“…[a porch is] the only place where you can feel like you are outside and inside at the same time; out with all of the neighbors and alone reading a book.”
--Claude Stephens, Professional Porch Sitters Union, Local 1339
It’s not a front porch, not in a real sense, but for me, it is my front porch, the one place, more than any other in this COVID world, that has saved my soul and refreshed my spirit and most important, connected me face to face with other people.
Thank God.
So, if you drive by my mid-1960’s grey colonial home, and look up the steep driveway, at the top you’ll see a mix and match collection of chairs: a cracked plastic red Adirondack and a battered yellow beach lounge chair and two navy blue camp chairs, all settled around my recently purchased fire pit. In the past six months it’s been my go to communal gathering place. My secular sanctuary. My spring and summer and now autumnal sacred space.
My front porch.
After hip replacement surgery in June, it was where my family came to visit, bearing gifts of delicious deli sandwiches and ice cold lemonade and the comfort of loved ones. It’s where I meet parishioners for a medium hot, two creams, one sugar, cup of coffee, to talk about the spiritual struggle it is sometimes to live in this weird and odd world we now all call home. It’s the spot where my walking buddies and I settle into for an hour or so of gossip and catch up, after several rounds of exploring my cul-de-sac marked neighborhood. They patiently walk. I limp along.
I hope you have some kind of front porch in your life. We all need that meeting place now.
Because what is not a front porch, absolutely, is Zoom or Google hangout or Skype. It just does not cut it for me anymore, never really has. I’m grateful for it, absolutely, and yet: I’m sick and tired of looking at my own face while trying to talk to others. Impatient with my computer that invariably tells me “internet connection unstable” and then the faces freeze in a weird funhouse display and I pray they’ll come back. Zoom is one dimensional, a caricature of community in a way, of authentic community and human connection. Sure, let’s Zoom but better yet: come see me in my driveway. On my front porch. Please.
Where is your front porch?
Maybe it is an actual front porch that wraps around the front of your home, with rocking chairs and a table to eat around, and wind chimes and a roof to protect you from the rain. Maybe you have a wannabee front porch like my driveway: a patio in the back, a spot on the lawn, a screened in back porch. Anywhere that allows you to actually be with people. Be with them for real. See them smile, up close, and hear their laughter right there, and feel their presence, not virtual, not cyber, but in the flesh.
This week the church I serve had worship outside on Sunday morning, under a tent, our holy front porch, and as we gathered together—masked and distanced but still in the presence of each other--I almost wept at the miracle of this event. The baby I baptized howled when the water hit his forehead and I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to hear a toddler cry in person. We sang, albeit very quietly, and I marveled at actually sharing my voice with others for real. When a contingent of motorcycles rode by on Main Street for five minutes, it drowned out my prayers but so be it. Even that roar was a gift.
Yes, I know, winter is coming—UGH! My advice? Get outside, get out on your porch whatever that space looks like, and get together. Meet and greet before it is too late.
For all too soon, it will be much harder to hang out on our front porches with others: with neighbors, with family, with friends. Some are buying outside patio propane heaters to extend the season. Some folks, like me, bought fire pits. There is something mystical about gathering around a fire in a circle and watching the flames crackle and sputter as smoke rises up to the sky. My plan is to burn that wood until it snows, maybe even after it snows!
If there is any silver lining to glean from this pandemic, it is this: we have been reminded by God, by life, and by circumstances beyond our control, that there is no substitute for in person community. For a front porch. For the simple gift of being in the real presence of another child of God.
I’ll be hanging out at the top of my driveway until the first blizzard blows, so if you’d like to stop by, there is always an empty chair available.
Thank God for front porches.
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