Reflection

by Diane Chamberlain

  He was jotting notes in the margin of the sermon when his gaze fell upon the green flyer stuck in the corner of his blotter. He held it into the light from the window. It was an announcement of the September sixth hearing, and he knew it had been designed by one of the teenagers in the youth group, Donna Garry, who must have left it on his desk the night before. She'd done a good job, adding a border of trees around the information to remind the reader exactly what would be lost if the land were developed.

  He hoped Donna would be in the Reflection Day ceremony this year. It was the Mennonite church's turn to plan the program, and he'd volunteered to take responsibility for it. He had an ulterior motive in doing so, but as the day neared, he realized he might have made a mistake in taking it on. There was little more than a month left until Reflection Day, and he hadn't even met with the kids yet. The thought made him groan out loud. He was not looking forward to putting together a program for an event he detested—the forced remembrance of an ancient tragedy. For Rachel's sake, he hoped she would be gone by then.

  There was a terrible snag in Reflection's makeup, he thought. A fatal flaw. The town simply couldn’t let go of the past. He knew people who couldn’t drive by Spring Willow Elementary without remembering. He knew people who still heard the sobbing, the keening that had filled the school yard that long-ago September morning.

  One of the kids in the youth group had asked him if he knew Rachel. Her mother had said she'd seen Rachel in town, "walking around like she belongs here."

  "She does belong here," he'd replied. "This is her hometown, just like it's yours."

  "Most people really don't want her here, though," the girl had said.

  I do, he'd thought. People had blown Rachel's role in what happened way out of proportion, he told the girl. Although he'd always wondered about that himself. If he'd had a child in Rachel's classroom that day, he wasn't certain he could have forgiven her, either. When Jason was in the second grade, he'd thought about it almost daily. What would it be like to send your child off to school in the morning and never be able to see him or touch him again? Would he hold the teacher responsible? Yes, he probably would.

  He gave up on the sermon, setting it aside as he turned his chair to face the windows. He could see the pond, and he laughed out loud at the sudden memory of Rachel, Luke, and himself dragging a big old crate to the water's edge, hopping inside, and setting sail, only to have the crate break apart when they'd reached the pond's center.

  So many memories. Having Rachel in town brought them all to the surface. Yet there was one memory he didn’t like; it had haunted him most of his life and now seemed to leap up at him when he least expected it. Why was it that all other pain seemed reduced by the years, but the pain of humiliation could make you wince long after its occurrence?

  He'd only been thirteen at the time, and somehow the basketball coach had talked him into playing with the school team that season. He was no athlete and everyone knew it. He was the only kid on the team who wore glasses guards.

  He was playing in a game late in the season when, during the last tense moments of a tied score, he managed to make a beautiful basket—for the other team. No one would talk to him in the locker room afterward, and the only conversation directed toward him at the after-game party was in the form of taunts.

  The party was held at one of the player's houses, a beautiful ranch-style home with an indoor swimming pool. Everyone went swimming, and two of his teammates tackled him in the pool, leaving him trunkless. There was no way he could get out of the pool in that condition, but no one seemed to care.

  Katy was there. Twelve years old, new to public school after years in Mennonite classrooms, and every bit as gawky as he was. She was trying hard to fit in with the popular crowd, even smoking a couple of cigarettes that night. She had been nice to him during the previous few months, and so when she walked past him on the side of the pool, he asked her if she would get him a towel. She glanced in his direction, a haughty look of scorn on her face, and turned her back on him to talk with another boy.

  It was Rachel who eventually rescued him. She'd been in another part of the house, and when she finally entered the pool room and discovered what had happened, she quietly brought him a towel. Later he overheard her calling the two boys who had taken his trunks "inconsiderate, weasel-brained pigs."

  He and Katy had never talked about that day. Probably she’d forgotten about it. After all, it had not been her humiliation. And he had forgiven her. He preached forgiveness; he'd had to learn to live it as well.

  But forgetting was harder, and there were still times when he would look at his wife and remember the expression on her face that day when she turned her back on him.

  * * *

  With three churches so close together, parking was a problem. Rachel found a place on the side street by the bakery and walked the two blocks to the Mennonite church. She set a quick pace, trying to mask her anxiety. There were other people on the street, and she was certain they were eyeing her.

  She felt like a fake, as if everyone could tell that she was not a regular churchgoer. She attended Unitarian services once in a while, but church was certainly not a large part of her life. She remembered Michael talking about how much prayer meant to him. She'd prayed when Phil was sick, although she wasn’t certain to whom or what. But the praying itself was a comfort. It was something to do, giving her some control in a situation where she had very little. She couldn’t say, though, that she possessed faith. She envied the solace Michael had found in his faith after Luke and the children died.

  She had almost reached the front door of the church when she heard someone call her name, and she turned to see Lily Jackson walking toward her. Next to her was a tall, slender man, his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Lily's magician husband, no doubt.

  "Hi, Lily," she said, relieved to find a familiar, welcoming face. People definitely had their eyes on her, either because she was a stranger to the church or because they recognized her. It didn't matter. Lily was obviously taking her under her wing.

