Words and Pictures :: Souvenirs

Some people bring back salt and pepper shakers as a way to remember their travels. Some folks like refrigerator magnets. For others, no trip is complete without a souvenir t-shirt proclaiming where they went and what they survived while there. Others look at their postcard collections, carefully arranged by dates of travel so they can remember exactly where they were at any given moment in their wanderings.

Souvenirs. Mementos. Keepsakes. Reminders. Remembrances. Tokens. Memorials. Relics.

Objects a traveler brings home for the associations formed with it.

During my 44 years of travel I think my souvenirs are old church hymns. Hum a little bit of In the Garden and I am immediately transported to Mamaw's front porch swing, the sounds of her singing floating through the old screen door while she cleaned up the breakfast dishes.

And He walks with me

And He talks with me

  And He tells me I am His own

  And the joy we share as we tarry there

  None other has ever known

Holy, Holy, Holy was the first hymn I ever fell in love with. It was hymn number 1 in the old, red Baptist Hymnal. When I was old enough to read, but not old enough to understand why the sermon droned on and on I would pull out the hymnal and try to entertain myself. Today when I hear the majestic chords of this grand old hymn I'm a little girl again, bare legs sticking to the wooden pews, trying not to wiggle so as to avoid the glares and pinches of my mother.

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!


  Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;


  Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!


  God in three Persons, blessed Trinity!

It seems like I spent most of my childhood in church. We were there Sunday morning for Sunday School and then worship. Sunday nights had potluck dinners and more worship. Wednesday nights in our small town were sacrosanct - no school activities were allowed, no homework was to be assigned. It was Church Night. We had GA's (Girls in Action), RA's (Royal Ambassadors) and then Prayer Meeting. 

When I think of all this church the hymn that comes to mind first is Just As I Am. I've probably sung this song more than a thousand times. It's an "invitational." In the Baptist tradition, every service is an opportunity for you to come to Jesus and be saved. While the congregation stands and sings the pastor waits at the front of the sanctuary for someone to come.

Just As I Am had become  kind of a joke to me until Ash Wednesday of this year. It has about eight verses and sometimes, while waiting for someone to go forward and get saved, I would put my head down and pray for someone just to go. get. saved. – Get. it. over. with. – I. am. hungry. But Ash Wednesday surprised me this year. I was in an Episcopal Church. (Baptists don't celebrate Ash Wednesday. Way too Catholic.) I was feeling spiritually lost and wondering how to find my way back. Quietly the choir started to sing.

Just as I am, though tossed about 

  with many a conflict, many a doubt, 

  fightings and fears within, without, 

  O Lamb of God, I come, I come. 

I remembered my way home. I wept. The very nice lady who was sitting next to me, being as welcoming to a stranger as she could possibly be, making sure I could navigate the Episcopal Prayer Book, handed me kleenex and never said a thing. 

When I got a bit older my dealings with the church became more complicated and painful. My dad was now a Baptist preacher. I was learning things about myself that I couldn't reconcile with the pictures of God that were being painted for me. More than anything in the world I wanted to please my Dad. God? Well, hopefully there would be time to iron that out later.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling, 

  calling for you and for me; 

  see, on the portals he's waiting and watching, 

  watching for you and for me. 

  Come home, come home; 

  ye who are weary come home; 

  earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, 

  calling, O sinner, come home! 

The more I came to understand myself as a lesbian the farther I felt from home. It wasn't that I wanted to go. I just didn't see any other way. Everything I knew about God said I had to go. In a tit-for-tat attitude I declared myself free of the religious straight-jacket I felt was being thrust upon me. 

Then one day, years later, I made a friend. He was a gay, recovering Baptist too. We were on a car trip to Chicago and were playing a game only two nerdy, churchy adults would play in the car – trying to stump each other with a church hymnal. One of us would call out the name of a hymn and the other would have to sing it. He had as much baggage with God and the church as I had. I called out Blessed Assurance and of course he knew every word. What Baptist worth his salt doesn't?

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!


Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!


Heir of salvation, purchase of God,


Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.

  This is my story, this is my song,


  Praising my Savior all the day long;


  This is my story, this is my song,


  Praising my Savior all the day long.

I can't speak for him, but I suspect that both of us heard the refrain of that song with new ears that day. We also have a story. We also have a song. Our story of encountering God might be different from most other's stories. It might be painful. It might be difficult to hear, but we have stories too. They are ours and we are loved.

All of these hymns are my souvenirs. They are the yardstick that measure my life journey, the criterion by which I keep myself on course. I'm sure that more will be added to my collection as the years progress. 

There is one that means more than all the rest. It's been in my "life hymnal" from the days of barely being tall enough to see over the pew in front of me. I've sung it when I just wanted church to be over. I've sung it when my heart has been broken and I've hummed it under my breath when I've celebrated all the life that I can handle. 

I want it sung at my funeral as one last glimpse of the way I desired to live my life.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,


  When sorrows like sea billows roll;


  Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,


  It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,


  Let this blest assurance control,


  That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,


  And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!


  My sin, not in part but the whole,


  Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,


  Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,


  The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;


  The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,


  Even so, it is well with my soul.

And, let the people of God, even the gay and lesbian ones, say Amen!

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To read more stories of souvenirs go here.

This is my favorite version of It Is Well. It's sung by the group 4Him. This is the version I crank up in my car and sing like no one is watching!