OOM: Sunday in Montreal
The phone rings at 9:32 am, and Meg's startled, because no one calls that early on a Sunday morning unless something is wrong.
She's not expecting it to be Brian Reed, who she hasn't heard from since they had a meal that was not quite lunch and not quite dinner on Thursday. But it had been a very nice neither-lunch-nor-dinner, and she'd kind of thought she'd have heard from him before kind-of-early Sunday morning.
"Meg, hi, it's Brian," he says. And, without asking how she -- or her ankle -- is doing, continues, "I thought we could have lunch. I can meet you at noon."
"Um," says Meg, "I'd really like to, but I don't think I'll be back from church by twelve. How about one? Or dinner?"
"Church?"
"Yes."
"You're going to church?"
"Yes," Meg says again. And then, though she feels a little like she's being asked to defend something she shouldn't have to defend, she adds, "I try to go every Sunday."
"Meg, you broke your ankle on Tuesday."
No, thinks the part of Meg's brain that pays close attention to how things are said, you broke my ankle on Tuesday, and the rest of her brain pushes that thought away as a reaction to being tired, and having too much to think about, and too much to do.
"No one could expect you to go," Brian continues. "Blow it off."
And she can't exactly say, Well, yes, I broke my ankle on Tuesday, but then I met an angel on Thursday, and I think that kind of tips the decision in favor of not skipping services. And even if she hadn't . . . "Brian, I'm sorry. I'd really like to go, but I'm not free till one o'clock."
"Yeah, it's just that I already have plans this afternoon. I'm sorry, too. I guess another time."
Meg sits staring at the phone after that call for longer than she means to, and tries to make everything that's happened since she fell on those steps make some kind of sense. And then realizes how late it is, and she does not need to be late to church on top of everything else, and rushes (or at least hobbles as quickly as she can manage) out of her residence hall.
She is late, and she hates being late, hates disrupting the service, hates that there's no way to slip into a church quietly and without drawing attention when you can't quite manage the doors without help. She's distracted and pre-occupied and not feeling exactly prayerful or attentive. She stands and sits and manages to say the responses, but it's all just rote, and she could be reciting the multiplication tables and it would mean as much to her as what she's saying.
She might as well have stayed home, she thinks, and not had that awkward conversation with someone she really does want to like and . . .
"When you compare yourself to other people," the Reverend Peter Webb is saying, from the pulpit, almost done with a sermon Meg hasn't processed a word of until this minute, "when you wish you were other than you are, that is an insult to God. I'm not talking about trying to be a better person, to be the best you that you can be; God wants us to do that. I'm talking about when you want to change the fundamentals, when all you see is what you're lacking, when you focus on how you measure up, or don't, compared to someone else. God made you, perfect and whole and complete. And of all the gifts He gives us, that may be the hardest one He asks us to accept."
In the last row, Meg's gotten very, very still.
"But you have a purpose, we all do," the priest continues, "and God made you the perfect person for your purpose. And your gift may not be grand, but that doesn't make it unimportant. It may be a generous heart, or a good sense of humor, or a capacity for compassion, or a way with words, or an eye for beauty, but it is your gift. From God. To you and no one else. And God calls each and every one of us to use the gifts we have to make his creation a better place. And he tells us, with that call, 'You are my beloved child.' Amen."
Meg misses most of the rest of the service, for all that it's rote and as familiar as her own name. She's still sitting in that pew when the service ends, and the rest of the congregation files out, and the church gradually goes quieter and quieter, the smell of extinguished candles growing fainter, till she's alone with just the watery colors that the stained glasses throws onto the walls around her.
She's still there when Mr. Webb comes back into nave, with his stole over his arm, and stops when he sees her. "It's Meg, right? Did you need some help?" he asks, and indicates her crutches.
"No, I'm . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . . I was thinking about your sermon. I can go if you need to lock up or go home or something."
He smiles at her. "That's always nice to hear," he says. "And you're fine. Take all the time to think you want, Meg. And if you need help with anything," he says, and he does not indicate her crutches this time, "let me know."
