The saints we are today,
like saints in ages past,
do struggle, strive in joyful toil
to follow in Christ’s path.
We saints of modern age
must heed the ancient call:
to love our neighbors as ourselves,
love God the first of all.
To live a sacred life
make holy every act
speak only justice, mercy, love,
God’s reign on earth enact.
One holy people, we
blest saints and martyrs stand
before the throne of God the King,
sing praises without end.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
bookends
In truth, I forgot. I completely forgot he was coming. We’d talked about it when I was home on vacation. We’d e-mailed back and forth about it, and I’d avoided making conflicting plans with other people. But by the time Friday rolled around, I’d been so chewed up and strung out by the week that all I wanted, before I left the house to go to work, was to come home and take a nap then hibernate all weekend. Man, I so wanted that nap! Then he called and my elaborate plans to go home, put on my sweats, and curl up in a ball were all shot to hell.
He called in the afternoon to let me know he’d made it safely to his hotel. He was in town for a convention, and wanted to go register, but thought we could meet for dinner that night. Oh, and there’s a dinner Saturday night, I should come to that too. And what time were services on Sunday? Was that the service I sang at? He’d call me back in a couple of hours and we could figure out where to meet up. I was exhausted before I answered the phone; bewildered by the time I disconnected the call.
Five o’clock rolled past and I barely had time to race home and spruce myself up a bit after an extremely casual day at the office. (Seriously, I almost wore the sweats to work in anticipation of a nap.) As night and rain were falling in equal measure you would have found me in Dupont Circle waiting and watching passersby. There is a dread like no other that comes from standing in a public place waiting for man to show up. It’s different from the fear that comes with walking through a sketchy neighborhood or into a dark parking garage; that is the very real danger of physical harm. The eternity between arrival and encounter is an interminable period that can only be measured in comparison to continental drift, even in the rare case where the eventual encounter is certain. As the hour turned from six to seven he arrived and we randomly chose a direction in search of food. In Dupont Circle you can manage that sort of thing. We ended up at Kramerbooks & Afterwords Café, largely through dumb luck. I’d made a quick call to a reliable friend before heading out and she had easily recommended the place. I thought I’d misheard her. Nope. Dinner at the bookstore really was the recommendation.
We passed between racks and stacks of travel books (with me thinking the whole time that it would be smart to get a guide to the city—just in case anyone else ever came to visit). The whole evening was a bit surreal in its normalcy. It’s difficult to explain the strangeness of it all. I’m accustomed to having to pull a few teeth to keep the conversation going, and I’m a relentless conversationalist. On this rare occasion he was full of stuff to talk about. Where normally I might have had to come at a question from two or three different directions before getting an opaque reply, he was forthcoming and easily introduced new topics. I heard about his recent trip to the UK, the goings on back home, his growing desire to move back north, and more. It was nice. Refreshing. Weird. But nice. However, the truly stupefying part was when I asked why he hadn’t pursued a liaison with someone I had fully expected to catch his eye. He answered me. No hesitation, no pretense that he’d never looked her direction. He told me about the one time he’d asked her out and that there simply wasn’t any spark.
Now, I’ve heard this “spark” thing from him before and in the past I’ve accused him of carrying around bucket to douse any flame that might spontaneously burst forth. I don’t discount the value of an immediate electro-chemical sexual response to an attractive individual. It’s a very nice thing; and I, for one, enjoy it tremendously, but I don’t trust it. I don’t trust it at all; still, I’m not a man. So, I wanted to know a little more. What did he mean by spark? In this case at least, he meant a connection, an ease. He described an evening spent working to sustain a conversation, of questions that led nowhere, and a failure to find any common ground. No “spark”.
In the midst of all this the waiter came by to light the candle on the table before serving our dessert. We talked a bit more about current events: Wall Street, the election, and the evening’s debate, providing goodly fodder. As we finished up, we made our plans for the next day and parted ways in the steady rain.
***
Saturday morning I have a standing coffee date with a couple of local friends. We waited for our coffee as the breakfast crowd thinned out and exchanged stories of the night before. These are newer friends and we don’t yet know all of one another’s tales of days gone by, so when I told of dinner the night before and the dinner yet to come one looked at me and said, “What’s that little smile about?” All I could say was, “Nothing.” How could I explain that, truly, there was nothing to cause that that little smile—the same one I can feel even now curving my lips? Nothing, that is, except a profound sense of the ridiculous.
