TBT: One Sunday morning

From 1962 to 1970 I went to church every Sunday, all Holy Days and most mornings before school. The priests and nuns at Saint Joseph’s School pretty much made sure of that with strong-arming from my parents, which might be why most of my adult life I’ve been church-averse. 

But I do go to church on occasion. It’s my spiritual haven, my refuge, my place where there are no demands of me.

For the past few weeks, for a variety of reasons, my attendance has been even spottier so last week when the Rev called and asked if I would do one of the Sunday readings, I committed and said yes. Martin even said he would come with me.

Oh, the best laid plans.

Martin woke up Sunday morning just awful. Miserable, actually. He was moaning and groaning and refused to get out of bed. So I told him to stay in bed and I assured him that I would ask the congregation to include him in its prayers. I grabbed my iPad which allows me to view him on the NSA-like cameras we have installed in the house and left. If need be I could be home in 10 minutes. Seven, if I ignored speed limits.

I arrived at church with two minutes to spare and was handed my reading. Romans, Chapter 5, Verses 1 through 5.

I did a cursory glance to make sure  there were no hard-to-pronounce names of biblical proportions like Amminadab, Magormissabib or Zaphenathpaneah.

Nope. A few Gods, a Jesus, a Holy Spirit and endurance. I was good.

As I watched Martin sleep on camera a sadness swept over me. When Fergus jumped on the bed, turned three times and nestled deep into Martin’s side, the sadness became even greater.

The congregation was invited to share in “Joys and Concerns’’ but I was unable to speak up and ask them to pray for Martin. They are aware of his dementia. I knew if I did I would fall apart. It was just that kind of morning. I just wanted to get through Romans Chapter 5, Verses 1 through 5 and be done with it.

When my time came I looked out at the congregation and began. My voice was strong, I was making eye contact, my words were clear until "...and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance…”

The voice began to crack ever so slightly.

“..and endurance produces character…”

Uh oh

“…and character produces hope...’’

Bigger crack and the eyes are now beginning to fill. At this point I stopped and took a deep breath. Only two sentences to go.

“…and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. Thus ends our lesson."

By now, tears were coming and my nose was in need of a tissue, too.

Somehow I made it back to my seat, looked down at my sleeping husband and sleeping dog and quietly wept.

I thought about zipping down to the restroom, but thought it rude to leave just as the sermon on “Embracing Mystery’’ was about to begin. The sermon, it turns out, involved Abraham’s family: his wife, Sarah, her handmaiden, Hagar, and Abraham and Hagar’s son, Ishmael.

I cried even more because unbeknownst to the Rev, Ishmael is the name of my maternal grandfather, Sarah was his wife—my grandmother who we affectionately, called Ga-Ga—and Hagar was Grandpa Ish’s sister, one of my mother’s favorite aunts.

Good Lord! My kinfolk were right there with me in a little church in northern New Hampshire!

Thus ended my tears and sadness. At least for a while.