She's not expecting it to be Brian Reed, who she hasn't heard from since they had a meal that was not quite lunch and not quite dinner on Thursday. But it had been a very nice neither-lunch-nor-dinner, and she'd kind of thought she'd have heard from him before kind-of-early Sunday morning.
"Meg, hi, it's Brian," he says. And, without asking how she -- or her ankle -- is doing, continues, "I thought we could have lunch. I can meet you at noon."
"Um," says Meg, "I'd really like to, but I don't think I'll be back from church by twelve. How about one? Or dinner?"
"Church?"
"Yes."
"You're going to church?"
"Yes," Meg says again. And then, though she feels a little like she's being asked to defend something she shouldn't have to defend, she adds, "I try to go every Sunday."
"Meg, you broke your ankle on Tuesday."
No, thinks the part of Meg's brain that pays close attention to how things are said, you broke my ankle on Tuesday, and the rest of her brain pushes that thought away as a reaction to being tired, and having too much to think about, and too much to do.
"No one could expect you to go," Brian continues. "Blow it off."
And she can't exactly say, Well, yes, I broke my ankle on Tuesday, but then I met an angel on Thursday, and I think that kind of tips the decision in favor of not skipping services. And even if she hadn't . . . "Brian, I'm sorry. I'd really like to go, but I'm not free till one o'clock."
"Yeah, it's just that I already have plans this afternoon. I'm sorry, too. I guess another time."
Meg sits staring at the phone after that call for longer than she means to, and tries to make everything that's happened since she fell on those steps make some kind of sense. And then realizes how late it is, and she does not need to be late to church on top of everything else, and rushes (or at least hobbles as quickly as she can manage) out of her residence hall.
She is late, and she hates being late, hates disrupting the service, hates that there's no way to slip into a church quietly and without drawing attention when you can't quite manage the doors without help. She's distracted and pre-occupied and not feeling exactly prayerful or attentive. She stands and sits and manages to say the responses, but it's all just rote, and she could be reciting the multiplication tables and it would mean as much to her as what she's saying.
She might as well have stayed home, she thinks, and not had that awkward conversation with someone she really does want to like and . . .
"When you compare yourself to other people," the Reverend Peter Webb is saying, from the pulpit, almost done with a sermon Meg hasn't processed a word of until this minute, "when you wish you were other than you are, that is an insult to God. I'm not talking about trying to be a better person, to be the best you that you can be; God wants us to do that. I'm talking about when you want to change the fundamentals, when all you see is what you're lacking, when you focus on how you measure up, or don't, compared to someone else. God made you, perfect and whole and complete. And of all the gifts He gives us, that may be the hardest one He asks us to accept."
In the last row, Meg's gotten very, very still.
"But you have a purpose, we all do," the priest continues, "and God made you the perfect person for your purpose. And your gift may not be grand, but that doesn't make it unimportant. It may be a generous heart, or a good sense of humor, or a capacity for compassion, or a way with words, or an eye for beauty, but it is your gift. From God. To you and no one else. And God calls each and every one of us to use the gifts we have to make his creation a better place. And he tells us, with that call, 'You are my beloved child.' Amen."
Meg misses most of the rest of the service, for all that it's rote and as familiar as her own name. She's still sitting in that pew when the service ends, and the rest of the congregation files out, and the church gradually goes quieter and quieter, the smell of extinguished candles growing fainter, till she's alone with just the watery colors that the stained glasses throws onto the walls around her.
She's still there when Mr. Webb comes back into nave, with his stole over his arm, and stops when he sees her. "It's Meg, right? Did you need some help?" he asks, and indicates her crutches.
"No, I'm . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . . I was thinking about your sermon. I can go if you need to lock up or go home or something."
He smiles at her. "That's always nice to hear," he says. "And you're fine. Take all the time to think you want, Meg. And if you need help with anything," he says, and he does not indicate her crutches this time, "let me know."