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I�ve had this song in my head for days now.
We used to sing it at Oceanwood, the other church camp (not the one I met Lorne at) that I used to go to in the summer. It was sung as a round, several lines but only three words, �Dona nobis pacem.�
For the past few days, I�ve been singing it in the shower, humming it while I�m photocopying, remembering the sound of it as a round when we sang around the campfire.
I couldn�t, though, remember what it means.
Finally, I emailed Carla, who also went to camp there. She forwarded the message on to another friend from camp, who found this on the internet:
History of
Dona Nobis Pacem
From the Latin word DONA, we get our English word "donate" which is what the word means: to donate, give or grant. From the Latin word PACEM, we get our English words "pacify", "pacific" "pacifier", and "pact". You see, pacem means peace. This song then has one simple phrase, GRANT US PEACE!, which is a message of Christmas. See the lyrics:
Dona Nobis
Dona Nobis Pacem
Do---na, No -----bis, Pa------cem.
Repeat as often as you like and sing in rounds.
Not such a bad song to have stuck in my head. Not these days. We could all use a little peace.
This morning, I spent my bus ride to work reading the new issue of Real Simple. There�s an article in there, sandwiched between a story on hangover prevention and cure and recipes for a post-holiday brunch, all about prayer.
I feel like I�m being sent a not-so-subtle message, everywhere I turn.
I used to go to church all the time. Not because I felt like it was the �right thing to do.� Because I really enjoyed being there, got something out of the services. My youth group was a huge part of my high school life. When I got a little older, I taught Sunday school for the 6th-8th graders. I volunteered as an advisor for the junior high youth fellowship. I played well with others. It was a big part of my life.
When my dad moved away, things between God and me got a little confused.
At one point, my dad went from manic to suicidal. He started mailing his important possessions to people he thought would take care of him after he was gone. He wrote me a very scary, shaky letter that read pretty clearly as a goodbye. It wasn�t a good time.
My friend Doug, who is also a minister and a member of my church, but who works as a pastoral counselor not as the leader of a congregation, really helped me get through that spot. He helped my dad, too. We both came out the other side still here and still speaking.
(Incidentally, Doug is the minister who will marry the Boyfriend and me next year.)
I kept going to church.
When my father died, once again, things got weird. He died in August. We scheduled a memorial service for him in my church, but not until September, almost a whole month after he died. Our minister was on vacation. We wanted to wait. I was incapable of making any of these decisions. My mom was in the odd spot of planning a memorial for a man who was technically her dead husband, despite the fact that they�d been separated for over two years and were almost to the fully-divorced stage.
It probably was not the smoothest or the best plan, but we muddled through.
Doug came to see me, to talk to me, to help me work through what I was feeling.
The actual minister from my church, the one who was on vacation when my dad died, came back to work a couple weeks later. He didn�t make any attempt to get in touch with my mom or me at all, other than to have the church secretary confirm the service information.
The service itself was beautiful. He spoke well about my dad, who had been a member of the church�a leader in the church�for years. He really helped the people listening who had conflicting issues with my dad find a place where they were at peace.
After the service, I wanted to thank him for giving so many people a good feeling about my father, for helping us to heal.
He was standing in the middle of the church�s parish hall. I started across the room, heading toward him. We locked eyes. I smiled. When I got about eight feet from him, he turned and walked away.
We never spoke about my father�s death.
Eventually, I stopped going to church at all. His words stopped holding any meaning to me.
I�m not getting married there. Instead, Doug will marry us in the Peabody Historical Society�s memorial garden, across the street from the barn. It�s a beautiful place for a wedding. But it�s not the church I grew up in. It�s not where I dreamed for years of exchanging those vows.
Part of me is really sad about that. But I feel like that�s the way it has to be. And the place isn�t the important part of the day, anyway. It�s the person, and I feel right about that.
All the same�
Sunday, I realized that I truly miss going to church. I miss the tradition, the ceremony, the routine of it all. I miss the structure. I miss the fellowship. I miss the family feeling. I miss feeling like I have some sort of spiritual connection in my life.
Dona nobis pacem.
Perhaps I�m on some sort of journey I didn�t see coming.
Man, this certainly isn�t what I intended to write about today.
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