Jennifer Gross

When I was a child, Communion seemed to take forever. In an attempt (I suspect) to keep restless kids occupied, an adult suggested that we pray for each person who walked past our pew. I can’t remember how much praying I did then, but the advice stayed with me. As an adult, I often pray for my fellow congregants as they take Communion. This little spiritual practice has given me a richer picture of the Body of Christ.

 I was giving some motherly advice to my college-aged daughter, listing several different suggestions on how she might handle a situation she was facing. As I talked, my daughter looked more and more annoyed. Finally, she said, “Mom, stop trying to fix it!” 

Every winter, my church works with a local charity and other houses of worship to host a hypothermia shelter. One week a year, each church welcomes a group of our unhoused neighbors into their building, giving them dinner, a warm place to sleep overnight, and breakfast. From November to March, the houses of worship in our community supplement the country’s overflowing permanent shelters, one week and one church at a time.

After five years of infertility, I was finally pregnant. Six weeks later, I had a miscarriage. It was devastating. Why had God let me down this way? I had unknowingly fallen into thinking that if I was a “good Christian,” God would give me what I wanted. And when it didn’t happen, I sank into grief and bitterness. Holding on to faith seemed more painful than letting it go.

“I believe; help my unbelief!”

My church friend Liza^* and her husband moved into a retirement community over the summer. One of the biggest challenges, of course, has been downsizing. But it has also been difficult to leave their longtime neighbors. One neighbor now lives alone and uses a walker. She does everything she can to remain independent and stay in her home as she ages. Sometimes, though, she needs help, and that’s when she calls Liza.

When I was a teenager and knew it all, I got bored with Sunday mornings. I already knew that Jesus died for our sins and rose on the third day. Why did we need to keep talking about it? In some ways, I believed in Jesus and the cross like I believed in George Washington crossing the Delaware River: both were real events that shaped history but had little impact on my day-to-day life.

My teenage daughter and her friend were giggling and joking in the back of my car. Her friend said, “Ms. Gross, am I the weirdest friend that your daughter has?”

My preschool-aged daughter sat on the ground, wailing. We had been at the playground for hours, but now it was time to go. Her little friends had left with no drama other than some whining, but my kid’s piercing shrieks drew appalled stares from other parents and their better-behaved children.

I’ve attended what seems like a lot of funerals over the past few years at my church. More and more of the names in funeral announcements are familiar, particularly as the generation ahead of me—those who welcomed us into the church community more than a dozen years ago—has aged.