Sing Loud at Mater Dei

Singing LOUD at Mater Dei

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Religion & Spiritual Books Church Catholic

My Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday 09

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Short Stories Creative Writing patty beecham easter sunday

My Easter Alleluia 2009- Chris Jackson

I stirred blearily on Easter morning to a remote buzz. Thinking slowly, thick headed. Huh. … uh, phone. In a blurr I locate my glasses -. right where I need them. God is good I recall to myself. With morning eyes, even with the help of the bed lamp, it’s so hard to read! ‘Happy Easter.’ Sandy, my beautiful boy; in Noosa for the weekend, is the first to call. I smile; content, and text back with kisses…and my Easter signature: ‘Alleluia.’’ Repeat text to his siblings in Uk and Sydney... no immediate response.

I’m content if we keep in contact! It’s deliciously early enough for a sleep in and still time to wash my hair and get to church by 9.10am. I’m to do the second reading and need time to reflect and prepare. Want to get the emphasis right.

Light rain is pattering. What a beautiful start to Easter…and we’re not camping!! Cuppa; read the paper; little nod off and then, enough indulgence. Bounce out of bed. Ron asks if I’m ok if he goes earlier. He has to sing and wants to go over the psalm. He is also helping with the morning tea, filling in for someone away for the hols. I smile and admire his ownership of the morning tea roster. He’s a doer, that man.

I’m out the door, ready for the day. My heart feels light and I’m excited. After the sadness reflecting on Good Friday, I really feel the joy of Easter Sunday, like a rising bubble. I am half expecting my friend Patty B. but will completely understand if she can’t make it. I just love it that my dear Anglican friend wants to come to my worshipping catholic community.

We have been to church together on our road trip and shared conversations of faith and the spirit and goodness of Jesus and the much maligned Mary, his mother. She’s the daughter of an Anglican Priest and no one does candles like Patty!!

I am welcomed by the meeters and greeters. Warm smiles and Happy Easters abound. You see, there is something special about today. My friend Lorraine asks if I would be a special minister.

“Love to, but I’m reading.”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be others to ask” she reassures.

I make my way to the sacristy where Richard and Mauve are discussing the readings.

“I‘m here for David.” The wide eyed response tells me this is news to them.
“David said he couldn’t read and that’s why were here.”

Back off. They have it all in hand.

“That’s good,” I respond, “because I might be needed as a special minister”. I tell Lorraine I’m right to assist.

I’m a little early and scan the crowd for my friend PB. She is always early. If she’s not here now, she probably won’t be coming. Momentarily drop lip but that’s ok.

Ron is busy ‘talking choir’ to the team. I see my friends A& L, and feel drawn to sit with them. We were at their wedding last night.

“Congratulations again.”

Kisses. Hugs. “Happy Easter.” Look along the pew to see Margaret and her husband, L’s half brother , a Pentecostal minister, who married them last night, in the presence of his birth mother, L’s 82 year old mother. He met for the first time only weeks ago. But that’s another story. It is also one of the reason’s I feel so happy, I muse.

Happy Easter. Big smiles.

Mass begins to Thea’s announcement, “This mass is our Alleluia.”

Yes, that’s my Easter theme. All is in sync and that inner bubble rises. I crane my neck looking for my friend PB. I sing loud... So happy. Feel slightly sorry for Peter in front of me, but I don’t change the volume. I take in the mixture of the crowd. Children, oldies, families with teenagers. Many have come out today. Lots of familiar faces and also many new to me. We have tried to squash together to fit everyone inside but many are outside and I’m glad the sound system carries to them.

Every word seems so significant.

The readers hold my attention. I wonder if my friend is here to witness my cherished community swelled for the Easter celebration of new life. I am also wondering why an overhead light is swinging so widely. Is that safe?

My friend Lorraine turns and says, “Carol has turned up we don’t need you.”

“OK” I say. Happy to be the relief. I sing the Alleluia even louder.

