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And here comes the closing prayer. At least the sermon didn’t run overtime. That’s one thing pastors learn within their first week or two of ministry at Orchard Grove. You don’t make the old retirees sit on the patently painful pews for longer than thirty minutes max. Greg’s preaching lasted about twenty-eight minutes, and I could see him up there sweating a little as he raced through his last two bullet points.
I’m just glad it’s over. I’ve got to get home. Got to clean up after my canned ravioli from last night. Got to make sure I don’t leave Mom’s house a dust speck dirtier than it was when she left for my brother’s. I don’t have time for Pastor Greg’s long, drawn-out closing prayer.
I certainly don’t have time for Grandma Lucy to ask for the microphone when he’s done.
Grandma Lucy’s something of a fixture in our little Christian bubble in Orchard Grove. If you go to church in our town, or you have a neighbor who does, or your niece and nephew attended vacation Bible school here one summer, you’ve encountered Grandma Lucy.
I swear that woman’s a hundred years old if she’s a day, and I only say that because she was white-haired and bespectacled when I was a little girl in pigtails nibbling on my Graham crackers and sipping my Tang in the downstairs Sunday school room.
Grandma Lucy’s not the typical sort of Orchard Grove Bible Church congregant. She’s, well, let’s just say that there are at least two pastors who resigned within a month of meeting her. And I don’t mean to imply she’s mean or rude. She couldn’t hurt a fly even if she wanted to because she’s something like four-foot, ten-inches when she’s not bent over, but she lives with this Holy Spirit flame in her that I swear would have the fire department, the fire marshal, all of FEMA, and Smokey the Bear himself dousing themselves with water if it were something you could literally see and measure.
I’m not saying I dislike Grandma Lucy, either. I’m just saying that you do your best to avoid her on Sunday mornings unless you want an hour-long impromptu prayer session. Because she doesn’t sit down and talk to you like a normal person would. She doesn’t even talk at you like some folks are known to do. No, Grandma Lucy prays at you. What I mean is you might think she’s just making small-talk when she asks you how your week’s gone, so you might answer, “Pretty good. I’ve got an English paper due on Tuesday,” and all of a sudden you’ll find her hand hot on your forehead, and she’ll be proclaiming RELEASE from all that’s standing in the way between you and academic success and CREATIVITY for the paper you’ve been called to turn in and a SOUND MIND for your studies and future plans, and then the next thing you know, she’ll be chatting away about the azaleas she planted in her garden yesterday and how she hopes her baby goats don’t eat them.
I know there are some folks at Orchard Grove who are actively terrified of this little ninety-pound grandma, but she doesn’t bother me so much. I’m not saying I seek her out or anything, but I just figure that this little country church would be even more dull and dry without her, so more power to her and that hot little hand of hers. But right now, I don’t need any extra delays. Maybe Pastor Greg doesn’t know it yet. Maybe he’s still too green, but if he gives her that microphone, there isn’t a single person here who’ll be leaving the church before one o’clock.
“Real quick,” the pastor says, “Grandma Lucy has asked for the opportunity to close us in prayer today.” And it’s his use of the phrase real quick that proves just how much of a rookie he is here at Orchard Grove.
Grandma Lucy takes the mic, just like I remember her doing on dozens of different occasions when I was a girl here. It’s something she’s done from the beginning of time, I’m sure, or at least from the beginning of Orchard Grove Bible Church history. Sometimes she does it once a quarter or less. In other seasons it seems like it’s every other week. I don’t know how long it’s been since the last time she’s asked to close the service with a prayer, but Pastor Greg hands her the mic without a hint of reluctance, so I’m assuming this is his first experience.
That poor man has no idea what he’s in for.
I notice several congregants straightening their spines or coughing quietly because that’s what the Orchard Grove women do when Grandma Lucy stands up to pray. It’s their way of showing their displeasure that she’s never joined their missionary league and never attends their fancy teas or fundraising luncheons. Toward the front, Joy’s son is even squirmier than normal.
I know, kid, I want to tell him. I feel your pain.
“Thank you so much, Pastor Greg,” Grandma Lucy says, and she smiles at him so sweetly. He smiles back, which seals my conviction that he currently has no clue what he’s just done. At least the next few minutes will be amusing.
“I want to close us today with a blessing from the book of Isaiah.” That’s Grandma Lucy’s hook. She tells you she wants to offer up a prayer, and then before you know it you’re sitting there listening to a twenty-minute Scripture recitation. I swear that woman has entire chunks of the Bible memorized. Psalms and Isaiah seem to be her favorites from what I can recall, but then again, that was a long time ago so maybe her preferences have changed.
“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and proclaim to her that her hard service has been completed, that her sin has been paid for, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.”
I know it’s rude to get up and leave. Not even the missionary league women have the audacity to do that, but I glance at the time and decide to give Grandma Lucy ten minutes max. Then I’m out of here.
“He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those who have young.” The words remind me of the painting I love, the one of the boy shielding the little girl from the rain with such tenderness in his eyes and in his posture. And of course, I can’t think about that painting without the painful reminder of the night Chris proposed to me, the inscription on my pen.
If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.
I suppose if you’re looking for sheer poetry, Isaiah’s the place to go. But I’m only half paying attention to Grandma Lucy now. I tune her out as best as I can before her words bring back even more memories of Chris. Instead, I think about the rest of my day.
Talking for an hour or two with Justin.
Staring at pictures of my baby girl.
Wishing life hadn’t taken me down this course.
Mental fog. Heavy exhaustion.
Lonely days, dragged-out nights.
That’s life as usual for me now. That’s my life now that Chris is gone.