The three of us passed the morning in high fashion: boutique coffee for breakfast, a meander through a well-appointed toy store, wander down the block to lazily browse the drugstore, then decide we’re all hungry again and go for Chinese. All the while we chattered over office politics and national politics, travel and pop culture, men and money and the lack thereof. In short, girl talk. We were on this occasion firing on all cylinders, or perhaps it was simply that I was relaxed and for once free of the tension that comes with forging new friendships. I could have spent the whole day in idle occupation, accomplishing nothing of any measurable worth, but eventually it was time to get on with the day, and I had a couple of errands to run before my big night out.
He called just as I was backing out of a parking space. I’d almost finished my errands, but I still needed to buy gas before going home to shower and change. It was my own fault that I’d spent the day in lazy companionship so that by the time he called I was sticky, and sweaty, and running out of gas five miles from home along a busy stretch with only ninety minutes left on the clock. I was more abrupt than I’d like to have been with him on the phone, but the engine was still running, and we have laws against driving and talking on cell phones, and my time was running out. For the second day in a row I raced home, out of and back into my clothes, juggled jewelry and mascara, and hot-footed it to the metro station to catch a train, this time to the Mayflower Hotel. Witness me now standing in a hotel lobby amidst wedding guests and conventioneers once again waiting for a man.
He arrived shortly and we strolled a bit, people watching, chatting about our respective days, and waiting for the bus that would shuttle us to the evening’s destination. This was my introduction to the Civil War Preservation Trust. That’s right, I was choosing of my own free will to spend the evening with a battlefield preservation nut.
Actually, this is one of the things I’ve known longest about him. Years ago, when I was first making the attempt to befriend him—something that I liken to my mother’s penchant for adopting feral cats—he told me of his long term goal of purchasing the site of his “favorite” Civil War battle and developing an historical park. I remember the conversation vividly. We were sitting at an outdoor table, lingering over Sunday lunch at a gas-station-cum-Greek-restaurant, and suddenly this very private man briefly opened for me a window onto his inner life. We had known one another for less than a year, he was bored with his daily grind, and for a couple of hours a real conversation blossomed from what had been, up to that point, labored exchanges in which I had to work to prompt him to come out with anything more than short declarative sentences. For a brief time he transformed in front of me from a pretty, aloof stranger into a vibrant, fascinating man. Then, lunch was over, and he retreated, and years passed before he let me see him like that again. This is why we’re friends. This single incident is the reason I persisted in making myself his friend.
So there we were, enjoying a private party at Arlington House, the former Custis-Lee estate located in what is now Arlington cemetery, surrounded by Civil War enthusiasts. The house was phenomenal. It is currently undergoing renovation, so all of the furniture has been moved into storage, but it is easy to see how well it would suit me (and my fantasy life-style). Plus, the view from the front porch is killer. We wandered in different directions through the home with guides in period dress waiting around each corner to pass on yet another tidbit of information. My particular favorites were the office and the central hall; the walk-in closet/birthing room is not as attractive as one might hope. I loved the interior proportion of the house. The exterior proportion is another kettle of fish entirely and seems a bit much on close inspection, but when one considers that the façade is scaled to be best view from the valley below, it makes good sense.
After going gaga over the house we went out to have dinner under a marquee on the lawn. With my buddy on my left and a couple from West Virginia on my right we sat down to a delightful meal inspired by the period cupboard. I’m making no claims that this was authentic Civil War era fare, merely that the ingredients were what would have been available at the time. Between courses we were entertained by an awards presentation. The first award was given posthumously, and the recent widower accepted the award while giving vent to his rage at having lost his wife. By all accounts the late award recipient was a gracious woman devoted to the cause, but the unintentional lesson was that when inspired to honor someone posthumously, wait a full year before asking the bereaved to accept an award or the speeches could get awkward. The second award recipient was an impassioned gentleman who invoked what for me was an uncomfortable amount of god-language. He spoke a great deal about battlegrounds sanctified with the blood of the fallen, all of which did a fair job of delineating my own reservations about battlefield preservation. I’m all about learning the lessons of history, lest we repeat our mistakes, but I start getting edgy when war is raised up as a sacred enterprise.