  "Come sit with us," Lily said.

  "I'd like that. Thank you."

  "This is my husband, Ian. Ian, Rachel."

  "Ah, the lady with the boxer!" Ian grinned at her, and she grinned back, liking him immediately.

  "That's right." She shook his hand.

  "That's the way Lily identifies people," he said. "You could have told her you won a Pulitzer or were a mud wrestler or met your husband on top of Pike's Peak, and all she'd remember is what kind of dog you have."

  Lily gave him a mock roll of her eyes and took Rachel's arm. "Have you been to a Mennonite service before?" she asked, walking with her through the open doorway.

  Rachel shook her head and lowered her voice to a whisper. "My first time," she said.

  They found seats in a pew about halfway to the front, and Lily sat between Rachel and Ian. Rachel glanced at the program one of the ushers had given her. Lots of hymns, a few committee reports, and then the sermon, to be delivered by "Michael."

  She whispered to Lily. "Just 'Michael'? No 'Reverend'? No last name?"

  Lily smiled. "No reverends here," she said. "This is probably going to be less formal than you're used to."

  It was. Less formal even than a Unitarian service, with its chalice lighting and subtle rituals. The church itself, with its white walls and dark beams, was quite plain. There were no icons or adornments, no stained glass. The service began with several hymns, all sung a capella. None of them were familiar, but she muddled through them anyway, aware of Lily's high, clear voice next to her. After the singing, a tall, dark-haired woman took the microphone and talked a little about Rwanda.

  "Celine Humphrey," Lily whispered to her. "She's one of the elders."

  Rachel thought she remembered Michael mentioning the woman's name. The Mennonite Central Committee was planning to send supplies and volunteers to the refugee camps, Celine said. She asked people to put together layettes and health kits a
nd to gather old blankets and clothing.

  When Celine had finished speaking, a man dressed in khaki pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt spoke at length about the Peace Tax Fund. Then a teenage girl took the microphone and talked about her youth group's trip to Bolivia. While the girl was talking, Rachel noticed Michael sitting in a chair a short distance from the pulpit. How long had he been there? She couldn’t see him clearly from where she sat, but it looked as if he was wearing a shirt and jacket. No tie. Certainly no clerical robes.

  He suddenly laughed along with the congregation at something the girl said, and Rachel tried to return her concentration to the service, but it was difficult. She had not told him she'd be here, and she wasn't sure if her presence would please him or not.

  There was another set of hymns, after which Celine Humphrey read from the Bible. Finally, Michael rose from his seat and stepped up to the pulpit.

  "No robes?" she whispered to Lily.

  Lily smiled. "Uh-uh."

  "Just one of the guys, huh?"

  "You got it."

  But he was not just one of the guys, and that was quickly apparent. He began by telling a story, and she recalled the last time she'd heard that deft, open, engaging quality in his voice, that quiet dynamism. It was the same voice he'd used to deliver his conscientious-objector speech on the steps of Town Hall. He would never shake the rafters with that voice, but he didn't need to. It was the only sound in the church.

  He was talking about communication, and he told a parable of a young man who bought a suit for his wedding, discovering only the night before the ceremony that the pants legs were three inches too long. Heartsick, he realized he had no choice but to wear the pants legs rolled up at his wedding, and he went to bed discouraged. His grandmother couldn't sleep, thinking of her grandson's dilemma, and in the middle of the night she got up, cut three inches from the pants, and hemmed them. His mother, equally concerned, got up an hour later to do the same thing, and shortly before dawn, his sister did likewise.

  Michael drew the story out, working his audience like a master comedian. Lily giggled, and Rachel could see smiles on the faces around her as Michael finished his tale.

  "A little communication would have saved the groom a wealth of embarrassment," he said. And then he immediately dove into another story, and this one Rachel knew well.

  "When I was twenty-two years old and working in Rwanda, I was excited about learning Kinyarwanda, the language spoken in the village where I was teaching. I thought I was doing pretty well with it. I was even dreaming in Kinyarwanda. But sometimes words alone aren't enough for meaningful communication.

  Rachel knew what he was going to say and she didn't want to hear it. She tightened her grip on the program in her lap.

  "One night, very late, a man I'd never seen before came to my home. He said to me in Kinyarwanda, 'You have a car. You can take me to Kilgari. I need to go there.' Kilgari was the nearest large town, quite a distance away."

  It was three hours away, Michael. Tell them it was three hours away.

  "I did have a car," Michael continued. "A very beat-up old Jeep I'd bought for fifty dollars. I had no desire to drive this stranger into town in the dead of night. I told him he'd have to wait a few days until I made a trip into town. Then he could come with me. I loved being able to say all that in Kinyarwanda, and I began talking to him about other things. The village, the children. I kept on talking, playing with my new language, my new toy. I would have said I was communicating quite beautifully in this man's native tongue, and I was feeling very smug about it. But I didn't understand the culture yet. I didn't realize that these people were too polite to interrupt me, and I went on for about an hour and a half, until finally a friend came over."

  Rachel bit her lip. She had been that friend.

