Time Zones Away From Home
The Anglican Church I attended on Sunday — Christchurch, NZ
Friday, October 27, 2023 did not exist. Funky time travel that does not make sense to me means that somehow I skipped over enough time zones that Friday never happened for me. I am currently eighteen hours ahead of my family, which means I get to do math every day.
Airports make me emotional. They can generally be counted on to illicit tears born from a whimsical sort of introspection, the concrete act of making a big life decision, and most probably, saying goodbye to loved ones. In addition to this stark transition is the relearning of each airport terminal and check-in process, precheck or not, the three layers of clothes and a backpack and carry on that you are simply trying to keep track of while you go to the bathroom. I love flying. And airports. But when I hug Titus, Corinna, and finally my Dad, for the last time for a year or two, you might understand how this place feels like an environment ripe with change. I am listening to “Do Not Be Afraid” by Philip Stoford as a reminder to live out the song’s title and also to be encouraged by my choir friends’ lives and connection to this song that we made during our choir tour in Europe last year.
Someone asked me before I arrived if coming back would feel like being home or not. And I told her that it’s complicated—a both/and. Driving on the left side of the road doesn’t feel like home. The coprosmas and hebes and lancewoods do, though. I have started getting New Zealand ads on my computer, so I guess it has made the transition a bit faster than I have. It is a strange mix of joy in the sparkling, peaceful air and the constant readjustment that makes your brain move as slow as honey.
I am still waiting on buying a car—a broken radiator has slowed the process down, but I am looking forward to having one place of stability in the transient state where I often find myself. When I consider this chosen transience, I wonder again if this decision is wise. And then I turn my overthinking off again just because I cannot truly know anything about how often I will be moving around. And for now it is abundantly enough to have a stable place to stay for a couple months. For that I am so grateful. And I was reunited with my friend Jackie! We both studied here last year, and it is so good to be back together again. She showed me how to use public transportation, and together we found some used books to fill the void of leaving our libraries at home. As we were walking along a storefront, a song by Owl City—an artist that I grew up on and my dad loves—was playing outside a store, and I sent a video sharing my delight to my parents.
On Sunday, Jackie and I went to a beautiful A frame Anglican church. At least, that is what I assumed it was until a lovely women named Sally instructed me that it was actually wider and shorter at one end, which gave it the illusion of being bigger than it really was. They are only staying in this building until their original cathedral—damaged by the Christchurch earthquake—is restored. But what really stood out to me was the choir at this church. It was not your typical church choir. It was, Sally told me, the only choir of its kind in New Zealand. There was one in Australia, but of course, that is quite far away. The boys in this choir begin in seventh grade and once their voice breaks, they can move to a different part and perhaps choose to stay in the choir. Their dedication was obvious. The blending and vibrato were mind blowing. They sang often throughout the service and with beautiful harmonies. And the congregation often joined them with most of the responses sung, not spoken. They knew how to sing and follow the chant-like indications on the bulletin page. It was a blessing to hear the chorus of saints on this side of the Pacific raising their voices in praise.
The day before Sunday, a friend sent me a video of the mass choir at Dordt singing “I Will Be a Child of Peace” by Elaine Hagenberg. It will forever be a true and core tenant in my life that I long for singing in Dordt’s Concert Choir. There is a bond unbreakable in singing in deepest beauty and fullest joy as a response to all we have been given in Christ. Music continues to appear like the seatbelt signs’ sporadic light on the plane. And while I am time zones away from each of those people who feel like home to me, I am grateful for the way song in all its forms brings me back to each of them.