Shared March 9, 2025

My spiritual journey began, I suppose, with my Uncle Michael. The oldest of 9, he was a Catholic priest and a chaplain in the navy. He was worldly, smart, kind, and a rare and wonderful leader. More of a grandfather figure than uncle, he was my first exposure to religion, and in my young mind, the embodiment of unconditional love.

An outbuilding on my grandmother’s mountain property had been converted to a small chapel, complete with stained-glass windows, pews, a beautiful wooden toy ark with animals for the children, and a heavy iron bell by the front door. I am aware that this sounds like a red flag for a creepy cult, but I assure you, it was actually really magical. Every Christmas that bell would toll deeply, beckoning family to throw on winter coats, laughing as we stepped out of my grandma’s house into the starry night. Holding lanterns, we walked arm in arm, down a snowy path lined with trees and a meadow, past a frozen pond. Sometimes it was silent besides the crunching of snow, sometimes we sang carols. My uncle stood in the doorway of the chapel, smiling warmly. In that little room, surrounded by family pressed close against the cold, our breath visible in the flickering light, babies cooing, cousins singing loudly, I felt safe. The messages were simple ones- love thy neighbor, take care of the Earth, be humble, be kind, be compassionate. He talked of the sacredness of nature, the innocence of children, the sanctity of love in all its forms. My uncle’s gentle, soft spoken voice might as well have been the voice of God. I loved the stories he told and under the care of that tight-knit community, I flourished.

As I grew older, I realized that no, this is not the normal experience for most people when it comes to religion. I’ve always enjoyed an old church- I love the echoes on stone, and the smell of wood and musty books, but I rarely connected on a deeper level. I decided that organized religion was hypocritical, disappointing, and dangerous-nothing like the teachings of my uncle. I was 21 when Michael passed away from cancer. From then on, I made my way in the world like many millennials, without spiritual practices other than the occasional late nights discussing existential questions over a glass or 3 of wine. However, I always felt like something was missing. I craved the comfort of community and meaningful rituals. I had the love of my life, Warren, but my friends and relatives were scattered across the country, and everyone was busy, always busy with adulthood, careers, weddings. When we decided to grow our family, infertility reared its ugly head. I missed my chapel in the woods.

When I finally returned to the North Country, in December, 2019, it was with a new miracle IVF baby, Henry, and a fresh start in mind. I was ready to be social again, and do all the things new moms do! Well, 2020 rolled around, and let’s just say, things didn’t go as planned. The next few years saw us navigating a pandemic, the purchase of a fixer-upper house, new careers, a traveling partner, raising a baby into a toddler, and even the surprise of an unplanned, naturally conceived baby, named Arthur. I wanted to explore my spirituality and raise my kids with a strong moral compass, but it was all I could do to keep up with each day.

2024 was a year of breaking and reassembling. I started the year tired. Overwhelmed, overworked, and totally over being in a state of survival. Henry had been diagnosed with level 1 autism (what used to be called aspergers) and I was floundering. By late winter, I was reaching my breaking point. I loved so much of my life, but I was drowning in it. As I learned more about ASD and neurodivergent types, I started seeing signs everywhere. Turns out most of my family is neurospicy, and I most definitely struggle with Attention deficit disorder. I know having Adhd and autism seems to be the trend lately, but I swear we were muddling through this stuff way before it was cool! And I was sick of muddling.

Something had to give, and that something was my job. Not that it was easy-teaching art to children was my dream and I was proud of my career. But stepping away was the right choice, and gave me a chance to catch my breath. I was now on a mission of self-care and healing, and it was during this soul-searching I found myself at an informational meeting with Nicoline at the UU in April. In the days that followed, it was as though a forgotten window was cracking open.

Walking down to Palmer Street those first few Sundays felt strange, but good. I was pleased to have found a sanctuary that invited truth, vulnerability, and active engagement. What I didn’t know was that before I could settle in, my world would break again. My only sibling, my brother Justin, passed away unexpectedly in May. He had overcome many health issues, but his heart was struggling, and on a beautiful spring morning, it stopped beating. I witnessed the moments that followed, and I will never forget the trauma of that day. EMTs around him.. my mother’s screams…Dad on the phone..police..the mortician. Disbelief under an impossibly blue sky. A call made to Warren, ushering him home. Later, a ride in Justin’s car, except I’m the driver and his sweatshirt is next to me, his music playing. Later, we explained to the children that their uncle “TinTin” is gone. Then, I wrote his obituary. Then,I contacted his friends. Then, I planned his memorial. I cried in his car. I gathered old photos-frozen images of love, pride, joy and wonder. And I marveled and reeled at the beauty and sadness of it all.

The Unitarian Universalist Fellowship became a tether to my heart as it was breaking. Sundays pulled me back into myself, allowing me to escape, or enter, the heartache, as needed in that particular moment. I felt welcomed but was also given space. And every time I lit a candle, I let my brother’s memory loose from the mental box I sometimes put him in. And over the weeks and months, the little flame carried a little less pain.

This Fellowship has encouraged me to grieve, to grow, and to feel connected and involved. It gives me a self-care break too, so I can (Warren will appreciate this aviation metaphor) put on my own mask before assisting others. It is a much-needed safe gathering place in the turmoil of this world. I can feel the UU settling into my family’s bones. You are all now a part of our village, lending an ear or a hug or your wisdom… helping to raise our children. You have given me opportunities to explore my beliefs at my own pace and a space to sit with my brother in the quiet of my heart. You bring the spirit of my Uncle Michael, and my Chapel, to life again. Thank you.