On Christmas Eve my brother and I went to church. I am not a religious person but my brother, like most of my family, is; and I knew he would like to go to church at some point during Christmas. There is a plethora of churches in my area -- the granite Catholic church at the end of my street, across from the Gardiner common, the granite Episcopalian church on the other side of the common, the Congregational church a block down from the Episcopalian church, the Baptist church directly across the street from the Congregational...and two Methodist churches a few blocks away. (I've often wondered how there could be two Methodist churches on the same street, just a couple of blocks from one another. Did the Gardiner Free Methodist Church break away from the United Methodist Church because some folks objected to all the money they were being asked to fork up?)
Since the church Jeremiah attends in Santa Fe is Pentacostal, I suspected that the First Baptist Church of Gardiner might come closest to what he was used to. Besides which the church building, which is small, has gorgeous stained glass windows. I am a sucker for beau-tiful stained glass windows. And these do not contain pictures of Biblical stories, as is usual, but stylized nature scenes, with the occasional cross or lamb thrown in for relevance. Numerous times I have driven past the church at night, when the lights inside had the windows looking jewel-like, and have thought I should go to a service just to be able to see those windows with the sun streaming through them.
I was hoping the service would not be a normal church service, but emphatically Christmas-y, and it was. We sang a lot of Christmas hymns, which I like. One really can't object to singing Joy to the World, it's such an "up" piece. I also liked it when the minister had all the men go up to the front and sing We Three Kings of Orient Are. For one thing, it demonstrated that there were a surprising number of men in attendance, and for another, it was cool hearing that particular song sung by these robust, manly voices.
Instead of a regular sermon the preacher tried something that struck both Jeremiah and me as a good idea that didn't quite come off. He had a little scenario in which a neighbor dropped by for a chat, and they talked about the wider ramifications of Christmas. Unfortunately, the "neighbor" seemed to have forgotten all his lines, so the preacher kept having to say them for him, in a way that made sense, his saying it rather than the neighbor. And it meant he did nearly all the talking, with the "neighbor" just sitting there looking rather foolish.
I also felt that the pastor missed the opportunity to say some really pithy things about the "wider" meaning of Christmas (that is, beyond it's being a celebration of Christ's birth). For example, almost in passing he men-tioned that the year had been a very difficult one for many people, but he didn't really connect that very successfully to the issue of Christmas, as in: when money is tight, when maybe somebody in the family has lost his or her job, not only is Christmas the perfect time to remind ourselves that God is ultimately on our side, if we will hang onto our faith, hard as that may be, but a "tight" Christmas is the perfect time to wean ourselves away from all that excessive buying that doesn't really bring us happiness anyway. A chance for the family to promise to do something nice for one another ("I'll do the vacuuming for you, Mom/Sweetheart, every week in January.") rather than trying to buy expensive gifts they simply cannot afford. A chance to reaffirm that Christmas really is about being together, in loving kindness, rather than about accumulating more stuff. Etc., etc. (There were numerous other instances where I thought he missed some golden opportunities.)
You see, I could be a preacher; I know all the right stuff to say, and I know it's important to say it in a way that connects with people's real lives. On the other hand, I don't believe most of the stuff you're required to be-lieve, so I probably couldn't be a preacher.
Anyway, it was a pleasant evening, in a warm, comfor-table, very pretty church (Jeremiah and I agreed it didn't look like the Baptist churches we're used to in the south, which tend to be plain, if not downright sterile), and we went out feeling cheerful. But then it all got ruined because some fellow had penned me in with his auto. His front fender was literally touching my back one. And I couldn't move forward because there was a truck there. So we had to wait for the offender to come out. But we waited and waited, the church was emptying, and still no thoughtless driver. So now I was really annoyed, and went storming into the church, interrupting various happily chattering groups of people to ask if one of them had parked a four-door white station wagon in the back alley. Nobody had, but maybe the offender overheard me because as soon I got back out to the car here he came. He did apologize, but alas, I had gone beyond my patience and good-humor limit, and was not gracious. So much for the lasting influence of Christmas's message of loving kindness...
Showing posts with label Gardiner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gardiner. Show all posts
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Sunday, July 20, 2008
A walk on the quiet side
I just returned from a walk in the cool of the 5:45 a.m. day. As those of you who know me know, my major enemies are noise and heat. These days, it’s too hot for walks unless it is 5:45 in the morning. The air was very damp, but not sauna-like as it would become with the appearance of the sun. Not a single car went by as I walked the quiet, pleasant streets of my neighborhood, passing the large, attractive, lovingly maintained houses and lawns. My only company were the birds, who provided that cacophony of birdsong I would miss if I were deaf.