After the awards had been presented and received, we were served our main course and the lady to my right smiled and asked me, “So, are you ready to join?” It was such a close parody of cult initiation that I was momentarily flummoxed before I smiled back and said, “No.” The West Virginians were, in fact, a riot. When I was first seated he was quick to ask if I shared a deep and abiding interest in the Civil War. He hoped, for my sake, that I did. For a moment I was tempted to mention my interest in the Spanish Civil War, but was concerned this might lead to detailed discussion of the campaign to win Madrid, so I kept mum. Much of the dinner conversation involved the gentlemen at the table comparing notes on battlefields visited, tours taken, lectures heard, and, of course, spirited discussion of Ken Burns’ Civil War. It has been impressed upon me that I haven’t been watching the right documentaries; the one I watched about the Japanese military in the wake of WWII, the one I loved about crossword puzzles, the riveting biography of Jock Soto, and the fabulous Independent Lens piece about women mariachis helped me not at all in making dinner conversation with the members of the Civil War Preservation Trust.
The keynote speaker of the evening, about whom my companion had been very enthused and had really given me the hard sell, was James Swanson, author of Manhunt. He was, I will heartily agree, an engaging speaker. He entertained us with the tale of how and why he’d written the book, rather than simply read from it. Even I, who have very limited interest in the flight and capture of John Wilkes Booth, was left thinking, “Gee, maybe I ought to read this.” As you know, my reading list is extensive at the moment, but I just might get around to reading it at some point. If nothing else, reading a book titled Manhunt on the metro is sure to drum up more interest than say, knitting. At least it says I’m looking.
After dinner we strolled back around to enjoy the view one last time and allow the most eager of the attendees to fill the first two shuttle buses returning to the Mayflower. The view really is spectacular and, cemetery or no, I could happily move-in tomorrow and spend my evenings porch sitting. On the ride back the hotel I was regaled by my pal with the story of Moses Jacob Ezekiel, Virginian, artist, sefardí, and ladies’ man. When we arrived back at the hotel we made arrangements for Sunday and he walked me to the metro. As I rode the train home I reflected on what a strange evening it had been. It was…effortless. A social function involving a lot of people I’d never met in a place I’d never been focused on a subject about which I was hazy at best would normally kick-off a massive fit of social anxiety, and I had initially resisted accepting the invitation for just this reason. But it turned out to be something I never expected; it was fun.
***
Sunday began for me as most Sundays do: I fought my way out of sleep in a vain attempt to haul myself to choir rehearsal by 7:45. I was, it seems inevitably, a few minutes late, but still managed to snag a seat on the front row. (Those front row seats can inspire death matches between territorial sopranos.) The anthems came off far better than we could have possibly anticipated after the strain of Thursday night’s rehearsal, and as soon as the service was over I was on my way to retrieve my constant companion. Don’t get me wrong, I was thoroughly enjoying his company, but I was mystified by how much of it was mine to enjoy. It never occurred to me I’d see this much of him. Taking into account my past experience with him, I anticipated I’d see him once during the whole of his trip, perhaps for an hour or two. By Sunday morning I was almost accustomed to his persistent presence and, admittedly, I was basking in it. Who could blame me?
I picked him up at his hotel and took him back with me to see my workplace, my current worship home, and my center of gravity in this city. I never get to be the one to show people around, tell them a little about this and that. This was fun. As we went inside we began to run into people I know and I got to show off my friend to my friends and vice versa. We lingered and chatted a few minutes with various people and had only a little time to orient ourselves before I told him it was time to make a claim for a good seat. Normally, I’ll hang back and let the tourists and regular parishioners fight it out for the better seats, but I wanted to offer him the best we have. The woman in front of me hesitated a moment too long and I cut her off to snag two aisle seats. (I believe I mentioned cutthroat sopranos and seating arrangements.) As we waited for the service to begin he asked me questions about the lights and platforms and such, and before very long the time had come to still ourselves and prepare for worship.
We have known one another for ten years. For eight of those years we sang in the same choir, comfortably segregated by our respective voice parts. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve had occasion to worship in close proximity to one another. So this was a special occasion. Unique. Noteworthy. If you come to visit, you can bet I’ll invite you to come to church with me. No pressure, no sales pitch; you’re a grown up and can make your own decision about it, but it’s what I love. I am an avowed worship junkie and approach it with intensity. The hours I spend in corporate worship are, by far, the most intimate moments I share with other people each week. Here I was with my strange friend, in a situation so familiar to us both. We stood side by side to sing and I was aware that the height of my shoulder only just cleared the height of his elbow. We sat in chairs joined together in fixed rows and I was aware of the narrow, inviolable channel of space we maintained between us. We turned to exchange the Peace of God, he shook my hand, and I smiled at nothing.