Mass continues. The effervescent Deacon Gary fires up. That man is never down. I love his love of life and spirit of enthusiasm. Looking for my friend...

“Oh stop it,” I say to myself, “concentrate on the Mass.”

Father Neil’s rich voice penetrates the morning. My goodness his ‘prayer to the minute’ count must be record cracking.

Anne leaves her seat to assist with the presentation of the gifts.

“Can you come and give me a hand?” she says. “I might need you.”

Head down, I turn to follow dutifully. “No, don’t need you.” Lindsay has picked up on the number of rejections and says, “Can you cope with all this rejection?”

“I’m happy to be the back-stop girl” I smile.

Peace be with you arrives and I turn with purpose to greet. And the people part to reveal my friend Patty Beecham, with her wink of reassurance.

“Peace be with you”. As I fall to my knees ready for communion Lorraine beckons me.

“We need you.” She points,. “Five 5 Chalices today- big crowd,”

“Fine.” I rise immediately. Head for the alter. Bow. Ascend. Wash hands. I know I don’t have to but it feels right for me.

“Lamb of God”. I look up directly in to the distant face of my friend PB. She nods and beams and for some reason I feel more than words can tell. Maybe it is as simple as our shared sense that God is good.

I share the precious blood from the Chalice that contains the precious stones donated by many women in the parish, and I’m pleased I know that. There is a strong bond to our past that binds our people today. I am delighted to share this with my friend when she appears in front of me. To serve is a joy.

I return to sit with my friend for the final hymn.

‘This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be Glad.’

And I am. We sing loud. Together.

Back in the kitchen, I help Ron and the team with morning tea. And Patty takes photos, of course.

“Happy Easter.” And I hum Alleluia, (the nuns chorus from the Sound of Music).

God is good! Again!!

Easter Sunday '09

It’s 6am Easter Sunday morning, and I am waking slowly from deep sleep to the cat kneading my pillow. It’s raining. So this is how it starts; gently at first, with gloves, until the Halleluiahs begin.

I lie snuggled in under my doona with my eyes still closed, and visualise the church, visualise my singing and how it will unfold. I always think this is why I am so tired; everything has to be played out in my mind first, and then for real, ha.

My husband cooks us an early breakfast and I in turn cook our youngest son his own breakfast before he goes to work; fried eggs with rocket, mushrooms and tomato. Taking the plate from me, he walks into the lounge room to eat it by himself. Then I am driving through the soft rain to my first port-of-call, St Barnabas at Red Hill.

After this service I hope to join my friend CJ for her church service in Ashgrove.

It’s going to be a busy day. Arriving at my Anglican church, I am expecting a packed service, but there are -if anything- even fewer parishioners than normal.

Old John, my pew friend- is missing.

Fr Tom rushes in before the Service begins, all handshakes and cheek kisses to his flock, and they warmly greet him with cries of Happy Easter Father Tom; and I also twinkle him with my fingers to say hello, but make no move to come closer, I am happy where I am.

The organist, her hair still pony-tailed up, recognises me, and we greet each other with a grin. I can see lots of hymns which I know, and as she softly rehearses each one, to my delight I find that I know most of them. Whew, I do want a good sing today.

Fr Tom comes over to say hello, and introduces me to another woman about my age, in fact she tells me, it was her 46th birthday yesterday. Her name is Wendy, and we chat for a while before the Service begins. Behind me is another couple, the man I instantly recognise, but from where? We remember that our children both attended Milton State School together about 10 years ago, and very slowly my mind clears and I remember he also took over from me as P&C President. In fact, I recall, my oldest son was school buddy to their young son, and we happily reconnect and chat about old times.

The first hymn begins to the tune of ‘Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all?’ and I stifle the urge to burst out laughing, oh dear, it’s going to be a long Service at this rate.

SING LOUD!

I totally nail a few halleluiahs!

Soon we are into the swing of things, and my new friend Wendy and I catch eyes and grin at each other across the aisle.