Each house I passed was distinctive – no tract housing here. Most are New England white, of course, with the usual black or dark green shutters, and all are made of wood. But there is the occasional pale yellow, deep rust, grey, dark brown one, to add variety. There is even one outrageously bright blue house (all right, I can hear Bob the cartoonist and iconoclast say). The vast majority are two-storied; one magnificent example of Victorian architecture has three floors, the third including a large cupola. Most of the houses have sizable porches, often with wicker rockers or other outdoor seating on them; a good many of the porches are screened-in.
And people make their homes distinctive in ways other than the architectural. The gardening is very individual, from neat beds set here and there across the green lawn, rimmed in with ground cover like white and green hosta plants, to large patches of side lawn that are given over to a riot of flowers and tall grasses, making them look wild. And there’s the house that has made its small front lawn into a vegetable garden. The long, straight brick walk of another very impressive house has tiny plants growing up along the cracks between bricks, so that standing at the end of the walk, you seem to be looking at cultivated farm rows in miniature.
There is the smiling face (not a “smiley face”) made of what look like walnut shells, imbedded in the trunk of a handsome black maple. The collection of homemade birdhouses -- no two alike – that cluster like a small town at the edge of another front yard, with a little stuffed rabbit peering out of one door. At one house they seem to have taken advantage of a sale on burnt gold spray paint, as that is the color of all the balusters in the porch railing, as well as the wooden rockers on the porch.
And everywhere are the enormous old trees, lots of shrubs and flowers. One of the reasons I love living in the northeast: the lushness of the vegetation. The ubiquitous orange day-lilies are a little past their perky prime – the relentless sun and lack of rain for the past week have drained the blossoms of their sunset brilliance – but they are still to be seen in nearly every yard, their long stems reaching up and leaning forward out of their collar of long, narrow leaves. A number of porches sported hanging baskets overflowing with colorful flowers, and one house even had a great, fat cluster of lavender flowers, seemingly pinned to the middle of the front door (how did they do that?)
I feel very lucky to have found my cozy little house in this lovely neighborhood. When I could be struggling to stay alive in Darfur, or Burma, or even a poverty-entrenched village in Mexico, I have to see how lucky I am. While my job is the source of some frustration for me, and the low salary makes my life very difficult, my home, and my physical surroundings, never cease to give me pleasure.
Each house I passed was distinctive – no tract housing here. Most are New England white, of course, with the usual black or dark green shutters, and all are made of wood. But there is the occasional pale yellow, deep rust, grey, dark brown one, to add variety. There is even one outrageously bright blue house (all right, I can hear Bob the cartoonist and iconoclast say). The vast majority are two-storied; one magnificent example of Victorian architecture has three floors, the third including a large cupola. Most of the houses have sizable porches, often with wicker rockers or other outdoor seating on them; a good many of the porches are screened-in.
And people make their homes distinctive in ways other than the architectural. The gardening is very individual, from neat beds set here and there across the green lawn, rimmed in with ground cover like white and green hosta plants, to large patches of side lawn that are given over to a riot of flowers and tall grasses, making them look wild. And there’s the house that has made its small front lawn into a vegetable garden. The long, straight brick walk of another very impressive house has tiny plants growing up along the cracks between bricks, so that standing at the end of the walk, you seem to be looking at cultivated farm rows in miniature.
There is the smiling face (not a “smiley face”) made of what look like walnut shells, imbedded in the trunk of a handsome black maple. The collection of homemade birdhouses -- no two alike – that cluster like a small town at the edge of another front yard, with a little stuffed rabbit peering out of one door. At one house they seem to have taken advantage of a sale on burnt gold spray paint, as that is the color of all the balusters in the porch railing, as well as the wooden rockers on the porch.
And everywhere are the enormous old trees, lots of shrubs and flowers. One of the reasons I love living in the northeast: the lushness of the vegetation. The ubiquitous orange day-lilies are a little past their perky prime – the relentless sun and lack of rain for the past week have drained the blossoms of their sunset brilliance – but they are still to be seen in nearly every yard, their long stems reaching up and leaning forward out of their collar of long, narrow leaves. A number of porches sported hanging baskets overflowing with colorful flowers, and one house even had a great, fat cluster of lavender flowers, seemingly pinned to the middle of the front door (how did they do that?)
I feel very lucky to have found my cozy little house in this lovely neighborhood. When I could be struggling to stay alive in Darfur, or Burma, or even a poverty-entrenched village in Mexico, I have to see how lucky I am. While my job is the source of some frustration for me, and the low salary makes my life very difficult, my home, and my physical surroundings, never cease to give me pleasure.
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