by ABBEY NASH
God in a Carton of Eggs
The Christianity I grew up with was a mixed bag of traditions, which invited curiosity and exploration.
While my father had been raised as a Southern Baptist preacher’s kid, the kind that didn’t believe in drinking, cursing, or dancing, and was himself an ordained Southern Baptist minister, my pre-adolescent years were spent on a non-denominational Christian commune in rural Georgia, where the dirt was almost as red as the strawberries we picked fresh from the communal fields.
This community, Koinonia, which means fellowship, is still active today, though the day-to-day experience of living there may be somewhat different than what I remember. When I wasn’t in school, I spent my days with my friends, visiting the farm animals, and on rare occasion, taking guided night walks through the woods in search of the mysterious luminescent mushrooms that grew there.
Church at Koinonia was community ministers, torn songbooks, and barefoot toddlers playing in the grass. It was Sunday potlucks and sunrise service on Easter and square-dancing afterwards on the lawn.
My experience at Koinonia formed my foundational view of Christianity—that “church,” in the metaphorical sense of the word, means community between people and God.
When we left Koinonia, I found that “church” was housed in buildings and that there were rules about what you wore and how you behaved and what you believed. We lived in Mississippi then, and as a high school student, I found these rules to be similar to the unspoken rules that drew lines between my peers. Some kids were “in” and others were “out.” At the same time, religion seemed a synonym for hypocrisy. In the evangelical town in which we lived, the same teenagers who walked, tear-stricken, to the altar on Sunday morning to receive “Christ into their hearts” were planning the neighborhood keggers the following Saturday night. Religion seemed more about appearances and less about a way of life.
As an adult, I have a found a Christian religion which values charity and action rather than faith alone and believes in universal salvation. These are tenets which resonate deeply with my core belief system. This is the religion my husband was raised in, the one I’m choosing to raise my children in. However, even this religion has rules with which I can’t abide—rules made not by God but by man, rules that are about fear and exclusion.
I often hear people say that they are “spiritual” but not “religious.” There is cultural and religious pushback on this spreading sentiment, as though these “spiritual” people are somehow lazy or undisciplined because they are not aligning themselves with a specific religion.
On the contrary, I feel that religion is a manmade construct, as fallible as the stone and brick churches that house its weekly meetings. When people say that they are spiritual but not religious, they are resisting aligning themselves with some aspect of Christianity where man has gotten in the way and made rules that restrict their ability to be in community with God and with the people around them. Our egos tell us to exclude, so that we can protect our fragile belief systems. Love tells us there’s always room for one more.
Over the last few years, I’ve faced several personal challenges. These challenges, which have included my younger brother’s addiction and my epilepsy, have required me to draw on a deep well of faith that I didn’t know I had—one that is supported not by the rulesof my religion, but by its existence, as well as by the support communities in my life, and most importantly, by my personal relationship with God.
Sometimes church is the small congregation I join with each Sunday to enjoy incredible music and learn about the ways I can apply the tenets of my religion to my everyday life.
Sometimes church is Ala-Non, where I can speak freely about loving someone with addiction and learn tools that help me to accept what isso that I can let go of the chaos of trying to change my brother and my epilepsy diagnosis, choosing instead to focus on the love available in the present moment.
Sometimes church is my support group at the Eastern PA Epilepsy foundation, where my experiences are fully seen by people who are living them, too—where I am not someone with a disability, but someone living a full life of which epilepsy is only a small part.
Often church is writing—usually in my journal, a habit I started in second grade, when my grandmother put my very first journal in my hand, destining me on this path. Writing is truly my “lifeline.” With a pen in my hand, I can most clearly hear the “the still small voice of God,” lovingly guiding me through my greatest fears and my most difficult challenges.
These things—Ala-Non, my epilepsy support group, my writing—they are not separate from God, but of God. They allow me to be in communion with God and with the people that I believe God puts in my path to help me further grow into spiritual maturity.
Recently, I was having a particularly challenging day. I couldn’t shake the “why me” narrative that we all struggle with from time to time. I was emotional—angry and resentful. My husband and I went for a walk, and over the course of the walk, I began to take in the beauty of my surroundings. The warmth of the sun, even in the winter, the blue sky. On the way home, we stopped by my brother-in-law’s house for a quick visit with my nieces. Their chubby pink cheeks and sweet giggles always put me in a good mood. By the time we got home, my anger had melted into gratitude for the preciousness of my life, despite its challenges, and I found myself in tears. I decided to make brunch, and when I opened the carton of eggs, I was surprised to read a quote printed on the inside of the carton: “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
True Christianity doesn’t have to be perfect or look a certain way. In fact, it probably looks pretty lived in. It’s the ability to see God in the faces of the people around us, to be willing to be in communion with them, despite (or perhaps even because of) their differences, to be humble enough to serve those in need, and to be open-minded enough to learn and grow from these experiences as we have them.
Born to parents with a serious case of “wanderlust,” Abbey Lee Nash has lived in some pretty interesting places, including on a Christian farming commune in rural Georgia, above a third-world craft store in Kentucky, and on a Salvation Army retreat center in the Pennsylvania mountains. She currently lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband, two daughters, and one very rambunctious Australian Shepherd. She received her MA in English from Arcadia University in 2011, and currently works at Bryn Athyn College where she teaches writing and literature. She is also an active member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Lifeline is her first novel.
Learn more about Abbey at https://www.abbeynash.com/ and connect with her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/abbeynashbooks/ and Twitter: @nash_abbey.
