Agrimonia parviflora or swamp agrimony is a plant found in wet woodland patches and ditches, oak-hickory forests, and margins of calcareous marshes. Tiny leaflets are interspersed between adjacent pairs of large leaflets. In Wisconsin, this is a Special Concern plant. At the cathedral these grow in our bio-swales, mingling with the Job’s tears and swamp milkweed.
–Note from Dean Brigid Brenchley’s Prairie Journal
Saturday Lunchtime
So today inside an unharmed church on a city block of charred plants and ash, the parish pretty much comes unglued. The place is packed, so packed that we have to assemble in the cathedral’s nave.
“No Max. Nor Madge,” I whisper this observation to Phil.
We sit together up near the large eagle-shaped lectern with its feather-scales of oak, as members of the cathedral file in. Our roles as dean and board chair place us in tandem naturally.
“I noticed.” Phil adds, “Max is most at work when he’s most invisible. He’s surely sent his proxies. Though, I must say he was civil, even helpful, working through the insurance. Of course it’s a perfect alibi.”
“Hmmm. Delilah or Max? Now there’s a pair to draw to.”
“Or Delilah and Max. Did you see how she looked at him while they were loading her in the ambulance?”
The assembled parish members look restive and the cathedral bells ring the appointed hour. So I don’t reply. To me the crowd’s mood evokes Les Misérables. But the bell stops tolling and Phil courageously steps up to the microphoned eagle. He welcomes everyone and calls the meeting to order.
“Undoubtedly, you all have questions and concerns, and Dean Brenchley and I are here to field those. We know how much each of you cares about St. Aidan’s.”
Then I step up beside him. “Despite being a little smoky, the building is fine everyone. Let us take a moment of silence and for that grace let’s thank God deeply.”
As I am bowing my head, for a second I glance toward the north where the fire occurred just outside the Meservey window. I can’t believe it, but I spy three goldfinches that have slipped inside through a gap in the leaded glass. I close my eyes, uttering my own prayer to God,
Lord, you are the vine, we are the branches. You have to keep us connected. You must be both the source of love and of justice here. You must root us in you. Please.
I allow space for others to utter their prayers. When I open my eyes and raise my head, the birds are still there at the window. Distracting, right when I need to be a focused leader.
“Why don’t we just start with your questions,” I say as I scan their faces.
“We raised five hundred thousand dollars for this goddamn greenspace,” Artemis says. She has never been a big fan of the prairie. “What now? Did the fire ruin the plantings?”
Marianna, since the cathedral building is not compromised, looks a little like the Cheshire cat. She got her prairie burn! She rises to her feet.
“Great question. But the news is good. On American prairies, fires were commonplace, part of a natural cycle,” she explains. “The grass species will actually get a boost. Now, the red twigged dogwoods, they’ll suffer. Might need insurance funds to replace those. The flowering forbs will show a little shock, but overall, for the prairie, the fire was a positive.”
“Well, it looks like hell. Literally,” says Manford Reynolds, a banker and one of the members Max says will leave if we don’t accept the hotel deal.
“It’s sure to raise liability concerns with the downtown business community, many of whom already found the space unkempt,” says Mona Reynolds, Manford’s wife. She is an architect. “I say, it’s time to re-think the use of that section of our property.” Mona is no slouch. She had a hand in the huge West Des Moines mall that Ivan and Merlin call The Emerald City. She has a following, though most of the older families find her designs a bit garish.
“Dean Brenchley, Mr. Morrow,” Manford continues, in an oratorical tone that sounds rehearsed, at least in his head if not in a Chase boardroom, a little the way Max communicates. Is it because they were all packed off to boarding schools at fifteen, I wonder? “Isn’t it time you two apprise parishioners about the generous sum of money St. Aidan’s has been offered? And for this now-charred bit of land! A proposal you have been holding captive from the rest of us!”
Ouch. Save my soul. Okay, he’s right, it is time.
“What? Dean Brigid, after our last dean was cagey if not deceptive, you promised you’d always be open with us!”
“The hotel agents just came a couple of days ago,” I assure them.
“We need to look closely at the offer with legal and real estate experts, then with the bishop and chancellor of the diocese, and then confer with the full board of directors,” Phil explains.
I’ve found that public meetings like this often sound like a Colorado stream after winter snow. There is a lot of sound underneath, which is a little mesmerizing and disorienting, a lot of layers of conversation whispering and gurgling as people try to comprehend news.
“How much is the offer?” someone asks.