Old John finally shuffles in, very late, and he smiles and says “Happy Easter Patty”. I am thrilled he remembered my name, and relieved he is here. Safe.
The ritual unfolds: the calls and responses, pages flipping from 129 to 147 and back again. The chosen psalm today has the line “This is the day the Lord has given us, let us rejoice and be glad.”

It was dad’s favourite saying, and he said it most days. I glance at my watch occasionally, I am going to be late at this rate if we don’t get a hurry-up, and I can imagine my friend CJ turning around in her church waiting for me to arrive. Thoughts of leaving early begin, but I push them aside, I can’t: my loyalty is here first. Then it’s Communion, and returning back to my pew, Frank holds out a cane basket with mini Easter eggs in it. I take one, and unwrap it. The one hour Service goes for one hour and 35 minutes and I bowl out of the door and into my car, with a flurry of smiles and air kisses.

I am on my way driving westwards; to Ashgrove and a Catholic service; to be with my friend. I owe her one Service, as she kept me company in Rockhampton and attended the Anglican Church with me when we did our road trip together.

I wonder what dad would say about going to Church twice in one day (and one of those a Catholic church!) , but I don’t care, I haven’t been to Easter church for years, and I am making up for it today. He would be pleased, and see the humour in it.

Arriving ten minutes late, the Service has begun, but the crowds! They are huge, milling around outside, seated on hastily brought in pews and extra seating. Most of the people still stand, unable to see, or hear what is going on. That’s not for me, I didn’t come to stand in the garden, I want to see, and hear everything, and I will.

I make my way upstairs, pushing gently through the younger crowd.

Looking to my left where the choir sit, looking for CJ’s hubby Ron, (I know he is going to sing today) I spy a woman (dressed in red) I also recognise, and she points to me and indicates to sit beside her. Blankly, I turn around, looking behind me, until I point to myself and question her.

Me? Yes, you, come and sit here.

Grateful, I bunker down beside her, and with the next hymn try to read the small print on the Power Point, a response chorus to Ron’s leading voice. A long white ceiling light – one of twelve -spins in lonely circles. Small children stagger with dummies in their mouths; fathers wander in and out to quietly change nappies, woman fan themselves.

I can see the back of CJ’s hair - she is to my front right - and when the time comes for “Peace be with you” I shake a couple of local hands then surge forward like a ruby player to pump CJ’s hand. She is delighted and we are both so happy to be together, in church.

Why have I started going to church? I honestly don’t know, it’s something that has occurred to me; an awaking, and something that I enjoy doing; for the time being. I love the literature, the music, the memories, the architecture, the company, the tradition, the artworks and the sense of common history “binding us together in his love.”

It could be worse!

It’s now leading up to Communion, and the Priest sounds like a race-caller He says everything in one nasal sentence: “wearetheonebodyforweallpartakeoftheonebread” and without pausing for breath, or effect; he gallops onwards racing towards the best part of the Service. If Fr Tom had spoken this fast, we wouldn’t have been so late, ha.

We gape, Abba-like, to his words.

Do you want forgiveness of your sins? I do.

Have you forgiven others?

I do. I do, I do, I do.

To my delight I can see CJ standing to attend the wine part of the Communion, this is going to be fun, I think, and I motion to my red-bloused friend Robyn that I will take my communion ‘over there’ so CJ can administer to me. I feel very humbled. It’s an odd thing to have two friends do, and I have to think about it for a while, later.

I am almost the last in line, and I cross myself and take my bread from the Priest, and make my way towards CJ. Unlike the Anglicans, where the priest comes to you, in the Catholic Church, it’s up to YOU to go to the various stations of bread and wine. There’s about a teaspoon of wine left in the chalice, and I am very careful not to take too much, just a wetting of the lips, really.

I sip. We grin. Another memory.

I make my way back to the pew, weaving through the crowd.

After Communion, CJ finds me and we sit together for the final hymn. Would you believe it, the same words “This is the day the Lord has given us, let us rejoice and be glad.”

SING LOUD!

