Holy Theotokos Young Women's Conference
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Planning the work, Pannikhida for Archimandrite Dimitry, work begins
Repairing and painting fence and cross
Repairing and painting another cross
Finishing up, picnic and final photo
Memories of the Young Womens Conference
by a former attendee
Friday, June 6, 2008 at 10:03pm
Around this time last year, and the year before, and every summer back to the year I was 12, I was staring at an empty suitcase with a million things running through my head, trying to figure out what to pack for California and wondering what in the world the week ahead was going to hold. This year I’m not, because life moves on and I can’t stay the same age forever. (Although after being so sure that I wouldn’t be flying to San Francisco this year for the first time since the first ywc, when my flight to Project Mexico was rerouted through SFO I could just imagine God up there looking down and laughing: “You really think you’re in control of your life, huh? I’ll show ya.”) But even though I won’t be there this year, the memories from those years will always be with me.
I was quite a shy little kid back then, as I’m sure you know well. I remember the first year, as a 12-year-old, sitting at the table during discussions, staring at my plate and desperately praying that Fr. Michael wouldn’t call on me, even though I formulated the perfect answers to his questions in my head every time. And nearly every year for the folk dancing, I played fiddle: not because I was great at it (y’all deserve the Most Patient and Polite by Pretending to Ignore Reality Group of People award for silently tolerating my sawing that first year I started violin) – not that, but because once upon a time the Virginia Reel was the bane of my existence. But even if I appeared withdrawn and quiet those first few years, I still loved being there. You were the only people I felt I could honestly open up to because you understood where I came from. You were – you are! – like sisters to me, and I left every year with tears in my eyes but a full heart, knowing that it would be another year before I got to “recharge my battery” in the same way again but glad for the time we did have. The ywc didn’t just teach me about loving God and living a purposeful life; it taught me what Christian friendship is all about. And it was there that I realized it’s possible to get sort of “immune” to your own church with its routine familiarity; standing in the back of the candlelit chapel during Compline, I rediscovered what it’s like to physically feel grace and God’s presence— that incredible feeling of peace in your heart, like the grace after a long vigil. You know what I’m talking about.
13 years old, and I found myself back in Santa Rosa, trying to make sand candles on the beach, petting Sir Toby, eating Mrs. Oyer’s cool whip pie, drumming on the table before the dishwashers’ list, and limping all week with aspirin and an ace bandage when I should’ve been on crutches because tearing a ligament the weekend before couldn’t stop me from boarding that plane. And then 14 rolled around, and despite the odds I showed up at your doorstep once again.
To this day when I hit a rough spot in my life I still turn to that recording of the Georgian Cherubic Hymn from the Sunday I was 15. There’ve been times I’ve listened to it every night for weeks; nights when I’ve put it on repeat for hours. And the ywc was honestly the best week of the whole rocky year I was 16. Whether you noticed it or not, tediously chipping away at the shell had brought me a long ways from the silent wallflower that I was at 12. Then, I nervously got out of the car from the airport and was greeted on the edge of the empty lot by a sea of strangers, only recognizing a few faces. (We won’t discuss how many times I got turned around the first few days trying to find my way back to the right school room door from the white house.) This time it was like coming back for a family reunion. No SATs, APs, or any other bothersome abbreviations to think about, no other stressful distractions to worry about. I can’t describe what an amazing experience that week was for me personally; all I can say is that when the hardest part of the week was trying to get the number of times I hammered the nails outnumber the times I hammered my thumb building those shrines with Annie, it had to be pretty darn good.
And then there was last year; the only non-Santa Rosan who’d made it through all six conferences. 306 lighthouse steps, get-rich-quick schemes, St. John’s mantia, Lorica, Academy-safe “excuse me” demonstrations, smoky campfires, bittersweet final ywc memories.
Even though I secretly rolled my eyes whenever we read another sappy story about girls in frilly dresses sitting around with their needles and yarn, knitting their little hearts out and discussing their latest charitable endeavors,
even though after six years of dinnertime readings I have Josh Harris’ books practically memorized,
even though I look back now at my 13-year-old broccoli list and just laugh,
even though I never did actually finish any of those scrapbooks,
even though every candle I decorated, scrapbook I designed, and picture I drew reflected my undeniable complete and total lack of visual artistic capability,
and even though my friends here will never understand I went all the way to California every year for camp,
I still wouldn’t trade those weeks for anything. I wouldn’t be who I am without them. My faith wouldn’t be the same without them. A lot happened in my life between the years I was 12 and 17 – a lot of exciting and fun times as well as many faith-stretching experiences – but one thing that stayed the same was spending a week in June with you guys and reconnecting with God and my faith after having let distractions take the front burner. Whether we had two or twenty people come to church on a given Sunday, I knew that there would be that one week when I got to experience what it’s like to be a part of a real community, a life I haven’t really had since I was five. And I may have gone back to living in a construction site the rest of the year, but I learned that through Christ and my faith I was still connected to a whole network of people around the world, and it made it a lot easier. My ywc days are over, because time doesn’t stop in its tracks. Life has changed me; college has changed me; God has changed me. But I’ll always remember those days. . . . and at the risk of sounding like a Hallmark card, I just wanted to say thank you all for being there: for all your encouragement and love and laughter and prayers and late night “discussions” on those certain subjects that never get old and for teaching me how to say “banana” the right way. I appreciate it all more than you’ll ever know.