Ritual

I remember coming home from Church on Fast Sundays eager to take off my church clothes, put on sweats, and break my fast. My sisters and I would bicker in the car on the way home while my parents reminded us that before we eat anything we needed to go in our rooms, kneel, pray, and break our fast properly. I’ll admit that sometimes I did it begrudgingly, but as I grew older the ritual took on more meaning.

After breaking our fast, my dad would cook grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. That was the usual meal served on Sundays. Everyone ate eagerly and no one complained. It was a simple meal that made our bellies full and hearts thankful.

Years later, I find myself making my own three children grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup on Sunday afternoons. No one complains and everyone eats with gratitude. If you’re a parent of young children, you know how rare this is for a family of five.

For the briefest of moments, things felt normal. Normalcy often feels like a luxury for those privileged enough “to be normal,” which often means being aligned with the prevailing majority. “Normal” is not a word I would use to describe myself or my life. “Queer” is a much more accurate descriptor and that extends far beyond gender and orientation. For the queer at heart, there is something deeply comforting in the little moments of normalcy that grace affords us.

I worry for my children. I worry for their sense of normalcy and the comfort it provides. They have a queer mother. They no longer attend the church of their birth and heritage. They no longer participate in the proscribed communal rituals. We worship independently because, among many reasons, we didn’t want our children to be taught that there was something inherently wrong with their mother. Worshiping through social distancing for the last couple years has humbled me. All the normalcy I knew from my childhood, good and bad, was gone. It was now my job to create normalcy for them. It’s a daunting task.

I thought about this as I savored the normalcy of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup on a Sunday afternoon with my family. When everything felt uncertain, the tangible normalcy of a childhood meal made up the difference. That’s the power of ritual. Ritual feels just as warm as the tomato soup that dripped from our lips. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup was the ritual now. It may lack the prestige and rigor of temple worship, ordination, or baptism, but it was enough to fill our bellies and our hearts.