Ron turns around from his leading-voice-in-the-choir-position and hisses to me, “Don’t go afterwards, there’s cups of tea downstairs” and I know he will do a fabulous job of the morning tea: he always does; I have not only seen the photos, I have arranged them into Church newsletters for him. His silver camera dangles from his side pockets, ready to use.

Then it’s over, two Services in on morning.

The Catholic service finishes early and we make our way downstairs to see Ron and have a cuppa.

I ask Ron for his camera instead of having a cup of tea, all I can see is coffee, (the pots are still brewing) so I slowly make my way around the huge crowd of parents and kids and babies and laughing robed priests and baskets of Easter eggs and large trays of jam and scones and people hugging and total strangers to me and take images of their Easter Sunday Service.

I am a walking time machine, snap, snap, smile, snap.

Time to go home, and enjoy my lime margaritas.

St John’s Cathedral - Church Bells

So I read in the paper that finally the 12 bells would be peeling this weekend at St John’s Cathedral, and I make a mental note to go and hear them and see them for myself.

Controversy has never been far away with the bells, and the bell tower; famously built then dismantled recently when it was realized - too late- that the bells will soon demolish the newly built bell-tower; with its constant vibrations. Then a woman was trapped for hours with a broken leg after she became entangled in the mess of ropes.

Sheesh, these bells need my support, and they need it now!

Driving into town, all I know is that the first service begins at 7.30am, and I am hoping that the peeling may be at this first service, otherwise it’s a 9.30am service, and we don’t’ want to stick around for that, we have friends coming to Maleny with us to help celebrate St Patrick’s Day.

I wonder if he rang bells? I know I did, dad would drag my out of bed with a grin and say 33 rings! Do it well! And he would be off somewhere, forgotten this or that, or simply preparing in his own way for the Sunday morning rush.

I would stand at the base of the simple, single bell, and pull hard with all my might on the frayed rope. With each pull I would grab the bell rope a little higher, next ring, a little higher still, until my arms were very high along the ropes. As the bell tolled, I would spring into the air, leaping what seemed feet above the ground, and calling to our black cocker spaniel dog Prince, I would encourage him to howl his hardest. With me swinging in mid-air like some child of Tarzan, and Prince sitting, howling and yowling with heart-breaking sadness, we were a sight! Yoooeeeeooww!

Anyway, I am in the city now, parking is in abundance, small groups of people shuffle their way into the Cathedral. My friend CJ is also in the city this morning, celebrating Mass at the Catholic Cathedral a few blocks away, then meeting with her book club over breakfast somewhere. I can’t believe she finds time to read books!

I sit near the front left, I want to be able to hear the sermon and see what’s going on. All the pews are solid cedar and although old and gorgeous; are very uncomfortable to sit in, so the various churches of the dioceses sewed pew cushions, all different and all related to each other in a “story”. I choose to sit on the beach and water story, and my pillow happens to be a flock of seagulls. The old women in front of me are sitting on Australian Wildflowers, to my front-left, a brilliant red Banksia. I feel a twang of regret, I should be sitting there, for my mother, and instead I am squashing seagulls.

Of such is life.

Gazing upwards, I wait, and watch, noting the fine detail of the sandstone interior. How the vaulted ceiling stays up is beyond me; and I reflect that men of math and physics built this building, and women of hunched backs and white hair, fill it with love. In the far left of my vision I can see two black grand pianos, and I hear a fine tenor voice singing and practising the hymns to be sung. A bit late to practise? We all do what we can.

The Service begins with prayers, not a hymn. The processional is made up of various women, and a few men. The priest is wearing a hair mike, to pick up his voice. So is his server, a woman who stands beside him for the entire service. The other woman remains seated almost throughout, sitting like a white-robed statue: so still I have to really stare at her to see if she is still breathing.

