Why is a Perfectly Good Question

driftwood and cold water

Last week, I introduced you to Grandma Bernie, the who of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal. Today, Grandpa Sherman is going to help me tell you the why.

Grandpa Sherman was 75 when I was born. He was born on a farm in Indiana, coming to Michigan for a job in the factory. Growing up in the Church of the Brethren, he wasn’t a Methodist until Grandma Bernie got ahold of him. I don’t recall ever talking with him about faith explicitly, but we had the most amazing and mundane conversations about life, often with very few words.

At the cottage Up North, we began our days feeding stale bread and left-over pancakes to the birds. He taught me to start a tractor, mow a lawn, and the difference between flathead and Phillips screwdrivers; to appreciate swiss steak dinners and a bowl of ice cream before bed; to savor the sacredness of baby deer in the rhubarb bushes; to take the scenic route whenever possible; to enjoy walks on the beach collecting rocks in old metal coffee cans.

One afternoon, after a walk, while Grandpa Sherman fiddled with sticks and stones, I jumped in the lake. After floating around awhile, he came to shore and said, “it’s time to get out.”

I asked him why. Expecting him to say “because I said so.” That’s the answer adults usually gave when I asked why I needed to do something I didn’t really want to do.

He answered, “because your lips are turning blue.”

Lake Huron was my paradise and it was easy to lose track of time and body temperature. My love of being in the water often kept me from noticing the fact that I was freezing and needed to get out.

In addition to rocks, we also collected pieces of driftwood on our adventures. Once they dried out, Grandpa Sherman would take a piece of this wood from the shed and transform it into a piece of art. Despite having Parkinson’s Disease, he was able to hold the magnifying glass at just the right angle to the sun that it generated enough heat to burn marks onto the wood. He could write whole words and even sentences this way.

That particular day, I sat next to him, wrapped in a towel watching his every move as I warmed up. Wishing I’d inherited his skill. I tried repeatedly, but was never able to burn more than a dot onto a piece on wood. I asked him why I couldn’t do it. He said it was because I was rushing.

My hand couldn’t write the letter because my mind was writing the whole word. And I couldn’t capture the words because my heart was trying to finish the whole sentence.

Leading up to, during, and in the long years after coming out as queer, surrendering my clergy credentials, and re-imagining my whole life, I was constantly examining what I believed. What did I really believe about God, Jesus, church, humanity, my own worth and purpose? Like burning words onto wood with the sun and a magnifying glass, it was a slow and frustrating process. Often, I felt like I was alone in a cold lake hoping someone would come along and say “your lips are blue, it’s okay to get out of the water.”

Examining what I believed required considering why I believed what I did. Was my entire faith based on the beliefs of others? Was I singing those old hymns because I believed in the message or because I was good at recognizing the tunes and memorizing the lyrics? Was I simply repeating what I was taught like taking a history exam? What if people knew there was much about what I learned in church and at my great-grandparents’ table that I really didn’t believe at all?

Grandpa Sherman never tired of me wanting to tag along or of my curiosity. The questions I asked him were different than the ones I asked Grandma Bernie. And his impact on my life is different too.

Grandma Bernie used to warn “never pray for patience, God will hear that prayer.” Grandpa Sherman showed me the beauty patience creates and the transformational power of engaging the process. He gave me permission to walk out of spaces that leave you blue and broken. He taught me that why is a perfectly good question.

Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal: Composing a Curious Faith gives breath to the questions. It honors the courage it takes to ask them. It doesn’t rush to answers.

These poems are not a directive for what to believe or a sermon on what beliefs are true and right. They are an invitation to curiosity, sent from warmhearted baptismal waters and frigid waves of wilderness lakes. Whatever your experiences of harm and healing, there is something in these pages for you.

Why did I write this book?

Because…the beliefs passed down to us can shape our lives without defining them.

Because…the faith we inherit does not determine the new hymns we compose.

How is your faith similar to that of your ancestors?
Where does it differ?

Warmly & Tenderly, Rebecca

In this new year and preparing for the launch of our second book, we’ve made some changes to what we offer paid subscribers. Previously, these extra servings of words and water came in the form of monthly Friday Field Trips. For the next few months, paid subscribers will get glimpses behind the scenes of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal, including some bonus hymns and stories on how the book came together. They won’t always be on Fridays. But this Friday, we’ll share one of the poems that didn’t make the final draft.

We are committed to keeping Wednesdays at the Well free for everyone. Those who are able to become a paid subscriber inspire and empower us to keep this commitment.

We are so grateful for each and everyone of you that supports this work!