The Ebys Go Episcopalian

In 2014, my writing was mostly out of necessity. I would become so weighed down or saddened or confused by an issue that I would have to get it out in heart-heavy words.

That’s not how I want to write. Often, that is how I need to write, but I want to write for fun too. I want to talk about people I love from history and TV shows that bring me joy (please expect an extensive post in a few weeks when Parks and Rec ends). I want to tell stories from my childhood and discuss politics like John Oliver does. The existential stuff is still important to me, of course, but sometimes I want my writing to be lighter than that. Because even though life is hard, it is still wonderful, and it always will be. I don’t want to forget that, and I don’t want you to either. 

That being said, my first post of the new(ish) year is going to be one of my favorite family stories (suggested as a post by my dear Uncle Hardy). I call it: “The Ebys Go Episcopalian (or How to Get Away With Chugging in Church).”

In a year that I’m pretty sure was 2002, my family took a trip to Washington DC. My sister has some really fun medical issues going on with her eyes (which she handles with quiet grace every single day because she’s basically a tiny blonde Captain America), so every year she makes a visit to the National Institutes of Health for tests and needles and diagnoses! Just want every kid wants out of a vacation!

The plus side of all this is that occasionally we siblings got to tag along. The first time this happened, I was 11, Phillip was 9, and Claire was 6. It was a grand old time. Those of you who know Bethlyn (my mom) know how much she loves instructional recreation, so we got all of the history and learning that DC has to offer. We also got to stay at the Children’s Inn, which is the hotel equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory (without the hidden moralism or the lifelong fear of turning into a giant blueberry). 

But here’s the thing: Eby vacations never go smoothly. At best, they are fraught with complications. At worst, they can be a weeklong disasterfest. We are five strong-willed individuals with too much wit for our own good and very different sleeping schedules. We love each other so much, but somehow our vacations tend to make us temporarily forget that.

When it comes to this vacation, I can only remember one argument before the National Cathedral. Some IDIOT thought that it would be a great idea to wear brand new flip flops to walk about 86 miles around DC. I think I still have strap-shaped blisters from that trip. And of course there was the traditional Phillip-and-Emily indignation about Claire’s prolonged stroller privileges, despite our knowledge that she had Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis in her ankle. Man, I was a punk. Other than those (frankly minor) disagreements, this vacation was going pretty well…

… until the National Cathedral.

The National Cathedral is a big, beautiful building with flying buttresses, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass windows. Of course, the architectural feature that got us kids interested had nothing to with any of that:

Once we had been Jedi-mind-tricked into the outing, the Eby kids had to survive a Bethlyn Orientation on the upcoming service. My mom has a spiel for everything- ask any of us about birthday party etiquette or the four-point apology- but she is especially specific about church services. Bethlyn just wants her children to be prepared for anything. This time, her main concern was communion. 

I don’t know how/if you do communion, dear reader, but the Eby kids had only really experienced one form: Southern Baptist. This consists of men (always men) passing large silver plates up and down the aisle. Half of those silver plates hold 5 millimeter by 5 millimeter tasteless crackers, and the other half hold shot glasses of grape juice (although, as the Baptists themselves will say, “what’s a shot glass?”). Everybody sits in the pew and crunches the impossibly tiny crackers together. Then they all knock back the shots of grape juice together. It’s a very sanitized, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am way of remembering the crucifixion, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, at this time, that was all the young Ebys knew.

That was not what we would encounter this time.

Outside the cathedral, after we gawked at the Darth Vader head and made the requisite “I am your father” jokes, it was time for Bethlyn Orientation: So You’re About To Experience a New Communion. Phillip (9) and I (11) sat down and braced ourselves. But Claire (6) made the classic “mistake” of needing to use the bathroom.

“Brian, can you take her?” My mom asked, already well into setting up the slide projector (only a slight exaggeration).

“Sure!” My dear, loving father agreed, successfully getting himself out of the mandatory attendance of a Bethlyn Orientation.

“And can you explain the communion to her?” Mom asked. 

“Sure!” He replied.

And so Phillip and I wistfully watched Dad and Claire escape, both wishing that we had thought of asking to go to the bathroom.

Then Bethlyn was off.

