A selfish little thing I do

A selfish little thing I do for the quiet anonymity, introspection and the beauty of the space: is attend Midweek Eucharist at St. Peter’s, Quamichan.

But on this day, while taking the sidewalk up to the church I see the priest, a short woman with cumulus-coloured hair, striding affably toward a young mother with her two children who are paused beside the stone bench on the path. I try for the nod-and-quick-pass but the priest catches me by the hand and I’m brought into the circle.

We learn that the mother and children are visiting from California, and the bench, with the delicate blue inlaid tiles, is a memorial to her mother. She has made a pilgrimage to show her children where their grandmother is buried; where she had been held, cared about and honoured by a small community.

The priest asks the mother, who is shy and appears ready to leave, if she’d like to attend the service: “No? well then would you like to see the inside of the church?” And while she hesitates the priest bends toward the children and asks if they’d like to ring the bell (and what child doesn’t want to ring a bell?). The mother’s slight protest evaporates and they enter the sanctuary while I make my little escape and go through the anteroom.

With seven or so greying others I take my seat in the chancel, pick up the Book of Common Prayer, then see the priest, in full effervescence, waving at me from the back of the nave; now she comes, almost loping, calling upon my help to reach the bell rope.

With my reluctance masked I leave my chair, walk the narrow aisle and stretch to catch the knot at the end of the rope. I feel the resistance — feel my own resistance to all the fuss — and hear the priest, “We must ring it together, and ring it three times!”

The girl is directed to hold my free hand, her brother to hold hers and the priest holds his while the mom looks on. I pull the rope, feel sound through sisal, hear the bell go out over Cowichan valley, see the light of smiles on the children and the priest and the mother, and like some lost bird awakening to a forgotten song in its throat, I ring and ring way past the allotted three.

Photos from St. Peter’s Quamichan and Duncan Sightseeing