  "I loved an audience then as much as I do now, and I continued my one-sided conversation with the gentleman who wanted to go to Kilgari. Finally, my friend noticed something I had missed. She said to me in English, 'Something is very wrong here. Look at his eyes.' I looked at the man's eyes then and saw what she had seen. There was a tear in the corner of his eye. Suddenly, I could see everything. He was bursting with grief and anxiety. It had been there all along, but I was too busy talking to listen to the signals he was giving me. And I asked him, 'What is it? Why are you unhappy?' And then he told me. 'My wife is dying,' he said, 'I brought her here. She's behind your house. I need to get her to the clinic in Kilgari, but you won't take me. You just want to talk.' 'Why didn't you tell me?' I asked, but I knew he had been trying to tell me all along. I was hearing him, but I wasn't truly listening."

  He went on to describe the terrible middle-of-the-black-night trip to the clinic and the woman's brush with death. And then, suddenly, he was talking about the Bible. Reading it was not enough, he said. Unless you really listened to Scripture, you would not be able to understand it. He continued, talking about communication with God, but Rachel couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. She was still in Rwanda, sitting in the back of his Jeep, surrounded by three people in anguish: the feverish woman whose head she held on her lap, the husband awash with his feelings of helplessness, and Michael, quietly blaming himself for the woman's deteriorating condition.

  When Michael had finished, he took his seat again and another hymn was sung.

  Then Lily whispered to her. "They're going to pass the microphone now, and people will get up and talk about something good—or bad—that's happening in their lives. It's also the time that new people can introduce themselves."

  Rachel widened her eyes at her. She wanted to ask, "Do I have to?" but Lily had already turned her head away.

  A woman near them stood up and accepted the microphone from the usher.

  "I wanted to thank everyone for their support last week after Patricia's accident." Heads nodded, and the woman continued. "She's doing real well now and the doctor says she'll be home sometime this week."

  The woman sat down again, and the microphone was passed to two more people while Rachel fretted over what to do. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. You did nothing wrong she thought. Stop acting as if you did.

  She stood up. The usher walked toward her pew and handed her the microphone.

  "I'm Rachel Huber," she said, and she caught sight of Michael's look of surprise, followed by his smile. "I'm visiting your church today, and I've enjoyed being here very much."

  She sat down again, trying not to read anything into the silence as the microphone was passed to a man on the other side of the aisle.

  * * *

  In front of the church after the service, she parted from Lily and Ian and approached Michael, who was standing by the front door, greeting his parishioners. He reached his hand toward her, and she shook it.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he asked.

  "Didn't know until I got up this morning. It was impulsive. You were wonderful," she said. "So human. Nothing like the ministers I've known in my life."

  She realized she was still holding his hand, and she let go.

  "And you had guts introducing yourself like that. I'm glad to see you haven't lost your pride." He waved to someone standing behind her. "I want you to meet Celine," he said.

  The dark-haired woman walked up to them, accompanied by a much older man.

  "These are two of the church elders," Michael said. "Celine Humphrey and Lewis Klock. Lewis and Celine, this is Rachel Huber."

  "Hello." Rachel shook their hands. The eyes of the gray-haired man were kind and affable. She remembered his name from her conversation with Michael in the park. He was the elder who had influenced him to become a minister.

  "Rachel and I were in Rwanda together," Michael said.

  "Oh, yes." Celine appraised her. Her eyes were as cool as Lewis's were warm. "Michael mentioned you might want to help us when we get rolling with the supplies?"

  "Yes, I would."

  "Well, give me a call in a couple of weeks. We should have some work fo
r you then, if you're still interested."

  "Thanks. I'd like that." Rachel wondered if Celine treated everyone with that air of indifference or if her coolness was intended for her alone.

  A few other people began approaching Michael, reaching out to shake his hand, and she thought she'd better leave.

  "I need to get back to Gram," she told him. "See you tonight?"

  "Around six." He flashed her a quick smile as he reached for the hand of one of his parishioners, and as Rachel turned away, she couldn’t miss the raised eyebrows, the look of curiosity, on Celine Humphrey's face.

  * * *

  By the time Michael brought his purple-and-teal bicycle over to Gram's, Rachel was dressed in her serious bike shorts and ready for a ride. They left Gram contentedly reading in the library and rode down Winter Hill and out into the countryside. They kept to the back roads, where farmland surrounded them and the hum of their tires and the buzz of cicadas were the only sounds.

  They were well matched, Rachel thought. Michael was in the lead, and their pace was smooth and steady. After an hour, they stopped at a shaded picnic table along the side of the road and unpacked their food.

  Michael had brought along a loaf of potato bread made by someone from his church and a wedge of cheese; she'd brought peaches and bottled water. After taking the food from his knapsack, Michael pulled out a camera and handed it to her. "Better take some pictures before it gets too dark," he said. "We can develop them in the high school darkroom in a few days."

  She took the camera from him and stood on top of the picnic table, snapping the shutter at silos and barns, cows in a pasture, a lone, twisted oak in the field nearby. Michael offered advice on composition, and she tried to hold his words in her memory so she would be able to pass them along to her students.