Me? I’m a fidgeter, can never sit still, and I cross and uncross my legs and have to keep looking around, taking details in. I mentally cross off being a priest, or at least a white-robed-statue, as a career choice. Finally, a hymn, and we are accompanied by the hidden organ way up high in the loft, not the grand piano. Feebly, we sing, or at least attempt to. SING LOUD I hear dad nudge me, and I raise my voice to what I deem as acceptable, dare I hit a wrong note. Later, the next hymn is familiar, with a few halleluiahs thrown in and so I do my best for that one too, until the organ flourishes on the last verse drown me out, and everyone else who is singing.

I glance around and we look like goldfish gasping for air, I can SEE people singing, I just can’t HEAR anything other than the organist, who is having a field day. Triumphant, sure, noisy, yep, that too. I resist a giggle.

The Peace be with you, and I turn and begin to shake the other ladies hands. Crossing the aisle, I also pump one of the only gentlemen in the congregation, he seems startled. People don’t cross the aisle here? Opps. At St Barnabas in Red Hill, you don’t sit until every hand is shaken, and held. Every hand. It goes on for 10 minutes, but that’s ok, we don’t have any other pressing issues to deal with. What’s ten minutes?

Today I have also been handed a Lent envelope in which I place my lousey $5, but I justify that I also purchased $20 of raffle tickets earlier in the week to win a blue hand-made bedspread that I pray I won’t use. I have 60 tickets! *faints. My nights are now filled with dread. What if I win it? Will it seem rude if I hand it back to be re-drawn? Do I donate it to a hospital? I can only hope my number does not come up.
The service concludes, but not before I have been crossed and blessed and had my Communion.

The best part. Body of Christ. Amen.

Slowly I make my way out of the church, shaking the priests’ hands as they line up to bid me farewell. Pity they didn’t bid me welcome, but that’s another story.

I sit in the car now to fill in 15 minutes, still ever hopeful the bells will ring as I was told, at 8.45am. Idly, I take photos of the clouds reflection in the skyscrapers. Finally, listen!

DING. DONG. DING. DONG.

And that’s it. I wait longer, hoping it’s just a rehearsal, perhaps they too are lining up their dog to howl in unison? Nope. That was it, and I drive back through the suburbs for breakfast.

My dad's work in the church

My dad was a priest in the Anglican church, after 6 years of war on the frontlines, after raising 5 children and living on an aboriginal community (Lockhart River Mission, I named my son after this place, we loved living there despite its tremendous hardships) for 9 years as superintendent; ensuring everyone has clean running water, proper housing, food, education, job training and self empowerment by starting the first aboriginal co-operative in Australia. All stuff Noel Pearson is now trying to implement. Dad did it 50 years ago.

He built a church in 6 weeks, from bush materials. Six weeks! It was a beautiful church, St James. He was still planting banana plants at the front as the Bishop’s boat sailed around the point to consecrate it.
He was aged then around 35, and was very much a can-do man.

He struggled for aboriginal land rights rights for years in Rockhampton. He set up Bolsovler Street, a haven for homeless and travelling aboriginals coming in from Woorabinda, somewhere to rest and refresh, to shower and to eat. It nearly killed him, they wore him out with constant demands. It was what is was. Later, after numerous fights with council, police, neighbours, dad started Milby Farm, another place out of town where brain damaged aboriginals and the homeless could go and grow their own vegetables, and live in peace without fear from others.

He lived in constant criticism of his work, we all did, from people who should have known better but we all believed that what he was doing was good, and right, and we wouldn’t have had it any other way. But it did take its toll on our own family. He went guarantor for peoples cars, many times losing money. “Oh dad!” we would all shout, but in our hearts we knew we were always destined to be poor, to remain poor, as dad would give all our money away. Money? What money, priests don’t earn that much, gees.

No one could fault his passion and commitment though, and I admire him now as an adult and hope some of my energy and enthusiasm comes from him.

He marched in the legal, and the illegal land rights marches during the Commonwealth Games.

He was awarded Queenslander of the Year in 1987 for his work. Later that night, in the men’s toilets, a black tie’d man came and said to him “You shouldn’t have won”. People have no respect or manners.

