So he pushed himself out of bed, propelled only by a sense of duty, which nevertheless was strong in him. When all else failed, duty could always be counted on to take him by the shoulders and shove him forward, like his mother used to do when she would guide him purposefully out the door to go play with the other children on the street.
Settling himself heavily onto his prayer stool, Father David muttered his way through his morning prayers. A strict twenty minutes later, he rose, showered and shaved, then joined Beverley in the kitchen. She brought him a mug of coffee and he sat at the table, glancing through the morning paper, until Paul and Catherine presented themselves in the doorway, their coats on, their backpacks slung over their shoulders. Rising mechanically, Father David laid down the paper, kissed Beverley on the cheek, and headed out to drive his children to school.
Arriving a little later at the church, he unlocked the front door and made his way down the long hallway to his office, flipping lights on as he went. He slumped into the chair behind his desk and dialled a code on the phone, then hit the hands-free button, leaned back, and waited for the messages; there were none. So he got up, prepared the communion set, and headed off to the first appointment of the day, the monthly Anglican communion service at the Westview Nursing Home.
As he drove along, an old tune formed in his head, a hymn so familiar that he paid no attention to the words as they flowed soundlessly by, like the neat suburban bungalows of his neighbourhood streets and boulevards:
When I survey the wondrous crosson which the Prince of Glory died,my richest gain I count hut loss,and pour contempt on all my pride.
By the time Father David arrived at the Westview, the early-morning fog had lifted and the sun was breaking through, warm and promising. He sat in his car for a few minutes, collecting his thoughts, preparing himself for what he knew lay ahead: the dark cluster of sad greeters parked just inside the front door, a ghoulish gallery of hollow eyes searching every new visitor for … what? Escape and rescue? News from the homeland?
He reached down into his emotional reserves, a storehouse filled through almost twenty years of ministry, and found again that delicate mix of pastoral concern and personal charm that allowed him to saunter along the hallway, lined with creeping wheelchairs and outstretched arms, past the nursing station, greeting anyone who chanced to make eye contact with a forced cheeriness. “Good morning!” he called out. “Hello there!” It didn’t matter to him that most of the residents did not — or could not — respond. In his black suit and Roman collar he imagined he was to them a sign of hope and consolation.
“Hi everyone,” he called out as he entered the Fireside Room. There was no fireside. There was no fire place! But there were seven or eight residents gathered in the small sitting room, some slouched in chairs or on couches, others parked at odd angles in wheelchairs, brought in hastily and left there by volunteers. These were the bright ones, and some returned his greeting.
“Hello, Father!” It was Arnold, short and balding. As one of only a handful of men in a sea of widows, he seemed valiantly to be trying to hold up his half of the universe by acting as genial host and general bon vivant.
“Hi, Arnold,” Father David said. “How are you today?”
“Can’t complain,” he said. “No one listens to me anyway, when I do.” Father David forced a smile for this joke that Arnold had told dozens of times. It had become a ritual, their little dance of greeting.
“It’s Sylvia’s birthday today,” a volunteer announced as she wheeled another resident into place.
“Really!” Father David replied with exaggerated interest. “How old are you, Sylvia? May we ask?”
Sylvia’s arms were tied onto the armrests of her wheelchair, her thin body propped upright by pillows at either hip. Her bent back forced her head to bow forward, and it bobbed slightly to the rhythm of her faint pulse. But she looked up at the sound of her name, uncomprehending.
“How old are you today, Sylvia?” the volunteer shouted into her ear.
Sylvia looked around. She could hear the sound all right, but couldn’t make out where it was coming from. The room looked on without expression as Father David knelt on one knee in front of her, slipping a hand beneath hers, placing his other hand gently on top. “Happy birthday, Sylvia!” he said, looking intently at her. Her head reared back, her eyes widening to take him in. Father David smiled and patted her hand.
He rose and walked over to a small table in the middle of the room where he began unpacking the communion set. It consisted of everything you would find on the altar on a Sunday morning, but in miniature: a small square linen corporal, two tiny candlesticks, and a silver chalice and paten, like toy accessories for Minister Barbie.
Father David lit the candles and began handing out the orders of service. Most of the assembled congregation, he knew, would not be able to read or follow along, but it was his way of making everyone feel included.
Mrs. Sollemby had now arrived and was getting organized at the piano. She was a volunteer who played for hymn sings and church services as needed, though with no discernible joy in doing so. She wore the countenance of someone fulfilling some sort of obligation, paying a debt perhaps, or atoning for a sin. So she never greeted anyone. She just sat down at the piano, got out her dog-eared hymnal, placed it on the music ledge, rested her hands in her lap, and waited.
Father David greeted her anyway, as he always did, in the hearing of the small assembly, thanking her for coming. She acknowledged him with a slight nod of the head, poised to hear what service would be required of her this day.
“I thought, this being a glorious September day,” Father David addressed the room, “we might sing, ‘For the Beauty of the Earth.’” He looked around the room. “How does that sound?”
His question was greeted by a few nods. “Oh, that’s one of my favourites!” someone spoke up.
“All right then,” Father David said, encouraged. “We’ll just sing the first two verses from your hymn sheets. Got those handy? It’s on the second page.”
He did a quick tour of the room, helping people find the spot, turning the page where it was needed. A volunteer who had stayed for the service worked the end of the room closest to the door, pressing song sheets open on trays or on laps. “Ready?” he asked finally. “Okay, Mrs. Sollemby.”
It was no surprise that his was the only voice heard singing. He had a strong voice, and he tried to restrain himself so as not to overwhelm the room. But, predictably, the hymn became a solo anyway. There was no real expectation that anyone else would sing along.
Father David had prepared a little homily for the service. He used as his text a passage from the gospel of John. “‘I am the good shepherd,’” Father David read aloud, “‘I know my own, and my own know me … I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly’” Father David closed his Bible and looked out at his frail congregation, some of whom had already fallen asleep. “I came that they may have life,” he repeated, “and have it abundantly.”
“God wants us to have life,” he began, “and not only life, but abundant life. Some days we may not feel very lively. We may feel sick, or tired, or sick and tired. We may look around us and think, ‘This doesn’t feel very much like abundant life. Who are the people who need me? What is the purpose of my life?’ We may even find ourselves wondering, ‘What’s the point of it all? What good am I doing here?’”
Someone was snoring, long breathy sighs punctuated by sudden pig-like snorts. Father David carried on.
“But Jesus came that we may have life,” he said, “and have it abundantly. This life is