After the service I took him on a tour of the chapels and then we headed over to one of the local haunts for sushi. There we met up with the Episcopal Princess and her knight-errant of a godson. If you’ve never had the practice of Sunday lunch you may not understand my sublime joy in this. I like social routine. Sunday lunch was for a time a kind of security blanket for me. It was a constant. They players might change, the location was always up for grabs, but the certainty of the routine did a lot to sustain me. I miss it. I really do. Moreover, I’ve always maintained that I only have one circle of friends. I won’t tell your secrets, but I will share your triumphs and tragedies with the rest of the group. I will also, when called for, mock you mercilessly to people who have yet to make your acquaintance, but only when called for. The chance to introduce one friend to another is its own special joy—when they hit it off, it’s all the better. I only wish I’d had the chance to introduce him to more of my local friends.
Before much longer it was time to go. He asked if there was time to stop by a bookstore before heading to the airport; he wanted to pick up a copy of Manhunt. The Princess gave me directions to Politics & Prose, which I remembered from a long ago visit with Brendarling as the nirvana of bookstores. We found the bookstore without too much trouble and hurried inside to complete our business. My friend headed straight to the racks, quickly locating the section he needed, and pulling a display copy of another work by the same author from a high shelf. But he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He began hunting Manhunt along the shelves of books in a more or less methodical fashion. I watched him for a minute before bending down and pulling the object of his search practically from beneath his feet. Two copies were sitting there on the bottom shelf, too low for him to notice. We went to the checkout and the clerk, taking careful note of his selection, suggested that if he’s into presidential assassinations he might like Sarah Vowell’s Assassination Vacation. She gave it a rave review and let us know they are having a Sarah Vowell event October 9. I love good sales staff.
I took him to the airport, arriving at 4:03 although I’d hoped we’d make it by four. This is a milestone: the first time I’ve driven to the airport since moving up here. Woohoo! We got turned around a couple of times, but my departing companion made for a good navigator—aside from that unaniticpated introduction to the steepest cobblestone street in town. I’d happily skip doing that again. The closer we got to the airport the faster the man seated next to me transformed into the man I had expected to meet on his arrival. With his mind fixed on the travel ahead he retreated further and further into himself, and in the stress of driving unfamiliar streets I made less and less attempt to overcome it. I dropped him at the airport, we said a quick good-bye, and as he walked away I smiled and reminded him to stay in touch.
Ha. Stay in touch. Who am I kidding?
Then I went home, and took a nap.
He called in the afternoon to let me know he’d made it safely to his hotel. He was in town for a convention, and wanted to go register, but thought we could meet for dinner that night. Oh, and there’s a dinner Saturday night, I should come to that too. And what time were services on Sunday? Was that the service I sang at? He’d call me back in a couple of hours and we could figure out where to meet up. I was exhausted before I answered the phone; bewildered by the time I disconnected the call.
Five o’clock rolled past and I barely had time to race home and spruce myself up a bit after an extremely casual day at the office. (Seriously, I almost wore the sweats to work in anticipation of a nap.) As night and rain were falling in equal measure you would have found me in Dupont Circle waiting and watching passersby. There is a dread like no other that comes from standing in a public place waiting for man to show up. It’s different from the fear that comes with walking through a sketchy neighborhood or into a dark parking garage; that is the very real danger of physical harm. The eternity between arrival and encounter is an interminable period that can only be measured in comparison to continental drift, even in the rare case where the eventual encounter is certain. As the hour turned from six to seven he arrived and we randomly chose a direction in search of food. In Dupont Circle you can manage that sort of thing. We ended up at Kramerbooks & Afterwords Café, largely through dumb luck. I’d made a quick call to a reliable friend before heading out and she had easily recommended the place. I thought I’d misheard her. Nope. Dinner at the bookstore really was the recommendation.
