chapter twenty-one
FOR ONE TO HEAR HER
LITTLE TRINITY IS a long way south, on top of which she’s not a morning person, but twelve days after the Retreat, she feels the urge to seek out a church. She wanders around one hazy Sunday morning and finds one. She enters with trepidation, wondering what sort of people inhabit the brick walls and windows so colourful you can’t see through them. People are laughing and chatting when she enters. She had thought the church was dying, no one was going. Not this one. Someone hands her a piece of folded paper and welcomes her to the church with a smile. But when she opens her mouth to reply, they’re already handing that piece of paper to the next person behind her. Feeling foolish, she wanders further in.
She finds a spot in a pew near the back and waits for the service to begin. Gradually, her skin tickles with the sense of a warm presence beside her, but there’s no human there. As she ponders this, a voice booms from the front, and she stands up with the others who begin to sing to the sound of a flute. The words mean nothing until they sing
… love of every love the best!
’Tis an ocean full of blessing, ’tis a haven giving rest!
Her throat catches. This is not a stuffy song, a meaningless hymn that she thought only non-thinking people sang.
She sits down when they all do, and into her sightline appears the Anglican minister in charge, a man in a white robe draped over a black one. That is familiar, but then another minister stands up to give the announcements, and she’s a woman. Intriguing. This woman minister holds up the paper and calls it a bulletin. She studies it during the announcements, which mean nothing to her. Soon the male minister is intoning words. They’re familiar yet foreign; the standing and sitting in tune to them, strange. Yet she belongs here. She’s still in those black mountains of her vision, but she’s no longer afraid.
As the music processes the ministers down the aisle and toward her at the end of the service, she wonders if this place is for her. The words of big-shot atheists and friends who mock organized religion don’t apply here, but then neither do the words of big-shot television evangelists and people she’s run across who talk about Christ in a way that’s over-eager and irritatingly squeaky clean. In this moment, it’s just herself and her need. Her need for what though, she’s not sure.
She stands up and shuffles out of the pew. She stands uncertainly among the crowd.
“Hello.”
She turns and sees a woman smiling at her. Her name tag reads “Asha.” A Zoroastrian name, like hers. How —
“Are you new here?”
“Yes.”
“Is this your first time going to church?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“It must seem overwhelming to you, we have such different customs here from the world.”
“Yes,” she replies.
“If you’re interested in staying, you’ll get used to our rituals. We hope you will stay, and we welcome our newcomers to join one of our small groups. We find they humanize the church for people who aren’t familiar with it, as well as being a trusted place to explore who Jesus is and what the Bible has to say.”
“Oh,” she thinks a bit about that. “That sounds, um, interesting. How do you, how do you join a group?”
“Well, there’s the one I go to. It’s in the afternoons. It’s a bunch of old-timers, but we’d love to have you join us. We meet for about an hour and a half for chit chat and snacks and, of course, Bible study. We like to open with singing; though truth be told, none of us can sing! Except the assistant Pastor who leads us. Now she has a beautiful voice. After a couple of songs, we read and discuss the word. This year we’re studying Job.”
“Job?”
“The Book of Job. A lot of people don’t like it because they think it’s so depressing. They think it’s chapters and chapters of Job moaning. But it’s not. You see God and Satan make a bet about Job, and God lets Satan do all sorts of things to poor Job. But Job, well, it’s amazing what he does in response.”
“What does he do?”
“Why don’t you come and join us to find out? We’ve only just started reading Job. I think you’ll enjoy exploring his story, and as I said, we’re a fun group.”
“Oh, um …,” she’s intrigued. This book sounds sort of like her story. But Bible study? What would Grandmother say if she found out?
“If that sounds too intimidating —”
“Yes, but … It sounds … no, it sounds perfect. How do I s-s-sign up?”
“Oh, you don’t need to sign up. You just come here. To the church. We meet here. I’ll write down the day and time. You enter by that door over there.” She rummages through her purse and mutters, “Now, where is a pen when you need one. Ah, here it is,” she pulls a blue Bic triumphantly out of her purse. She writes on the back of the bulletin. “I’ll draw where the entrance door is on the bulletin. If you’re late, don’t worry about it. A few of our members are chronically late.”
“How much is it?”
Asha looks up, pen poised. “How much?” She laughs, “Oh my dear, no, it’s free. It’s the church’s service to you, to all those who want to come.”
“Oh.” Free. When was the last good thing free and easy to get into? She takes the paper, no, the bulletin she reminds herself, that the woman hands her, says good-bye, and wanders out into the splattered sunshine.
She strolls around the bare sidewalks under darkening clouds, not interested in window shopping, yet not wanting to go home. Grandmother had agreed to take her paint shopping and to cover the costs. The painter had started on Friday. Already her purple living room has been transformed into the colour of fresh cream floating on milk just out of the cow. Seeing that transformation lightened the weight off her shoulders. Yet she hates the disruption, the moving of furniture, the taking down of the few photographs Jim had left on the walls. Having stuff where it’s not supposed to be disturbs her. So being outside, even if it is cloudy and threatening snow or rain or whatever the weather feels like dumping on them, is pleasant.
Her stomach rumbles. Her hands become cold, and she stuffs them into her coat pockets. She aims her feet for home, where Smokey enthusiastically greets her. With cat trotting at her feet, she heads to the fridge to look for food. Left-over soup. That will do. She heats it up in the microwave and carefully carries it over to the table. Slurping it up, she feels the heat spread down. Unfortunately, it makes her too hot. She gets up and runs cold water and drinks it thirstily.
Satiated, she wanders through her home, finally remembering to look at her Palm. She is scheduled to declutter another part of her home — the desk maybe? — but instead finds herself down in the basement, rummaging through one of many cardboard boxes she’d brought from Grandmother’s and never unpacked. She pulls out her parents’ old Bible. She brushes the dust off its curled cover with her hand, carries it upstairs, picks up a folded piece of blank printer paper to cover off the text, and is about to park herself on the couch when she sees that it’s still covered, the painting not yet done. She heads for the front sun room, but Smokey has the one and only chair. She nudges her. “Meower” comes from deep inside the curled furry body. She tries to pick her up, but the cat has turned herself into lead. She nudges her again. Smokey curls tighter.
Finally, she yells, “Smokey!” The cat looks up at her, grumbles, and tucks her nose back in. This is impossible. The dark cloud of irritation sinks in; fury emerges to join it. She fights them both, tensing her arms against them. She pushes her hand underneath Smokey and endeavours to lift her. Smokey uncurls abruptly and with a squawk, leaps off the chair.
Satisfied, she sits down, all irritation and fury gone. She’s back in neutral. Smokey lands heavily on her lap and in two seconds is curled up and asleep, a very warm, soft lap blanket.
Trying not to bonk the cat, she opens the Bible. It all looks so unfamiliar. Job, Job, where is Job? She wonders how to spell it. There are so many pages in this version from the 1970s. She flips to a page that lists many
names; they must be the book names in the Bible, for they also have numbers next to them, page numbers it looks like. This book is big. For a moment, she wonders if she can read this tome. But she continues to scan the page, and her eyes land on the word “Job.” So that’s how you spell it. Rather ironic. Job job, a job to be Job. She goes back and forth on the two different pronunciations. She smiles briefly and turns the thin pages until she gets to Job. Settling further into the chair, she inserts the folded piece of paper to cover off the text at the bottom of the page and begins to read, to become interested, to become confused, to become angry, and to know this is the book meant for her.
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