Coming of Age.

Yesterday's church service featured the youth who have just completed a semester-long Coming of Age program. They've used classes, journalling exercises, retreats, group discussions, and one-on-one work with adult mentors to mark the passage from childhood to maturity. Ours is a noncreedal religion, meaning that there is no common set of beliefs or spiritual path that we all share. So one of the markers of the passage out of childhood, for Unitarian-Universalists, is that one is expected to take on the "free and responsible search for truth and meaning" for oneself, as an active process.

As the centerpiece of the service, each of the seven Coming of Age youth stood before the congregation and delivered their own personal faith statement: a description of what they believe and where they stand on spiritual matters. Obviously this isn't expected to be the final word, but they are expected to think deeply and make a sincere declaration.

They. Were. Amazing.

One of them flatly asserted that the physical world is all that there is, and that there is nothing that cannot be explained in material terms. One of them explained how she came to identify human love as a transcendent higher power. One described her belief that, because matter and energy cannot be created or destroyed, she is made from dinosaurs and will live on forever as components of living creatures to come. One said that the only thing he was sure he believed in was the search. One said, straightforwardly, that he'd watched all his friends have insights over the course of the class, but he hadn't, and he still didn't know what he believed.

Every one of them stood up, head held high, in front of a hundred and fifty people, and had the self-confidence and self-knowledge to articulate their faith. It was inspiring to hear them. It was wonderful to see them radiant in the light of the congregation's enthusiastic applause. And it's a bit terrifying to think that in about ten years, my daughter will be standing in the pulpit and Coming of Age herself.

I love my religious community. I have so much respect for these youth - four of them were in my OWL class last year, and I can't believe how much they've matured over the last year and a half. And I am in awe of my friends who helped them on their Coming of Age journey this year, including acceberskoorb and lynsaurus.

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Michael's company owns four season tickets to the Baltimore Orioles. The partners get first dibs on them, for personal use or business entertaining, but the rest of the staff can put their names in for any unclaimed tickets. Michael won a pair of tickets for Sunday afternoon's game.

We'd been meaning to take Alex to her first ballgame sometime this summer, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. She sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" all the way from church to the light rail stop, and from the light rail to the stadium.

They were good seats. Right at third base. On the club level, where you can order food and have it brought to your seat or visit a dedicated club-level concession stand. Club level, where the concourse is air-conditioned and has couches and big-screen TVs in case you want to cool off without missing any of the game. Club level, where the bathrooms are clean. I had never been up there before. We got to walk past the private box with the presidential seal on the door.

We had figured that third-base club-level seating would be shaded. Unfortunately, when we came out from the concourse we discovered that the first three rows were sunny, and our seats were right in the first row. But I didn't even have time to start worrying about the sun. (Colin is too young to use sunscreen.) As soon as the usher caught sight of us, he bustled over. "Your seats are... okay, let's put you up here. We may need to move you around a little, but we'll keep that baby in the shade. Your seats should be shaded after the first inning." (They actually weren't shaded until the fourth, but there were plenty of unclaimed seats in our section, so we had no trouble staying in the shade until then.)

I settled in to my seat and started to nurse Colin. Moments later, the usher came over and started talking to Michael. I saw him point at us and cringed, thinking that he was probably telling Michael I couldn't nurse there. But in fact he was saying: "Is this the baby's first game? Be sure to stop by the concierge desk - they'll give him a certificate."

Awww.

The game moved along pretty briskly, because neither team could hit a damn thing. (The O's eventually solved that problem by putting Danys Baez in as a relief picher. Everyone can hit off him.) I had been prepared to ditch the game in mid-progress, but Alex actually lasted until the very end. Colin had a less-good time - he was fussy, wanted to sleep, couldn't sleep. It might have just been too hot for him.

I had a barbecue sandwich and a really tasty beer. We admired the new scoreboard (Okay, it's not new. We just haven't been to a game in years.) and enjoyed the city view beyond the outfield. It was a very pleasant afternoon.