My son has a neighborhood friend whose family attends church regularly.

I was raised Catholic, attended Catholic school on and off from elementary through undergrad, but I stopped practicing by my late teens. Briggs’s dad and I decided to raise Briggs outside of organized religion.

That said, there are aspects of being raised with religion—primarily the traditions and rituals—that still bring fond memories and comforting associations.

So, when this neighborhood friend came to our home for the first time a few years back, it brought a deep sense of warmth when I overheard him say:

“Wow, your house smells like Christmas and church! How does your mom do that?”

I was just a room away and walked over for the big reveal:

“It’s incense. And you’re right—they do burn it in church, especially around Christmas and other high holidays.”

My son added, “That’s what church smells like? Mom, you always say it’s what hippies smell like.”

“Well,” I said, “both can be true.”

Sometimes, I forget that I was raised by hippies and in church. It’s actually not all that uncommon where I grew up in Southern rural New Hampshire. Maybe it’s not all that uncommon anywhere.

I suppose it makes sense, especially as I am still awaiting biopsy results and volleying between suspended anxiety and the gift of the unknown, that all things church, energy, and spirit would be coming up and playing out in my head and feelings.

Though, I will admit, even with plenty of incense and essential oils, neither my spirit nor my home feels very Christmas-y this Labor Day weekend.

A bit of homemade lychee essential oil was dropped off at my home today by the very mom of the kind boy who said my home smelled like church. Neighbors are a blessing.