I understand commitment and struggle. Lived it. Breathed it. Gave our mouldy bread to the sick and homeless at the back door of the Rectory. “But dad,” I would say, “this is all we have to eat ourselves.”

“We will eat tomorrow, “ he would reply, “but they might not.”

Lived it Breathed it.

I understand commitment and passion.

St Mary's – West End.

Sitting on a small hilly rise, in the setting sun and a slow Sunday afternoon, St Mary’s waits for my friend CJ and I to arrive. Outside, agitated flags flap, and people congregate to talk and chatter and exchange news.

There are two dome tents set up either side of the entry. They look expensive. Next to them, t-shirted women lean placard signs against their shins.

FATHER PETER FOR POPE.

They discuss politics of the Church.

Inside, the building is gloomy and dark; people shuffle to find a good seat. CJ wants to sit to the back near the door for coolness, but I want front row. I have come to watch, to witness, and so I shall.

A Church lady – a kind Church lady – brings 2 folding chairs for us to sit on. We are both impressed with her welcoming manner, and sit close to the front, instead of on the ground. I just can’t sit on the floor for extended periods now.

We both have a printed out Service to follow, and so we sit and people-watch until the time has come to start. People continue to flock into the room. Seated behind us are a couple who have travelled down from Toowoomba, they too are Anglican like me.“Anglicans rock!” shouts the man to me, I grin and make the V peace sign to him. Odd thing to say, really, but we are all here to see and witness and support in our own ways.

Older men in various stages of baldness, young toddlers in various stages of behaviour, a small white fairy-bride girl dances around her seated mother, placing a rainbow bracelet on her head like a crown. The mother beams. To my left, another bub, his hair kissed in blonde down. To my right, two young girls looking fashionably un-trendy; there, a boy on the threshold of his teenage angst, skin so smooth is glows in the afternoon sun. He looks interested, alert. I wonder what he will be when he grows up?

Such a selection of humanity sits before us.

I see Fr Peter over to the rear of the Church, speaking to various members of the community. Helen Abrahams is there (I think it’s her anyway) and chats, Sam Watson is there, taking up room of three people in his pew.

I take photos and email them to myself. And then we begin.

Aunty starts the Service with a welcome to country. She appears apprehensive and shy. She welcomes us to her land under the various tribal names. She has trouble remembering them all. Smiling sheepishly, she explains she is nervous. Although it’s a nice touch to be welcomed, I wonder if it’s all necessary, really.

Someone speaks into a mike, and the crowd start clapping madly, I can’t see who is speaking, but the mood is energetic and charged. Fr Peter also welcomes us, but I can’t see him either; everyone is standing; it’s a sea of heads, I can’t see the man I really came to see. We are all asked say hello to the person next to us, expectations are high.

Soon we are into the swing of things, the usual responses, hymns and so on, we stand and sing Alleluia, it’s lovely, I throw my head back and “sing loud” enjoying being in the flow.

We are asked to hold hands. I grab the woman next to me, and we strangers pray together for this and that. Five hundred people breathe in and out as one.

Breathe in.
Out.
As one.

Interestingly, we say the Lords Prayer, the old version, the one I know and love. A radical Church saying the Old version, love it.

Then it’s Communion time, and I crane my head to watch the proceedings. Shocked at what I am seeing, not Fr Peter Kennedy, but some other young bloke wearing a stole and holding the alter bread up high.

“We are the body of Christ, for we all partake in the one bread.”

I nudge CJ. Look. Look! Is he a priest? He must be, he MUST be, surely. I continue to watch. Several stations are held to distribute the bread and wine. I move up to receive my communion, but the wine is over there, and there’s no way I can realistically get to it. A disabled man in a huge wheelchair holds the bread wafers for the communion. I am not in his queue, so my bread is given by a tall man. I am half blessed today, I didn’t receive the wine. Another day perhaps.

