There is a park only ten minutes from my house, walking, of course. Cutting through the middle is a stream with a bridge. This bridge supported me as I stood for a bit to reflect. I looked down into the playful water and saw Bea - My Grandmother. Whether her spirit was actually lying in the water there is not for me to say, but the tear that surfaced in my eye was entirely real. Thus began my morning of emotion.
For some reason I have particular mornings where everything around me is entirely relevant.
The morning was stunning.
Sky overflowing with blue paint.
The sun permeating my insides and making my blood a little bit more red.
Every person I passed had a story.
Most were out early to walk with their canine friends.
I saw some content people
And some with a bit more baggage.
I was out of the house because I rustled up the discipline to rouse myself from my bed to attend church that morning. I didn't know where I was going to attend for certain, but I had a few churches in mind to walk by and see how they would affect me as I pass by them. The first I came to was a Catholic church. Not for me that day. The second church I came to was no longer a church, but an abandoned building. A beautiful old church but no one to worship there. The third church I came to was St. Andrews United Reformed Church. Perhaps it was the beautiful steeple that drew me in or maybe just that it was to late to seek out another, but I was very pleased to decide upon St. Andrews. A glance down at my watch told me that I still had a good half hour to wander about before the service was to begin. I grabbed a healthy Dr. Pepper and wandered over to the park where I saw my grandmother's face. I'm happy that she was smiling.
My stroll back to the church was lovely and once inside the sanctuary, I realized that I was particularly attracted to the scent of the old room - a scent that reminded me of our old family cabin in Ruidoso, New Mexico. I happily sat down to await the commencement of the service. Not five minutes after I sat, the organ began. An adroitly handled instrument, indeed. The powerful, dynamic pipes sent tunes and melodies to my ears and I absorbed every second of it. Ten minutes later, the organ grew silent and the service began. The sermon on the topic of hearing the voice of God - fitting.
Tea and coffee followed the service and I sat down with the little old ladies of the church. I remember the eldest of them all, Sylvia. She was loosing her sight and told me that she would not be able to recognize me if she saw me later but that she was happy to hear my voice so that she could hold on to that. After explaining my plight of theatre and having tea and cookies thrust upon me, our conversation came to a close and the pastor, Allen, came over for a chat with the new visitor. Only in his mid fifties, Allen already has arthritis so bad in his hips that he finds it terribly difficult to walk and very painful to stand from a chair. He showed a sincere interest in my life and offered his church to me if I wanted to make it my place of worship. Such kind people...and a nice cup (or three) of tea.
I began my journey back toward my house and reflected on my church experience. I often find it hard to get up on a Sunday morning since it is one of my two mornings where I do not have to leave the comfort of my covers. However, mornings like this are mornings that add life to my body. In such a terminal existence on this earth, we do not have the luxury of reliving any day of our life. Sunday morning on the 18th of January 2004 was a morning that added life to me.
For some reason I have particular mornings where everything around me is entirely relevant.
The morning was stunning.
Sky overflowing with blue paint.
The sun permeating my insides and making my blood a little bit more red.
Every person I passed had a story.
Most were out early to walk with their canine friends.
I saw some content people
And some with a bit more baggage.
I was out of the house because I rustled up the discipline to rouse myself from my bed to attend church that morning. I didn't know where I was going to attend for certain, but I had a few churches in mind to walk by and see how they would affect me as I pass by them. The first I came to was a Catholic church. Not for me that day. The second church I came to was no longer a church, but an abandoned building. A beautiful old church but no one to worship there. The third church I came to was St. Andrews United Reformed Church. Perhaps it was the beautiful steeple that drew me in or maybe just that it was to late to seek out another, but I was very pleased to decide upon St. Andrews. A glance down at my watch told me that I still had a good half hour to wander about before the service was to begin. I grabbed a healthy Dr. Pepper and wandered over to the park where I saw my grandmother's face. I'm happy that she was smiling.
My stroll back to the church was lovely and once inside the sanctuary, I realized that I was particularly attracted to the scent of the old room - a scent that reminded me of our old family cabin in Ruidoso, New Mexico. I happily sat down to await the commencement of the service. Not five minutes after I sat, the organ began. An adroitly handled instrument, indeed. The powerful, dynamic pipes sent tunes and melodies to my ears and I absorbed every second of it. Ten minutes later, the organ grew silent and the service began. The sermon on the topic of hearing the voice of God - fitting.
Tea and coffee followed the service and I sat down with the little old ladies of the church. I remember the eldest of them all, Sylvia. She was loosing her sight and told me that she would not be able to recognize me if she saw me later but that she was happy to hear my voice so that she could hold on to that. After explaining my plight of theatre and having tea and cookies thrust upon me, our conversation came to a close and the pastor, Allen, came over for a chat with the new visitor. Only in his mid fifties, Allen already has arthritis so bad in his hips that he finds it terribly difficult to walk and very painful to stand from a chair. He showed a sincere interest in my life and offered his church to me if I wanted to make it my place of worship. Such kind people...and a nice cup (or three) of tea.
I began my journey back toward my house and reflected on my church experience. I often find it hard to get up on a Sunday morning since it is one of my two mornings where I do not have to leave the comfort of my covers. However, mornings like this are mornings that add life to my body. In such a terminal existence on this earth, we do not have the luxury of reliving any day of our life. Sunday morning on the 18th of January 2004 was a morning that added life to me.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home