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The words of the liturgy felt like a mother rocking me, singing over me, speaking words of blessing again and again. I was relaxing into the church like an overtired child collapsing on her mom. When my husband and I would get into the car after church each week and talk about the service, I would say to him, “It feels like chamomile tea.” This was my weird way of saying that worship allowed me to rest, to relax into the ancient practices and words of the church.
