The Hole in My Church
What Happens When One Friend Leaves a Shared Sanctuary
As soon as my border collie hops out of the car, he looks around for her. He searches for her dark hair and compact frame, ready as always to crouch as she approaches, then jump up on her belly for kisses despite my stern command to stay off.
“She’s not here, buddy,” I murmur. “I know you miss her, I’m sorry.”
We’d both gotten used to Laura’s presence at this favorite hiking spot, although I’d been walking with her there since well before he was born. She used to park in front of my house when I lived in the neighborhood — six years and two houses ago — and she was still able to bring her own dog, who eventually proved to be uncontrollable on leash.
Even before committing to a weekly ritual with Laura, the high perch of Putnam Park had become hallowed ground for me. I’m not the only one; it’s a beloved public space offering vistas that are bucolic and peaceful: rolling hills that change between bright green and golden brown, eventually trimmed down before summer by wandering herds of sheep; worn, rooted trails snaking through sun-streaked tunnels of elegant bay laurels and craggy live oak trees; wild poppies framing the dirt path that ends in a pond, bordered with cattails filled with red-wing blackbirds. A quiet place for deep breaths of pleasure at beauty both expansive and small.
I have always been more spiritually moved in nature than brick-and-mortar sanctuaries, except maybe Notre Dame. Growing up Catholic, church was where I fainted during the long Easter mass, or where cool eighth graders competed to see who could be more disrespectful during CCD. Homilies often failed to provide believable answers, but rather displays of hubris that galled me into defiant questioning elsewhere.
Putnam Park didn’t become Church for Laura and me until the pandemic. For years we’d been getting close to a regular plan — mostly Wednesday mornings — but work and parenting duties put it on hold enough that I couldn’t count on it. Weekends were often reserved for family in the Before Times. Post-pandemic, like the rest of the world now stuck at home too much, we had an overabundance of family time and could get more flexible with our plans. Why not make a recurring Sunday walking date?
Nearly every Sunday morning at 8:30, Laura and I hiked the same 2.9 miles round-trip. Sometimes we tacked on a side loop when a particular conversation demanded more attention, or we might reverse the circle to go up Butt Buster Hill instead of down. I usually brought my dog, Mack, who needed the exercise just as much as I did, who loved the routine just as much as we did.
I believed we both loved the routine, and the intimate space we built together in the woods, on the hills, by the pond, under the sprawling sky. I was the first to name it Church, but she followed suit soon enough. We each apologized on days when our more pressing problems made it feel like therapy, indirectly acknowledging the holiness of this hour.
We’d had plenty of therapeutic topics to draw upon: rebellious teens pushing our patience, marriages riddled with imbalance and growing tension, job paths alternating between stalled and promising, frustrating dynamics with far-away family. Our problems dovetailed nicely: one of us always in a stronger position to provide support, with enough distance to offer a new perspective. It felt good to know I could count on her, to show her that she could count on me. It’s a hallmark of a well-matched relationship when you get as much out of listening as being heard.
This is the Church that taught me about grace, although in retrospect the lesson might have been the first clue that Laura and I did not feel the same about Church. It was nearly a year ago, when Laura’s husband lost his job under a quiet cloud of controversy.
“I don’t want to talk about specifics,” she wasn’t apologetic so much as steeled. “I’m not supposed to talk about it anyway. It’s part of the deal.”
She had agreed to silence in the severance agreement for her family’s sake and hoped I would comply for hers. I wanted to hear what had happened, partly to know how to help; how could I accompany her on a path through trouble if I didn’t know the landscape? A small part of me — the part that is truly small — was disappointed that Laura didn’t trust me with the secret. Did she think I would gossip if I had details? Did she fear my judgment? Didn’t she feel safe in our Church?
I had to remind myself it wasn’t about that, it shouldn’t be about me. Grace was what she needed: to share only what was comfortable, to be spared judgment for her coping mechanisms, to suspend any requests that might be too much for her at the moment. She could be who she needed to be in Church, even if that meant withholding a part of herself from me. I could grant her that; it would be sacred here.
Maybe I should have seen it as a foreshadow, but I couldn’t have known what was coming. I was slightly suspicious six months later when I texted her at 8:33 a.m., wishing my friend were there to hear the latest development in my pending divorce.
Church?
Oh shit. I totally forgot! And I’m still in bed! Are you there?
I was there, of course, it was sacrosanct for me. I was miffed she stood me up but managed to forgive over text, telling her to enjoy her lie-in. Later that week, I wrote an email.
“Just checking to see if forgetting about our Sunday morning hike was really a quiet move of some sort — wanting distance, turtling up, needing space from the weekly date, needing space from me. Are you OK? Are we OK?”
“My forgetting Sunday was truly not intentional,” Laura replied. “I’m available this Sunday and would love to walk.”
We got back into our weekly groove for the next month or so, until her family controversy suddenly went public. She bailed on the first couple Sundays with a vague “I’m up to my ears over here” and an abrupt “I can’t today.” Days would go by without any messages. I stopped asking if I would see her next Sunday.
I found out on Twitter she got a new job, so I texted her about it. She asked a couple questions about jobs for her kids and doctors who take her new insurance, questions one could easily post on NextDoor. Maybe we would just be Facebook friends.
I repeatedly offered coffee or wine or talk or playtime with my new kitten for giggly distraction. I reminded her she could count on me. Anything she needed, just say the word. She declined just as often as she ignored me. I asked how she was doing; she assured me she was being taken care of by a small inner circle of friends. “I’m not communicating much with the outside world,” she texted. “Thanks for understanding.”
Laura stopped asking NextDoor questions, I stopped asking if she needed anything from me. It’s been over a month since I texted an update about a TV show we both loved. I recently hid her on social media so I don’t have to see effusive appreciations of her inner circle of friends. I won’t reach out again.
The holy part of me knows Laura needs the grace of my understanding. She needs to take care of herself and her family in whatever ways work; I know as well as anyone that trauma and struggle often demand we strip our world down to the basics.
I’ve only been back to Putnam Park a couple of times since Laura left Church. Mack shakes off his disappointment much faster than I do; he won’t cry through the tunnel of trees or ruminate over the real reasons why she stopped showing up.
I take Mack instead to another natural space, closer to my new townhouse and devoid of the memory of lapsed attendees. This one is flat and has no overhang of trees. We crunch over gravel, stretch our gaze from the river to misty faraway hills, spot more varied wildlife and far fewer poppies.
It’s a new Sunday morning ritual in a different kind of church. As I stride through the wide-open space, I fill the intimate space on my own — I listen to podcasts, to playlists, to nothing but the wind rustling the dead fennel and my shoes churning over loose pebbles. I don’t talk to anyone and offer no one advice. I take deep breaths and try to walk with grace, alone.