We passed between racks and stacks of travel books (with me thinking the whole time that it would be smart to get a guide to the city—just in case anyone else ever came to visit). The whole evening was a bit surreal in its normalcy. It’s difficult to explain the strangeness of it all. I’m accustomed to having to pull a few teeth to keep the conversation going, and I’m a relentless conversationalist. On this rare occasion he was full of stuff to talk about. Where normally I might have had to come at a question from two or three different directions before getting an opaque reply, he was forthcoming and easily introduced new topics. I heard about his recent trip to the UK, the goings on back home, his growing desire to move back north, and more. It was nice. Refreshing. Weird. But nice. However, the truly stupefying part was when I asked why he hadn’t pursued a liaison with someone I had fully expected to catch his eye. He answered me. No hesitation, no pretense that he’d never looked her direction. He told me about the one time he’d asked her out and that there simply wasn’t any spark.
Now, I’ve heard this “spark” thing from him before and in the past I’ve accused him of carrying around bucket to douse any flame that might spontaneously burst forth. I don’t discount the value of an immediate electro-chemical sexual response to an attractive individual. It’s a very nice thing; and I, for one, enjoy it tremendously, but I don’t trust it. I don’t trust it at all; still, I’m not a man. So, I wanted to know a little more. What did he mean by spark? In this case at least, he meant a connection, an ease. He described an evening spent working to sustain a conversation, of questions that led nowhere, and a failure to find any common ground. No “spark”.
In the midst of all this the waiter came by to light the candle on the table before serving our dessert. We talked a bit more about current events: Wall Street, the election, and the evening’s debate, providing goodly fodder. As we finished up, we made our plans for the next day and parted ways in the steady rain.
***
Saturday morning I have a standing coffee date with a couple of local friends. We waited for our coffee as the breakfast crowd thinned out and exchanged stories of the night before. These are newer friends and we don’t yet know all of one another’s tales of days gone by, so when I told of dinner the night before and the dinner yet to come one looked at me and said, “What’s that little smile about?” All I could say was, “Nothing.” How could I explain that, truly, there was nothing to cause that that little smile—the same one I can feel even now curving my lips? Nothing, that is, except a profound sense of the ridiculous.
The three of us passed the morning in high fashion: boutique coffee for breakfast, a meander through a well-appointed toy store, wander down the block to lazily browse the drugstore, then decide we’re all hungry again and go for Chinese. All the while we chattered over office politics and national politics, travel and pop culture, men and money and the lack thereof. In short, girl talk. We were on this occasion firing on all cylinders, or perhaps it was simply that I was relaxed and for once free of the tension that comes with forging new friendships. I could have spent the whole day in idle occupation, accomplishing nothing of any measurable worth, but eventually it was time to get on with the day, and I had a couple of errands to run before my big night out.
He called just as I was backing out of a parking space. I’d almost finished my errands, but I still needed to buy gas before going home to shower and change. It was my own fault that I’d spent the day in lazy companionship so that by the time he called I was sticky, and sweaty, and running out of gas five miles from home along a busy stretch with only ninety minutes left on the clock. I was more abrupt than I’d like to have been with him on the phone, but the engine was still running, and we have laws against driving and talking on cell phones, and my time was running out. For the second day in a row I raced home, out of and back into my clothes, juggled jewelry and mascara, and hot-footed it to the metro station to catch a train, this time to the Mayflower Hotel. Witness me now standing in a hotel lobby amidst wedding guests and conventioneers once again waiting for a man.
He arrived shortly and we strolled a bit, people watching, chatting about our respective days, and waiting for the bus that would shuttle us to the evening’s destination. This was my introduction to the Civil War Preservation Trust. That’s right, I was choosing of my own free will to spend the evening with a battlefield preservation nut.
Actually, this is one of the things I’ve known longest about him. Years ago, when I was first making the attempt to befriend him—something that I liken to my mother’s penchant for adopting feral cats—he told me of his long term goal of purchasing the site of his “favorite” Civil War battle and developing an historical park. I remember the conversation vividly. We were sitting at an outdoor table, lingering over Sunday lunch at a gas-station-cum-Greek-restaurant, and suddenly this very private man briefly opened for me a window onto his inner life. We had known one another for less than a year, he was bored with his daily grind, and for a couple of hours a real conversation blossomed from what had been, up to that point, labored exchanges in which I had to work to prompt him to come out with anything more than short declarative sentences. For a brief time he transformed in front of me from a pretty, aloof stranger into a vibrant, fascinating man. Then, lunch was over, and he retreated, and years passed before he let me see him like that again. This is why we’re friends. This single incident is the reason I persisted in making myself his friend.
