, we see evidence of animals having co-habitated without a place to relieve themselves. This is part of the need for the gutting. The smell. And all of the broken glass. Someone wrote on the wall, “I hate my life.” I spent a day clearing out debris—a token effort toward the four 30 yard dumpsters that have been filled thus far.

Then there is the church. Formerly named Immaculate Conception (a name we are not allowed to use) and founded in 1927, it is a significant part of the town’s heritage. A town that was at its peak in the 1920s. The church is a simple structure of five thousand square feet, pews, a modest rise to the altar with two private areas stage left and right. Stage right is the sacristy with a piscina that leaks quite badly; stage left, a pipe organ. There are Bose speakers on either side of what was formerly the altar in a building that has impressive acoustics all by itself.

The church was deconsecrated a few years ago, and all signs of Jesus were removed save one crucifix we found in the back of an oak drawer, deep in the sacristy. But Mary stands, tall and proud, in the perfectly preserved stained glass windows. I marvel in the metaphor. Deconsecrated or not, Mary stands. She will stand over my baby as she creates. The marvel of these windows takes my breath away and speaks to the timelessness of creativity and faith.

I get vaguely emotional when I think about the church, its high white ceilings, its simplicity, its blue windows, its clear energy. I am not quite sure why I feel this way.

*

After two intense weeks of work by G, X and a few helpers, there is now functioning electrical and plumbing after many fits and starts. WIFI installed without incident. There is no heat but that provided by the sun, which is plenty for now; there is no cooling but that provided by the breezes off the river.

My favorite part is sitting by the river. This is where I said, “I am in” without having any idea what I meant. The Ohio River truly is a working river. Barges haul product the size of football fields one minute while cigarette boats zip by and powerboats drag kids tubing a while later, in the opposite direction. This is July on the Ohio River; what will October or January look like?

Between the rectory and the river are railroad tracks and a grassy area with a playground facing the church’s parking lot. (The parking lot is part of our deal, but the playground is not.) Periodically but without defined schedule or whistle, the train passes through at a steady methodical pace—unlike the Massachusetts trains that announce themselves aggressively when traveling through Great Barrington, even at midnight.

*

It is hard to miss the differing roles of state in these two places. As my cup already is washed in fear over the current divisions in our country, I awake in the middle of the night fearful about this project, our lives, and potential misunderstandings on all sides. Let us see how we all tie our shoes the same way. Let us all see and be seen for our goodness. Maybe we are not that different; maybe the fear is just mine. I always fear change.

Coming most recently from the land of New Yorkers’ second homes, this will be new scenery in every sense of the word. Off the bat I note motorcyclists do not wear helmets. I am told people are now wearing masks since the governor decided it was a good idea, a few days ago. However there were no covid cases in this area of the county last time I checked; I assume because people simply do not come and go much. There is poverty, depression and drug use. (In Massachusetts there is wealth, depression and drug use.) But in this small eastern Ohio town of 3500 people, there is also pride, skepticism over charity, a strong sense of community, and rising stars in the local high school. We are told everyone is desperate to leave; “no one moves here.” No one, except us. Their mascot is the tiger, and street signs are all orange and black.

*

Typically this is how it goes: someone in our family comes up with an outlandish idea to which I might say, “cool concept.” Then we jump rather speedily and think second. I have a habit of promptly reconsidering my initial enthusiasm, watching and yelling: “DON’T JUUUUUMMMMPPPP!” And then, much later, saying, “Wow! That was the best jump ever!” Cases in point: (1) getting a van and road tripping around the United States from sea to shining sea and many of the parks in-between. (2) Moving to Crown Heights, Brooklyn in order to accommodate the dog and cat coming with us for G to study dance in Manhattan. Neither of these worked out the way I might have imagined, but they were life changing. There was also a sense of inevitability in each of them.

I have every sense that this is number three.

Like the early days of each of these previous jumps, occasionally I can be found in the fetal position, asking if we can return the ship to port. Following two days of demolition, I reached a breaking point of overwhelm and headed back east. It seems like I was just recently forced to leave NYC; all I wanted next was a little cottage and to be held. A place to write and to reflect. A view. My wish list for a peaceful life.

But I also have a wish list for a meaningful life. Back when I was living in the convent, I imagined myself changing lives one day, gaining wisdom and being able to provide some sort of counsel for others. Since then, I have (maybe) changed two lives; the jury is still out on how X and G will review my contributions. There is no doubt I devoted myself to them, often at my own expense. I can barely look at my high school self’s idealism without cringing.

When I got engaged half way through senior year in college, my mother said, “why did we send you to Princeton then? If that’s all you’re going to do.” I argued that I would do more. That having my education (which she had so strongly supported) would serve me forever as a partner, parent and human—my essential self being inseparable from that gift. Almost thirty years later, her words haunt me. My high school self haunts me. My desire to be in the service of humanity haunts me.

Right now I am taking a few necessary moments of retreat. While G and X are doing more demo and setting up systems, imagining next steps and figuring out how to do them on a dime, I am taking a moment to reflect on where I am going, and where I have been. In August my coursework in interfaith ministry will be complete; my class and I will be ordained. Will this work play a role in where I am going?

Curiously, X is looking at ways to build in an exit strategy while I am praying to Anyone Who Will Listen for an entrance strategy. I am drawn to Mary’s image in the window, light streaming through her face. I continually am struck by the fact that she stands, despite every effort to remove her son; she cannot be deconsecrated unless the building itself were to fall.

*

In my early days of retreat, I cried quite a bit, usually provoked by a bit of fiction that triggered something deeply held within me, lodged beyond my ability to know it even would hurt: a first kiss, a mother hugging her son, a husband saying to his wife, “this time, your turn; next time, mine.”

A few days after my mother passed away, over six years ago now, I remember hearing Diana Ross sing It’s My Turn on the radio, and the flood of similarly hidden tears that followed. In marriage, in parenting, in life thus far, my priority has been to secure the love of other people, driven by some fundamental certainty that without my determined and ongoing effort, I could not maintain their positive regard. This has been a full-time job.

I am fifty-one years old, but I have never learned how to say “no” to my most immediate loved ones or make clear boundaries. My fear of losing love is too great. But for the first time, I am beginning to see that I lose love anyway. No amount of Gumby-doll-ing myself for others seems to make any difference in the end. All I have taught them is that I will bend over backward if they ask. This realization is forcing me to ask myself gently: do I really want love from anyone who doesn’t say, “next time, your turn”? Is that really a healthy, reciprocal love relationship in the first place? Plus: in not holding my own strength and not speaking up, have I not eroded some fundamental faith in myself? (I believe G would argue in the affirmative on my behalf.)

Mary standing against the odds inspires me to stand, too.

I have no idea how this will play out in real life. As in previous daunting moves, I will take it one day at a time. Once again, I cannot see where this next step will take us, but I do at least know where I’m going, literally speaking. Beyond that, I pray that I can find the courage and self-assurance to step into my adult life with an adult child who is manifesting her first independent vision.

I want to start standing in my own certitude, and somehow actualize my turn to the best of my ability. I only really know one thing: I need to try, and I need to keep forgiving myself for it taking me this long.