My Community Origin Story
Life In Community, Part 1 of 3
Hi, it’s me. A couple months ago I was rummaging through some plastic totes of old memories and photos when I came across an envelope labeled “Senior Photos.” Inside I found a series of photos where I’m hugging and caressing my Bible as if enticing a youth pastor to call my Christian phone sex line. “I know you wanna turn these pages with me, big boy… I’ll read it allllll to you. Only $1.50 per minute – dial 1-800-PTL-BONE.”
Prior to September 2022, this photo hadn’t entered the Jen Zug Canon of Stories from the Evangelical Midwest, and lifelong friends I showed it to were delighted by the discovery. Seeing myself like this brought back a flood of memories about who I used to be – average public high school nobody by day, youth group super-user by night. In one world, I was timid, insecure, and always in performance mode. In the other world, I felt like youth group royalty. I was sassy and rebellious, but also a safe rule follower. Looking back, I can see the single face I presented at school, but at home in my church community, I could be my full-faceted and complex self – sometimes a delightful church kid, and sometimes an obnoxious dissenter. It was a safe space to be myself, flaws and all.
Many negative things can be said about the Evangelical Church in general as well as the church I grew up in specifically. I hold strong opinions on this topic, but that’s not what this post is about. This post is a love letter to my Community Origin Story.
Both of my parents worked at our large suburban church – my mom in the preschool and my stepdad, Gordy, as the building maintenance director. Church was the main source of our community – mom was in the choir, I was in the youth group, I went to all the youth retreats and summer camps, youth group on Wednesday night, and church services twice on Sunday. My parents had a gang of friends I grew up around – friends who raised their kids together, grew old together, and now attend funerals together.
When my mom died last year, I enjoyed flipping through her Bible and reading the verses she underlined. The promises of God she marked were about the depth of God’s love, His comfort and strength when we feel afraid, and loving our neighbor as God loves us. Ours wasn’t a household where values were taught explicitly through family Bible study or even casual discussions around our faith. It was just in the air. It’s what we did. When I was a younger woman raising small kids, I used to think my parents were flawed for their lack of explicit spiritual teaching in the home, but I had it all wrong. I see now they lived out their values, like the sign some churches post above their exits: “Preach the Gospel always. When necessary, use words.”
Growing up, my home with mom and Gordy was always open to friends, visitors, missionaries, neighborhood kids, and anyone who was up for laughter and a game of Rook. If you know me to be hospitable and welcoming, to have a sense of humor, to be an open door and ready for mischief, you know a smidge of what my mom was like. She was the first one through the church doors every Sunday and the last one to leave - it was her community and her lifeline. I grew up waiting not-so-patiently for her to finish her social rounds before going home to lunch, the Sunday funnies, and a nap in the sun. The only time we left in a hurry was to watch a Vikings NFL game, and even that usually happened with friends.
This life in community had a profound impact on me into adulthood. I moved far from home when I was only 19, but almost immediately put down roots and found community (I wrote about this here). When I met Bryan, our first deep conversations were around community – having it, needing it, and what our life in community might look like if we had a future together. We didn’t get married at the church I grew up in, we got married here, where our community was. We owned a five bedroom house and rented three of them out to our community. Today we hold space for community in many different ways, including around a fire in the backyard most Thursday nights.
When I was younger, my biological dad made a passing comment about my mom’s bent toward community. It was a negative comment about always being around people, and it was the first time it struck me that not everyone might have or want a life of community.
It can be a lot sometimes, but I’m thankful I stumbled into it.
Until next time,
Jen
News + Notes
If you made it this far into the story - thank you. Next week I’ll continue my series on Life In Community with the story about how our community of 16 years imploded dramatically, dividing and scattering everyone who was a part of it. If you’re not already on the list, be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss it.
I appreciate this story, Jen--it feels a lot like my my own except my mom repelled community outside the church walls. I would have given anything to have a house as a teen that was *the* place to hang out--a place that welcomed everyone.
So I’ve spent my adulthood creating what I wished I’d had.
Thanks for thoughts on community.
Things were different in the seventies when I grew up. A neighborhood had neighbors that really knew one another, and this was before Facebook pages and neighbohood apps. I remember one neighbor one side gave us produce from their garden so we could make cucumber salad...and the other bred Scotties, and the man of the house did low grade leather working like he made belts and such which for a kid with an expanding waistline was good to have around. Up the street we had Fourth of July pool parties and some of the summer nights would show adults outside, smoking cigarettes and talking amongst one another watching us kids on our bikes and bigwheels tooling around the neighborhood.