So there we were, enjoying a private party at Arlington House, the former Custis-Lee estate located in what is now Arlington cemetery, surrounded by Civil War enthusiasts. The house was phenomenal. It is currently undergoing renovation, so all of the furniture has been moved into storage, but it is easy to see how well it would suit me (and my fantasy life-style). Plus, the view from the front porch is killer. We wandered in different directions through the home with guides in period dress waiting around each corner to pass on yet another tidbit of information. My particular favorites were the office and the central hall; the walk-in closet/birthing room is not as attractive as one might hope. I loved the interior proportion of the house. The exterior proportion is another kettle of fish entirely and seems a bit much on close inspection, but when one considers that the façade is scaled to be best view from the valley below, it makes good sense.
After going gaga over the house we went out to have dinner under a marquee on the lawn. With my buddy on my left and a couple from West Virginia on my right we sat down to a delightful meal inspired by the period cupboard. I’m making no claims that this was authentic Civil War era fare, merely that the ingredients were what would have been available at the time. Between courses we were entertained by an awards presentation. The first award was given posthumously, and the recent widower accepted the award while giving vent to his rage at having lost his wife. By all accounts the late award recipient was a gracious woman devoted to the cause, but the unintentional lesson was that when inspired to honor someone posthumously, wait a full year before asking the bereaved to accept an award or the speeches could get awkward. The second award recipient was an impassioned gentleman who invoked what for me was an uncomfortable amount of god-language. He spoke a great deal about battlegrounds sanctified with the blood of the fallen, all of which did a fair job of delineating my own reservations about battlefield preservation. I’m all about learning the lessons of history, lest we repeat our mistakes, but I start getting edgy when war is raised up as a sacred enterprise.
After the awards had been presented and received, we were served our main course and the lady to my right smiled and asked me, “So, are you ready to join?” It was such a close parody of cult initiation that I was momentarily flummoxed before I smiled back and said, “No.” The West Virginians were, in fact, a riot. When I was first seated he was quick to ask if I shared a deep and abiding interest in the Civil War. He hoped, for my sake, that I did. For a moment I was tempted to mention my interest in the Spanish Civil War, but was concerned this might lead to detailed discussion of the campaign to win Madrid, so I kept mum. Much of the dinner conversation involved the gentlemen at the table comparing notes on battlefields visited, tours taken, lectures heard, and, of course, spirited discussion of Ken Burns’ Civil War. It has been impressed upon me that I haven’t been watching the right documentaries; the one I watched about the Japanese military in the wake of WWII, the one I loved about crossword puzzles, the riveting biography of Jock Soto, and the fabulous Independent Lens piece about women mariachis helped me not at all in making dinner conversation with the members of the Civil War Preservation Trust.
The keynote speaker of the evening, about whom my companion had been very enthused and had really given me the hard sell, was James Swanson, author of Manhunt. He was, I will heartily agree, an engaging speaker. He entertained us with the tale of how and why he’d written the book, rather than simply read from it. Even I, who have very limited interest in the flight and capture of John Wilkes Booth, was left thinking, “Gee, maybe I ought to read this.” As you know, my reading list is extensive at the moment, but I just might get around to reading it at some point. If nothing else, reading a book titled Manhunt on the metro is sure to drum up more interest than say, knitting. At least it says I’m looking.
After dinner we strolled back around to enjoy the view one last time and allow the most eager of the attendees to fill the first two shuttle buses returning to the Mayflower. The view really is spectacular and, cemetery or no, I could happily move-in tomorrow and spend my evenings porch sitting. On the ride back the hotel I was regaled by my pal with the story of Moses Jacob Ezekiel, Virginian, artist, sefardí, and ladies’ man. When we arrived back at the hotel we made arrangements for Sunday and he walked me to the metro. As I rode the train home I reflected on what a strange evening it had been. It was…effortless. A social function involving a lot of people I’d never met in a place I’d never been focused on a subject about which I was hazy at best would normally kick-off a massive fit of social anxiety, and I had initially resisted accepting the invitation for just this reason. But it turned out to be something I never expected; it was fun.
***
Sunday began for me as most Sundays do: I fought my way out of sleep in a vain attempt to haul myself to choir rehearsal by 7:45. I was, it seems inevitably, a few minutes late, but still managed to snag a seat on the front row. (Those front row seats can inspire death matches between territorial sopranos.) The anthems came off far better than we could have possibly anticipated after the strain of Thursday night’s rehearsal, and as soon as the service was over I was on my way to retrieve my constant companion. Don’t get me wrong, I was thoroughly enjoying his company, but I was mystified by how much of it was mine to enjoy. It never occurred to me I’d see this much of him. Taking into account my past experience with him, I anticipated I’d see him once during the whole of his trip, perhaps for an hour or two. By Sunday morning I was almost accustomed to his persistent presence and, admittedly, I was basking in it. Who could blame me?
