Box of Rain: Finding Sanctuary Outside the Church
Part of the Music & Memories Collection by DeElla Hoberg
I have a confession to make.
I was a little bit of a closet Deadhead.
Which is kind of funny, considering I graduated from high school in 1993, right in the middle of the grunge era.
I was much more likely to be listening to Nirvana or Pearl Jam than following the Grateful Dead around the country.
In fact, the only time my mother ever stopped me because of what I was wearing, it wasn't because I was dressed like a hoochie mama.
I'd stolen a pair of my dad's jeans, cinched them around my waist, and paired them with a black bodysuit and a flannel shirt.
Apparently, that was a bridge too far.
But I loved the Grateful Dead, too.
I never actually made it inside one of their concerts. The closest I got was the parking lot.
And honestly, the parking lot was an experience all its own.
People were camping, selling things, playing music, singing, partying, and smoking copious amounts of weed.
It was chaotic, colorful, and full of life.
At the time, I thought it was fun.
I didn't yet understand what that community meant to so many people.
A Different Kind of Family
Years later, when I began working on my Music & Memories collection, I started asking friends about the music that had shaped their lives.
One of my friends and neighbors, Harlan, had followed the Grateful Dead for a while.
When we talked about her experiences, one word kept coming up.
Family.
Not concerts. Not drugs. Not even the music itself.
Family.
That conversation stayed with me.
Then I watched a documentary about the Grateful Dead and the people who followed them.
I heard story after story about people who had felt lost or alone finding a place in that community.
They cooked for each other. They looked after one another. They welcomed people who didn't have anywhere else to go.
For many of them, being a Deadhead wasn't simply about loving a band.
It was about belonging.
And something about that idea hit me pretty hard.
Growing Up in the Church
My own relationship with church has always been complicated.
Before I was born, my grandfather and my brother Douglas were killed in an automobile accident. My mother was driving.
I never had the opportunity to know either of them.
My mother used an inheritance from my grandfather to send me to a private Lutheran school, where I stayed from kindergarten through seventh grade.
I went to chapel every Wednesday.
I prayed.
I learned all the lessons about faith, kindness, and loving your neighbor.
But I never really felt like I belonged.
We didn't have much money, and I was acutely aware of the difference between my family and those of my classmates.
I washed dishes in the cafeteria so I could get school lunch.
I remember going to a friend's house and being served tuna that wasn't from a can. Actual tuna!
That was a revelation to a kid raised on Hamburger Helper and government cheese.
I went to school with the same children for years, but I often felt like an outsider.
I knew what the church was supposed to represent.
I just didn't feel it.
Faith, Hypocrisy, and Finding My Own Way
When we moved to California, my experiences with church became even more complicated.
I was around thirteen and going through confirmation.
My mother tried to set me up with a boy from church.
What she didn't realize was that this particular young man was one of the biggest drug dealers at my school. He and his sister were throwing enormous parties with plenty of drugs and alcohol.
I remember thinking the whole thing was ridiculous.
Here I was, being taught about faith and morality, while the people around me seemed to be living by entirely different rules.
I wasn't looking for perfection.
I was looking for sincerity.
And I couldn't seem to find it.
Over the years, especially after having children of my own, I've tried returning to church more than once.
I've wanted that sense of community. I've wanted to feel connected to something bigger than myself.
But traditional religious institutions have never quite felt like home.
I'm a deeply spiritual person.
I just haven't found that spirituality within the walls of a church.
The Church on the Corner
While I was working on this series, I became a little obsessed with the Grateful Dead song Box of Rain.
I listened to it over and over for days.
I kept thinking about Harlan's stories and the documentary.
About all those people who had found a family in a community built around music.
About the idea of sanctuary.
Then one evening, I was leaving an art festival in Alpharetta, Georgia.
It was dark, and as I walked along, I passed a little white church.
The building was illuminated against the night sky.
And suddenly, something clicked.
A church is supposed to be a sanctuary.
A place where people can come as they are.
A place where they can find comfort, acceptance, and community.
But for some of us, church has been a place where we felt judged, excluded, or simply out of place.
And here were these Deadheads, building their own version of a church in parking lots, campgrounds, and concert venues.
They weren't necessarily gathering around a pulpit.
They were gathering around music.
And they were taking care of one another.
Painting the Storm Inside
I knew I wanted to paint that little church.
But I didn't want to paint a traditional, peaceful church scene.
I wanted to explore the contradiction between what sanctuary is supposed to be and what it can sometimes feel like.
So I put the rain inside the church.
Outside, the building stands against the night sky, its steeple glowing.
Inside, there's a storm.
For me, that contrast says something about the complicated relationship between faith, belonging, and the institutions we build around them.
I don't believe spirituality requires a particular building.
And I don't believe community has to look a certain way.
Sometimes sanctuary is a church.
Sometimes it's a friend's kitchen table.
And sometimes it's a parking lot full of people dancing to the Grateful Dead.
A Box of Rain
I still listen to the Dead.
Probably more now than I did when I was young.
And Box of Rain has become one of those songs that means more to me with every passing year.
When I look at this painting, I think about the people who found a family through music.
I think about Harlan and the community she remembers.
I think about that little girl sitting in chapel every Wednesday, praying and wondering why she never quite fit in.
And I think about the possibility that maybe belonging isn't something we have to earn by fitting ourselves into someone else's idea of what we should be.
Maybe it's something we create by making room for one another.
Maybe sanctuary isn't a place at all.
Maybe it's how we treat each other.
About the Artwork
Box of Rain is an original 20 × 20-inch mixed-media painting on watercolor paper mounted to canvas. Part of my Music & Memories collection, it explores the meaning of sanctuary, belonging, and the communities we create when traditional spaces don't feel like home.
I'd love to know: Where have you found your sense of belonging? Was it in a place, a community, a friendship, or somewhere completely unexpected? I'd love to hear your story in the comments.
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