“Three million, seven hundred twenty thousand dollars,” I tell them.
The ululation I imagined in my daydreams is pretty close to reality. No one strips and starts dancing, but the murmurs definitely leap into some astounded cheers.
“Are you kidding?”
“Take it!”
“Immediately!”
Uh-oh. Marianna looks mad and mortified. She is scanning the room for who will rise and defend our environmental efforts. No one so far. She again jolts to her feet.
“After all our work? The prairie project was fully backed by the board and the parish,” she reminds people, raising her voice. “Do you know the pollutants we capture? Do you want to add to the flood crisis all around us? How fickle is that? Well, over my dead body.”
Prairie conflagration, now parish conflagration. Sweet Jesus.
“The prairie is just taking off,” Jason comes to Marianna’s support.
“We have a full schedule of school kids coming for outdoor classrooms,” Elena adds.
These three stand together, arms folded, like an A.C. Milano human wall in a soccer shoot out. I feel disoriented being cut off from them by my role and the podium. They’re my team, my adopted family. I want to go stand by them and also fold my arms as others take shots at the land and grasses, not to mention the people of Marshland.
“Worship is what we are about, not gardening,” Roosevelt blasts. “The disrepair of this building can’t go on. Neglect. It’s an affront to God.”
A mild-mannered member of the cathedral board, Harold Manse has caught sight of the goldfinches.
“Do my eyes deceive me or are there birds in here? Can’t get much more in need of repair than that!” He points to where they have flitted into the Lady Chapel. The whole assembly of forty-plus people turns.
“I knew the Lady Chapel linens were being tainted with strange green drops!” Artemis says and rushes to shoo the birds back outside. I see one finch deftly hide behind the marble Christ Child in Mary’s lap, a little the way I behave when Artemis storms my way.
People start shouting a myriad of different opinions at me, at Phil, at one another.
Episcopalians, even in the Midwest, don’t tend to be shy about their views, but I have never seen such a church commotion. It’s like the trout stream has reached Elk Falls and the community is plummeting over the edge, sure to crash and fracture on the rocks below.
My spirit asks, Did Max do this? Start it all? Pay Delilah? Give Manford Reynolds a script?
We’ve survived a fire, and all they can think about is money! Makes my pastor’s heart sink. I thought we’d come so far. I realize that I do care about the whole crazy community, not just the prairie team. My head swims as I scan their faces. Though Manford and Mona Reynolds are pretty pompous, they have the sweetest teenage daughter on the planet who has talked to me about a possible call to the priesthood. I am with Harold Manse many Saturday mornings at Habitat for Humanity building projects. Retired from middle management, he is gifted with a hammer and lathe and adores nothing more than building houses for new families. He helped restore Henry and Pearl’s home. Artemis’ mother is slipping into dementia, and I have held Artemis in my arms as she wept when her mother no longer recognized who she was. Artemis let me weep in her arms when my parents had to cancel a recent trip to visit me due to lack of money. At St. Aidan’s, we do these things: are lives are woven and intertwined.
But now this issue of land or hotel is taking a machete to our bonds. Amidst the clamor, Burton rises.
His tall form and accents of gray demand respect; at St. Aidan’s, Burton has substantial street cred. He clears his throat and his visage bestows dismay at the disarray of his life-long faith community. The group quiets and shifts. The public mood is divisive, but also, perhaps, looking for someone to provide a way through.
“The dean and board chair…They have not been covering this offer up. Let’s be clear about that,” Burton declares in a tone fit for the statehouse—deliberate, authoritative. “The dean has shared it openly with me and has begun to seek input and advice from others, too. I believe she has discussed it with Mr. Chase for instance. Dean Brenchley, am I right?”
I nod. I smile.
Burton is a gem and a political genius! That will show Max for making himself scarce. “As Episcopalians,” Burton continues, “our policy is clear: the Cathedral Chapter, the proper name for our board, together with the dean, decides matters of real estate.” He turns to me: “Dean Brenchley.” Then he turns to Phil: “Chairman Morrow. Are you two bringing this matter formally to the next board meeting? I believe it is Tuesday?”
What I’d like to do with Phil is run off to the Virgin Islands, let him show me his bromeliads, and forget this whole damn mess! Phil and I exchange glances, both well-aware that Burton, the old organizer, with shrewd political finesse, is throwing us a life-preserver.
Dear God, thank you for Burton, I pray and follow his lead.
“Yes, Burton. Everyone, we have told the developers and the agents of the Hotel Savant that no decision will be made until the cathedral board discusses it thoroughly.”