I picked him up at his hotel and took him back with me to see my workplace, my current worship home, and my center of gravity in this city. I never get to be the one to show people around, tell them a little about this and that. This was fun. As we went inside we began to run into people I know and I got to show off my friend to my friends and vice versa. We lingered and chatted a few minutes with various people and had only a little time to orient ourselves before I told him it was time to make a claim for a good seat. Normally, I’ll hang back and let the tourists and regular parishioners fight it out for the better seats, but I wanted to offer him the best we have. The woman in front of me hesitated a moment too long and I cut her off to snag two aisle seats. (I believe I mentioned cutthroat sopranos and seating arrangements.) As we waited for the service to begin he asked me questions about the lights and platforms and such, and before very long the time had come to still ourselves and prepare for worship.
We have known one another for ten years. For eight of those years we sang in the same choir, comfortably segregated by our respective voice parts. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve had occasion to worship in close proximity to one another. So this was a special occasion. Unique. Noteworthy. If you come to visit, you can bet I’ll invite you to come to church with me. No pressure, no sales pitch; you’re a grown up and can make your own decision about it, but it’s what I love. I am an avowed worship junkie and approach it with intensity. The hours I spend in corporate worship are, by far, the most intimate moments I share with other people each week. Here I was with my strange friend, in a situation so familiar to us both. We stood side by side to sing and I was aware that the height of my shoulder only just cleared the height of his elbow. We sat in chairs joined together in fixed rows and I was aware of the narrow, inviolable channel of space we maintained between us. We turned to exchange the Peace of God, he shook my hand, and I smiled at nothing.
After the service I took him on a tour of the chapels and then we headed over to one of the local haunts for sushi. There we met up with the Episcopal Princess and her knight-errant of a godson. If you’ve never had the practice of Sunday lunch you may not understand my sublime joy in this. I like social routine. Sunday lunch was for a time a kind of security blanket for me. It was a constant. They players might change, the location was always up for grabs, but the certainty of the routine did a lot to sustain me. I miss it. I really do. Moreover, I’ve always maintained that I only have one circle of friends. I won’t tell your secrets, but I will share your triumphs and tragedies with the rest of the group. I will also, when called for, mock you mercilessly to people who have yet to make your acquaintance, but only when called for. The chance to introduce one friend to another is its own special joy—when they hit it off, it’s all the better. I only wish I’d had the chance to introduce him to more of my local friends.
Before much longer it was time to go. He asked if there was time to stop by a bookstore before heading to the airport; he wanted to pick up a copy of Manhunt. The Princess gave me directions to Politics & Prose, which I remembered from a long ago visit with Brendarling as the nirvana of bookstores. We found the bookstore without too much trouble and hurried inside to complete our business. My friend headed straight to the racks, quickly locating the section he needed, and pulling a display copy of another work by the same author from a high shelf. But he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He began hunting Manhunt along the shelves of books in a more or less methodical fashion. I watched him for a minute before bending down and pulling the object of his search practically from beneath his feet. Two copies were sitting there on the bottom shelf, too low for him to notice. We went to the checkout and the clerk, taking careful note of his selection, suggested that if he’s into presidential assassinations he might like Sarah Vowell’s Assassination Vacation. She gave it a rave review and let us know they are having a Sarah Vowell event October 9. I love good sales staff.
I took him to the airport, arriving at 4:03 although I’d hoped we’d make it by four. This is a milestone: the first time I’ve driven to the airport since moving up here. Woohoo! We got turned around a couple of times, but my departing companion made for a good navigator—aside from that unaniticpated introduction to the steepest cobblestone street in town. I’d happily skip doing that again. The closer we got to the airport the faster the man seated next to me transformed into the man I had expected to meet on his arrival. With his mind fixed on the travel ahead he retreated further and further into himself, and in the stress of driving unfamiliar streets I made less and less attempt to overcome it. I dropped him at the airport, we said a quick good-bye, and as he walked away I smiled and reminded him to stay in touch.
Ha. Stay in touch. Who am I kidding?
Then I went home, and took a nap.
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