Then it’s homework time, Fr Peter says “I am a media star, I am a media tart!” and I nod and hiss to CJ, “boom boom”. He is loving it, the crowd clapping everything he says, everything he sings, they clap in between fanning themselves, to the rhythm of their heartbeats. He has even taken singing lessons for a solo he croons us with. It’s extraordinary stuff, this singing priest and his offshoot, the pony tailed bloke with the communion. They are an act, laughing and playing off each other like comrades.

He jokes “I did singing lessons because I might have to give up my day job” and the crowd love it.

They even have a cd of songs to sell! A few more plugs, a young girl pleading for sponsors to shave off her hair for cancer, a cursory nod to the bushfire victims, but not really, even though it’s a nation day of mourning. This evening, as lights flicker on finally, it’s all about St Mary’s and the poor-bugger-me attitude. We are all victims.

We sing a final song or two; my foot tapping in time, my hips start to sway in a figure eight, despite myself. ‘We shall not, we shall not be moved” and at the last paragraph I place my words on the seat and sing loud, clapping in time.

I have joined them.

I wonder how it will all end.

St Barnies – Red Hill February 1 2009

I went to church, again, this morning. So far the church of my choice is St Barnabas, Red Hill, a delightful old wooden sweetheart, lovingly carved out of the suburbs.

It even has its own secret-squirrel side road entry, slipping alongside busy Waterworks Road; a diversion from the real world and its worries. St Barnabas Place leads the car to the corner church, and the congregation sit already pewed, waiting for the Service to begin. It’s early, nearly 8am but they are there, waiting, willing, wanting to sing and celebrate each others company.

An old woman beautifully dressed in pearls and coiffured hair sits like a question mark, an enormous dowagers hump protruding from her back. She can barely raise her face from her navel, but makes the time and effort to look and dress elegantly.

Today the Bishop is coming to celebrate Mass, so my timing is perfect, I hope to swell the numbers and show Fr Tom I wasn’t just a one-off customer. Old David meets me again and hands me the Prayer Book and Hymn book.

“Was I the woman that wanted a Bible” he asks?

Uh, no. He has forgotten me in the past 5 weeks, but that's ok, I remember him.

Fr Tom spies me from the vestry, and comes rushing over, his hand extended to shake. It's only because he remembers and knows my dad, they shared a 2-week army chaplaincy together, and the last (and first) time I visited this church, he preached the sermon on my father. *pulled THAT one out of his arse, lol, seeing he didn't know I was coming. It's actually an enormous tribute and sign of respect for dad, and I appreciate it.)

He greets me warmly with a kissed cheek and a hug. No wonder I like coming to church, lol. He introduces me to Kerry, the Bishops very patient wife, then I make my way back to the pew and find the hymns to sing.

The organist looks at me and giggles. Her hair is pulled back in a thick ponytail and she reminds me of a young schoolgirl. She keeps glancing over to me and overacts with exaggerated gestures, that she doesn’t know the songs either.

She hunches her shoulders in a mock shrug and giggles again. I’d bet that she would be one of those types that get the guffaws and can’t stop. I make a note not to catch her eye again as I too, am one of those people who once I start to giggle and laugh, can’t stop. We smirk at each other anyway, and another woman in front of me joins in, also holding her hands up in surprise at the choice of songs. Oh well, we shall just have to struggle through the best we can.

SING LOUD!

Finally the procession is ready, and so it begins, the rituals, the creed, the chanting, the shared psalms, words that have been repeated for 2000 years every Sunday, every day, every waking hour.

We sing the best we can, and the tune is easily picked up. The pony tailed organist accompanies the prayers and responses, losing her place when a peg securing the pages together, fails to be removed in time, and we sing the response a cappella style as she frantically unpegs the sheets, tearing a page in her hurry. I stifle an urge to laugh; I will save it for later and have a chuckle in the car driving home.

