novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- that is how it is always done when we are small I am visiting my parents. When I'm here in time for it, my mom always asks me to go to church with her. But only if John Martin or The Rev are giving the sermon at the little Puritan church. John Martin was the optimistic, idealistic, societal pastor who took over for The Rev once he retired about fifteen years ago. Both are warm, fatherly men. John Martin has a perpetual boy's face, all round, soft edges, and sparkling eyes. He gets very excited when you talk about books, theories (especially theories, and especially realizations) or movies that he loves, and then he bonds with you. I think this was the first lesson I learned in the art of Broing Down, one of my favorite pastimes. But I'll explain that later. One day, when we least expect it. The Rev lived next door to me when I was growing up. He moved when his second wife Heather died of cancer; I was around twelve. It felt, in a way, like I was losing a grandfather. (I'm going to repeat myself a little from the post I linked to above, but only a little:) When we were small, my brother and I were the only kids for blocks. We were surrounded by empty nests, by gray hair and kitchens that echoed with the ghosts of small footsteps long grown up into adult arches that stepped out of the picture. All right, there were a few scattered teenagers, but they were surly and rarely around. My brother and I had the run of the collective backyards, and sometimes of kitchens, living rooms. The Rev lived right next door, our backyards butting up against each other, so his was the house hit hardest by our early wanderlust. I would visit him constantly, especially before I started elementary school. He'd let me sit in his living room and play the piano for hours while he puttered in the kitchen or in his office. I didn't actually know how to play the piano, but I'd pretend that the different notes were people talking together, and I'd make the keyboard have conversations. I liked how I could make the people sound as if they were speaking from any emotion. Such an emotional discourse. He was a patient man. He was also my track coach when I was nine. So yesterday, Mom looks at the church newsletter and shakes her head. "We don't know the guy who is giving the sermon. I only like to go if it's John Martin or The Rev. "But last week? Last week I went. The Rev gave the sermon. (already in my head are my little fingers plunking down deep, melancholic notes, countered by higher, faster, hopeful notes) "You know how the service goes. The choir sings, they pass the collection baskets, and then we sing the benediction. The collectors hand the baskets over to The Rev and he says the offering. "Well, we sang the benediction. The collectors handed the baskets over to The Rev. He turned around, faced the cross, and was about to say the offering, but he just stopped. The entire congregation paused, and I could just hear foreheads wrinkling. "He turned around, looked at the baskets in his hands and shook his head. 'This is wrong,' he said. 'We haven't sung the benediction.' "One of the collectors gently corrected him: 'Yes, we have. We just sang it.' "But he shook his head. 'No, we haven't. We have to sing the benediction before I give the offering. That is how it is always done.'" My mom looks at me, and although there's a little smile on her face, her eyes are sad. "And we were all stunned, and everybody just stared at him for a moment. Then we stood up and sang the benediction, and he turned and gave the offering." This year I am actually going to learn how to play the piano. 11:44 pm - 03.10.08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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