Phil adds, “We will be looking over various related documents between now and Tuesday’s meeting, and between now and then please feel free to give your thoughts and opinions to me, to Dean Brenchley, to Burton, or any board member. We will take them into consideration.”
It isn’t until now that I see Henry and Pearl in the pew with the others. Their belongings are now safely in my office. Pearl’s often intimidated to speak publicly, but usually Henry would be very much in the mix in any parish discussion. But they’ve said very little. As much as they love St. Aidan’s, I imagine the fire—especially since everything is fine —is second in their minds to the flood threat. In fact, Henry’s countenance, with the bags under his eyes, seems to silently question why everyone has their panties in a wad. In past meetings, he might have said something to that effect, like: “I say we be thankful we’re not debating inside the burned out shell of a cathedral.”
I am pretty sure that is what he is thinking, but he doesn’t say it; he doesn’t look like he’s feeling himself. At that moment I come to my senses. I realize we need to be praying for the Joneses and all the vulnerable people in our city. I feel overwhelmed by the politics, but I can lead us toward prayer.
“I can’t believe anything can burn after all this rain,” I say and step in toward the eagle microphone, getting us back to the original reason for the meeting. “But the fire chief said that the abundant rain and the rain gardens may actually have saved us. Saved the building. However, the rising river is threatening some neighborhoods. Even some of our parish families. The Jones family for one. Henry and Pearl have said I can share that with you.”
Henry and Pearl nod as congregation members send compassionate looks their way. In fact, remembering the flood concern has a strange effect upon our communal consciousness. At least momentarily, it dissipates the anger and enmity, like the water from the firemen’s hoses dissipated the flames. Or like when the stream clears the falls and spills into a broad, peaceful meadow.
With panache, Phil seizes the lull. “So that concludes our meeting. I am most willing to discuss any of these matters individually with anyone, but let’s recess to the Parish Hall.”
“And anyone who wants to stay and pray,” I say, “gather with me in the chancel. Having learned of the fire while away at the House of Bishops’ meeting, Bishop Farnon sent a note urging us above all to remain constant in prayer.”
Most of the congregation leave, some to further vent with Phil. But like a collection of worldly monks, the usual suspects make a small rectangle in the chancel pews that face one another. Before getting into a pew, Merlin stops to confer. We can overhear Artemis in the sacristy swearing a blue-streak as she soaks the bird pooped fine linen.
“How much stress can we bear? A fire, a flood, and a parish battle,” I ask, “and in the middle of this, my ninety-year-old grandmother arrives for a visit!”
“You? What about me?” retorts Merlin. “Tonight is the gala! But, alas, a cathedral on fire is a little more important than petit-fours from Chocolaterie Vie.”
I take my place at the dean’s prie-dieu. Pearl, Henry, and Nick, who again has his favorite truck, slide into the pew directly across from me. Henry and Pearl look weighed with worry, but luckily their grandson is a bright distraction. Nicholas disappears except for a few tufts of hair sticking straight up as he runs his truck back and forth along the pew seat.
Hummmm, mmmmm.
Harold Manse, whom I can imagine will be our most torn board member, comes and sits near me. That calms me a little, considering the fact that Manford and Mona Reynolds, on their huffy way out of the meeting, confirmed that if we reject the hotel offer they will join the suburban parish in West Des Moines, where pragmatic people pray. On top of the Chases, the Reynoldses pulled pledge could be catastrophic to the budget.
Artemis clip-clops in from the sacristy in her heels and plunks down behind Merlin. I can tell she is miffed, but I give her credit for being present nonetheless. Marianna, Burton, and Maxine come in together and ascend the few steps into the chancel. Maxine steadies Burton slightly so he doesn’t slip on the marble. They sit next to Henry and Pearl and ask solemnly about evacuation plans.
It’s a small band. But when you’ve survived a fire you’ve got to take time to give thanks.
The report is that even Delilah is okay. Simon visited her this morning. We can’t see him, but Roosevelt the organist soon manifests he’s stayed, too, wrapping us in a gentle version of the Jubilate. Surely it voices his deep gratitude that the fire didn’t make flaming pillars of our French Canadian contre violon organ pipes.
When I picture those pipes wrapped in flames, I wonder again if Max would be warped enough to pay Delilah to set a fire. But I quell that thought, and instead open my Book of Common Prayer to the old form of the Prayers of the People and try to turn all of it over to the Divine:
Let us pray for the Church and for the World.