“Peace be with you” blesses the Bishop, and now the fun begins. In the old days when dad was a priest, we simply shook the hands of the row in front and behind. Now you don’t dare go back to your seat until every hand has been shaken.
Peace be with you, I pump a fat mans fat hand, it’s like a brick, immovable. I move on to Question mark woman, and as she obviously has osteoporosis, I am careful not to hurt her. Surprisingly, her hand is slim and strong, and she squeezes my hand in the mutual recognition of women.

People wander in and around the pews, noting with each person a happy raised eyebrow, a handshake, and a joyful exclaim. If only we could wander with a glass in my hand I ponder, and I soon go back to my pew; third from the front, on the right, near the organ.

Two more members of the congregation come over to shake my hand, and then we are all done, and the priests pick up the pace and get us focused back to the Service, now in full swing. They have started the next hymn without us, but we soon catch up. I find myself swaying gently in time to the music, cradled in the rhythm.

The Bishop’s sermon is on the word remembrance, it means to bring the past to the present, and he gives us an example of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

DA DA DAA DOMMM, he gestures with his fingers, conducting an imaginary orchestra.

If we follow the original score, as it was written 200 years ago, we will truthfully reproduce the music as it was intended, and so it is with Communion.

DA DA DAA DOMMM he conducts once more, for effect.

The stain glass windows are real stained glass, gloriously imperfect, each colour hand cut and coloured and leaded into place. Love it! I daydream and the next thing John; my elderly companion I am sharing the pew with, nudges me with the Offery collection plate and I rush to my purse in horror to grab my money. Ekk! It's so obvious I am new, everyone else's offering is in a white envilope. Mine sits there glowing like a beacon.

It’s a simple church, a wooden church, with no pretensions but a loving tended and cherished manner you so often find with the older buildings. A patina of generations and weddings and funerals and Communion and singing and children crying with boredom and restless feet shuffling along the prayer bars. Some caring person also fills the church with fresh flowers each week, I know it’s tough in these times of drought, but I appreciate the thought and effort in each vase. As we sing, a pink petal falls soundlessly to the floor. Well, they were fresh at some stage!

Then it’s Communion: my favourite part “Do this in remembrance of me”.

The small girl behind me - a newly created older sister to the 7 week baby her mother now cradles, begins to cry. One of the servers now comes to the front of the organ and begins to sing, solo.

This is a first, I think. I put my hymn book down and sit, entranced.

His fine tenor voice sings and soars, it’s a beautiful experience.

The little girl cries harder, but he is unfazed, shielded in his own world on notes and music and harmonies and phrasing. It’s amazing how loud a small child can be, and I narrow my eyes to focus on his lips - I am struggling to hear. His face is peaceful and relaxed, his eyes closing as he reaches particular notes, lost within the beauty of his own voice.

It’s so entrancing we all clap when he concludes, before blushing at each other, remembering we are in church, and in church, you don’t clap.

Well, not that I ever remember anyway, but we clapped him, and rightfully so; and he remains standing there near the organ, as chuffed as.

The Bishop also smiles, noting our enthusiasm. He’s tall, and as he readies to depart, places his Mitre hat on his head. Now he is even taller!

We are on the last hymn now, a beautiful repeating chorus, and the priests are good to go, readying themselves to leave and proceed down the aisle again. They all turn in unison and bow deeply, and the image prickles my eyes with tears. Unable to sing the next two lines, I mange to find my voice, now higher and thinner than before, and finish strongly.

I Bless myself, spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, then sit for a few minutes as the elderly congregation gather themselves up to exit the church.

Marlow

This is the church at Marlow, the picture was taken from the bridge.


This is the bridge, I though it was quite pretty, as bridges go.

My old church home

This old church was my home for many happy years. I had my first kiss here (where the gutter leaked, and the soft moss grew) and I would read dad's adult books on marriage (with pictures!!) under the altar. My sisters married here, we buried my brother here. It was a lovely, loving church.

Now it's full of white ants, and is to be moved to Emerald, where it will become home to a very genuine bloke.

Have fun moving it, doing it up, and creating a home within its walls mate.