Montreat SS ‘10

June 2010- There’s a summer storm in Montreat. The weather is muggy, the air smells like lightning and sage. I am wearing a sun dress and wait outside the summer staff lodging for the Honda Civic to pull around. I hop in the back and we blast music out of the broken sound system.

My hair whips around in the wind.

There are boys and girls all crammed in the car. Each of us full of anticipation of the summer ahead.

My skin prickles at the thought. 

An entire summer. The rest of my life, if I want.

I am free.  My heart is untethered.

It is at that moment that I realize this is Godliness. I feel warmth, holiness fill the Honda Civic as Wiz Khalifa shakes the back seat. The boys up front smoke a joint, and the girl’s giggle nervously.

Godliness I decide, as we breeze out the gates towards Black Mountain to test out our fake Ids. Yep, Absolutely. Godliness.

6 years later…Answering The Call

The foliage of Montreat is so many shades of green in the summer that it will blow your mind. I learn to play games, to place my feet in the creek after a long walk. I learn to camp, and how to read a trail map. 

My summers in Montreat become the best summers of my life. I re-write my story. 

I am from Montreat now,  anchored to my grandparents, always by their sides. We spend countless hours together, and I sing in the church choir. I scoop ice cream, I play with children, I square dance. I tattoo the name of their mountain house on my ribcage, “Shalom”.

I find joy. Montreat is my shalom. My grandparents are “shalom”, the fourth of July parade is my “shalom”. I relish shalom. 

I learn God in Montreat. I feel the safety of Him. My grandparents give me a spare key to their house. 

“You are always welcome here” they say. Just come. You don’t even have to call.

I push them, and host parties in their home when they are not there. They still love me. They forgive me.

The tiki-torches from one party left a scorch mark on the popcorn ceilings but they never ask questions. They simply hide the tiki torches from me in the basement.

I get to know their friends and their friend’s grandchildren. I learn Presbyterianism, acceptance, openness.  My friends from Montreat become my soul-mates and I am tethered to them, no matter what. We share our bond proudly, our love of Montreat is a badge on our hearts. 

One day, during choir I feel a nudge. I look at the minister and feel familiarity.

I steal wifi, and google seminaries. I tell my family of my interest and they buy me a plane ticket to visit Princeton’s student weekend. They are proud. So proud! A minister! Sunshine, all around. 

Months later, I disembark in Princeton Junction. I am cold and uncertain by the grey-ness of the buildings. I tour classes, meet with other prospects and talk to the Admissions counselor. 

When I fly back home, my Dad is at the airport waiting. “I’m not cut out for seminary, “ I tell him.  He gives me a hug. We let it go.

When I turn 25, the urge returned. My church set up meetings, talked to me, encouraged me.

Someone important from a seminary would be coming through Greenville. Would I like to talk to them, my church asked

I said yes. They set up a dinner.

Two days before the dinner, I am feet up on a gurney. My vagina is being disinfected with vinegar. A swab is being taken of my cervix. Something is wrong. I panic, and fall apart.

Later, I go to the church meeting set up on my behalf but I do not feel present.

I have just learned I will likely never have children.

I do not care about seminary. I do not care about God.

I return from the church meeting and delete my applications.

Four years later, “You should go to Cuba,” my parents say.  They have been helping my sister out with her tuition for med school, and want to do something nice for me. They wire $1,150 into my account and I pay the church the next morning.

I fly to Cuba. It becomes a re-awakening. I befriend ministers, visit the seminary in Matanzas, and the churches in rural towns. The people are warm and nice and teach me constantly.

I stutter my Spanish like a gringo. I learn about pastoral care from the Cubans. I learn about church programs, and the importance of education.

Pastor Liz tells me of her call to be a minister as we drive to a new city, “One day I was looking at the ocean, and I just knew”. 

I understand. I too, look at the ocean and just know.

When I arrive home, I tell my family again. For the third time, I am going to seminary. This time… I just know. 

My heart tells me that my new life will cost my old one. I will need to be brave.

I mourn the loss of my corporate income and flexibility and the inevitable goodbye to my apartment downtown. 

I apply to Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Columbia Theological Seminary, Union Presbyterian Seminary and Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary.  I spend relentless hours researching each school’s program and tailoring my applications.

My references submit their letters, and slowly, one by one, I hear back.

I accept a 75% scholarship to Columbia Theological Seminary. It is close to home. It has deep ties to my parents, who went to Agnes Scott and Georgia Tech. I can drive to Montreat. It is a great school.

Then Coronavirus hits. I am holed for months in Montreat. I have ample time to reflect on my life decisions.  My inbox alerts me to a new email one morning. I receive a full-ride offer to the school in Texas.

“Will you attend?” The email asks. Will I? I don’t know why I would. 

I have never been to Austin. It is unknown to me. I guess I don’t know why I would not attend.

Something about the unknown gives me great comfort.

A fresh start at a new life. A life of ministry. 

I click yes. And shut down my computer.