A Favorite Place |
It
had been just over a year since we'd been there, and had a visit to the to
church. The little white church is in Orangedale, and it was where my
grandfather preached as a minister for 24 years. It is a very small building,
as it is in a very small village, with a population of about one hundred or so.
The town has a store and a post office, and not a whole lot else, except some
people who are very dear to me.
On last year's visit, I sat on a wooden pew thinking about my future. Specifically, if I
had one. I was pretty certain that things would be okay, but on very rare occasions,
I’d imagine a petulant little voice saying, ‘Says who?’ It was the very early
days of my diagnosis and all we new was that the tumour was for real, and it
was the bad kind. In fact, the day before I left the city, my doctor phoned,
and said, ‘its worse than we thought’.
So
I sat in the pew and thought about stuff. I thought that being in that little
wooden church would give me a direct line to my father, the son of my
grandfather, and told him that I hoped he was happy wherever he was, and that
he had lots of people to hang out with, because he wouldn’t be seeing me in his
world for a while. And I asked my grandfather, very humbly, to put in a word
with his big boss, to leave me here with my family. And then I had to apologize
for not having being in church for the last twenty years, except to go to the
occasional wedding and my cousin’s daughter’s christening. Even then, all I
thought about was the warm white wine and crustless sandwiches that would be my
reward. Given my crummy track
record, I didn’t think I had the right to favours, but on this occasion it
didn’t hurt to ask.
Many
of the pews were empty. Jim sat on
one side of me, and my Orangedale family on the other. They didn’t know that
there was anything different about me. Jim however, did. But the information
was so new, and so startling, that we didn’t know how to process it. Sometimes
it was easily forgotten, and other times, it had huge importance. And
sometimes, when we were looking at the eagles, we just plain forgot.
But
that Sunday morning I couldn’t forget. I’d never had the experience of being in
church and wanting so badly to connect. I like church, but I’m not religious. I have no solid convictions, but I like
being somewhere that is a force for good. And as may have mentioned, I’m fond of
crustless sandwiches, especially the egg. So I sat there, feeling tiny in the universe, and waited for
the minister to take his place.
When
the minister made her entrance, she did it in a way that only a Cape Breton
minister could. With warmth, and greetings, and a lot of cheery chit-chat about
the day. She was about 50, and walked down the aisle with a cloud of energy –
sort of like Pig Pen with his cloud of dirt – only instead of dirt there was
glee. She was stilla student of theology, and had only recently started giving
sermons. I like to think that she
left her old life in a red convertible with only a suitcase, but who knows. It’s all about second chances, anyway.
Then
she stood at the front of the wee congregation and adjusted her robes, in the
manner of someone who looked down and was surprised to notice a gown and
collar. And then she started talking.
Well, this was no grandpa’s sermon form 1974. This gal was having a
great old time. She was clearly happy about life, and even fist pumped a
few times as she talked about the villagers' small victories. And then she got
serious for a second and wish us all peace. She cast her kind gaze around the
room and prayed for everyone who had ‘an illness, or a hardship’. And then I
swear that her sparkly eyes rested on me as she offered a prayer for, ‘anyone waiting for a diagnosis’.
I
felt like the lamb in a biblical painting, under a beam of light. Or Maxwell Smart, listening to the
words of Chief under the cone of silence. Her words felt they were directed me.
Or maybe that is the power of church, to allow each individual to receive his
or her comfort. I didn’t know what would happen, or even what the future held,
but I knew in my heart that I was being looked after and that things would be
okay.
It
was last Monday when we drove back into the little town to join the Orangedalers for
supper. Jim and I came bearing a
couple of pies, a bag of beer, and matching ostrich hairdos. Nothing seemed to
have changed, but I don’t want to be too quick to say that, since the town
could say the same thing about me.
Kathleen's Ktichen |
But before visiting, we drove down the hill
to take a look at the little white church. There was nobody there, and the
building not open. The double
front doors were pressed tightly together, like someone holding their hands
over their heart. Though I’ve
known this church for over 40 years, it had taken on a new meaning for me and I
felt I was beginning to understand its’ importance. My dad had grown up in that church. Births and deaths had both
been celebrated under that roof, and a community was held together. And when I
was ready to let it, it welcomed me in and shared its hope and certainty.
I
said a little thank you to the small wooden building and headed back up the
hill. On Maple Drive other beacons awaited. So we headed up to Kathleen’s kitchen
to another form of worship; a freshly cooked lobster, potato salad, and a cup
of melted butter.
Bless your little heart (or "big" heart) I had tears in my eyes as I read your words (the older I get, the easier it is for me to turn on the water works!!) We were so glad to have you both and maybe you will squeeze another trip in this fall??!!??
ReplyDeleteThere are lots of lobsters in the pound and many years ahead!!
Take care
Love
Mitzi and her family