“Okay, this is how it’s going to go: They are going to call everyone up to the front of the church. You will get in a line. They will offer you a thin, papery wafer. This is the Episcopal version of the cracker. Then, they will pass by with a cup of wine.”

(This was before the Eby children knew what wine was, or that people drank it outside of Catholicism. Even in Catholicism, it’s technically blood by the time they drink it. Transubstantiation jokes!)

“Emily, Phillip, this is very important: EVERY HUMAN IN THE COUNTRY has put their FULL, ENTIRE MOUTH inside that cup. It is like a petri dish for America’s germs in there. Under no circumstances are you to put any of the liquid from that cup in your body. It will give you diseases, and you will die.”

At this point, I had some questions. But in a Bethlyn Orientation, you hold all your questions till the end.

“Here’s what you will do: take your wafer and just pretend to dip it in the wine. This way, you will not get any diseases anywhere near yourself. Jesus wants you to be healthy. He will understand. Then thank the lady (me: wait, they let ladies pass out communion here? Rad!!) and return to your seat. Got it?”

Phillip and I nodded our understanding. Bethlyn seemed appeased. At that exact moment, conveniently, Claire and Dad returned from the bathoom.

“Brian, did you tell her?” Mom asked.

“Yep!” Dad replied.

And we all filed into the giant, beautiful church.

I don’t remember the service. Honestly, I probably spent most of it looking at the building. But I doremember the communion.

We all filed up to the front, Bethlyn first, then me, Phillip, Claire, and Brian. We knelt at the cushiony altar. The lady came by with the wafers, and we each took one (as instructed). Then came the lady with the wine. Bethlyn did her method, and the cup passed to me.

Still skeptical of my mom’s totally unfounded medical claims, I decided to just do what everyone else in the church did. I dipped my wafer ever-so-slightly, ate it, and thanked the lady. She smiled, and then moved on to Phillip.

Young Phillip. Sweet Phillip. Young, sweet, obedient Phillip.

Young, sweet, obedient Phillip did just as instructed by Bethlyn; he pretended to dip his wafer into the germ-filled cup, and thanked the lady.

She was not having it.

“Oh, honey,” she grinned. “You didn’t get any on there!”

Then, as Bethlyn watched in horror, the communion lady took Phillip’s tiny, grubby, nine-year-old hand, and plunged it, wafer and all, into the wine.

I could have died for joy. A tiny Phillip licking red wine off of his fingers one by one is, to this day, the second most amazing sight I have ever seen.

And then came the first.

The cup passed to Claire.

Six-year-old Claire, who had not attended a Bethlyn Orientation, but a far less extensive (and way more fun) Brian Briefing. 

Claire received the wafer and immediately gobbled it down. One bite, then POOF. Gone.

It was that split second when Phillip, Bethlyn, and I had the same thought: What is she going to put her wine on?

The answer was her uvula. 

Tiny Claire, six-year-old Claire, looked to my dad for approval, and then grabbed the giant wine goblet with her tiny six-year-old hands and went to town. My father said nothing, but there was an air of “chug, chUG, CHUG” about his demeanor. Claire got several really good glugs in before the wine lady was able to recover and politely wrench the cup back. 

I’ve never seen anything as thoroughly spectacular as a six-year-old bespectacled Claire Eby, sporting church clothes, a smug grin, and a giant purple wine-mustache. 

I remember very little after that. I’m sure that Bethlyn was not happy. I’m sure Brian laughed. I’m sure Bethlyn laughed then too. I’m sure Claire stumbled out of the National Cathedral with a 12% Blood Alcohol Content. I’m sure Phillip grumbled about his sticky germy wine fingers. And I’m sure I offered one (if not many many) “I told you sos.”

There was overcommunication. There was miscommunication. There was underage drinking. But now, thirteen (!!!) years later, I hardly remember the frustration of it all. My main memory is the pure joy I have when I remember that day, and the pure joy I get from telling the story.

When things go sour- be it with a vacation, a friend, a family member, whatever- don’t be too quick to throw the baby out with the bathwater. In my opinion, a lot of wonderful memory is worth a little bit of temporary frustration.

And you can trust me, because as of 2002, I am the soberest Eby child.