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GREG ENDED HIS SERMON at exactly three minutes before noon. The members here were very particular about church dismissing precisely on time, and that was one area where Greg had quickly learned to give in to popular opinion. Not that Katrina would complain. The pews here were probably as old as the church itself, and even though she didn’t suffer from backaches or arthritis like so many members here, she was just as ready as anyone else to leave sooner rather than later.
It was snowing again, which meant that Greg would face another afternoon of shoveling and salting the walkways. It would be nice having the house to herself for a little bit so she could sort through some of her emotions. She’d already decided to stop feeling guilty about Miles. She’d done the right thing last night when she asked him to leave, even though her paranoia was unnecessary and that dream she had was just innocuous. First of all, she’d rationalized it during her husband’s sermon and came to the firm conclusion that Christians couldn’t be held accountable for what their subconscious minds conjured up. Second of all, she was convinced that the dream itself had far more to do with music than anything else. She’d been missing her orchestra friends, longing for the kind of community that can only come when you create such perfect harmonies together. Miles was the first person like that she’d met since arriving here at Orchard Grove, and the intimacy they shared when they made beautiful music together was no different than Katrina working on a duet with her stand partner or practicing with a string quartet. The subconscious mind could be mysterious and bizarre at times, and there was no reason for her to give any more thought to that ridiculous dream.
Greg was about to dismiss everyone when the old woman sitting beside Katrina stood up. “Pastor Greg?” Her voice warbled with age. “Pastor Greg?”
If her husband was surprised to be addressed like that from some strange granny in the pews, he didn’t show it. Stepping out from behind the pulpit, he leaned toward Grandma Lucy and asked, “What can I do for you today?”
“I’d like to close the sermon with a word of prayer if I may.” It was an odd request, but as long as church got dismissed one way or another, Katrina didn’t care who gave the closing. Greg apparently felt the same and handed the microphone to Grandma Lucy without another thought.
“Thank you.” Grandma Lucy turned around to face the congregation, her glance landing on Katrina for a full second. What did that look mean? Katrina thought about the Bible passage she had shared with her earlier.
Why would an old woman read a psalm of repentance and think about Katrina?
“I want to close us today with a blessing from the book of Isaiah.” Grandma Lucy spoke slowly, and Katrina thought she gained a better understanding of what it would feel like to be a cellist playing the infinite loop that was Pachelbel’s Cannon.
“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.” There she went again, harping on sin. And why did her gaze keep landing on Katrina?
“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 that have young.” What, was she going to recite the entire book of Isaiah before letting church out? What had Greg been thinking giving her that microphone? The few congregants Katrina could see out of the corner of her eye fidgeted in their pews. Didn’t Grandma Lucy realize how highly irregular this sort of behavior was? Or maybe she didn’t care.
“The Lord takes such great delight in you.” It was a nice thought, but it wouldn’t get Katrina out of this service any faster. She’d already planned her escape route, the path back to the parsonage that would hopefully involve the least number of awkward exchanges with women who knew about her miscarriage and had all kinds of unhelpful advice to offer.
“He rejoices over you with his singing.” Something in the way Grandma Lucy spoke the words made Katrina stop. He rejoices over you with his singing. She’d already resolved to forget about Miles, their awkward meeting last night in the sanctuary, the far more awkward dream she’d had. So why was her brain fixating on this verse?
“He rejoices over you with his singing,” Grandma Lucy repeated, “like a bridegroom rejoices over his bride.”
Without meaning to, Katrina glanced at her husband, who stood beside Grandma Lucy looking awkward, out of place, and more than a little bewildered. She wanted him to look at her too. Wanted to see in his eyes the same spark, the same passion and love that had first drawn them together. It was hard to believe they’d only been married half a year. It felt more like half a lifetime, like all the mundane worries of life had already sucked away their delight in one another.
Like a bridegroom rejoices over his bride. Katrina had never liked those Bible passages that compared the church to Christ’s bride or anything like that, probably because she’d inherited such a skewed view of marriage to begin with from her mother. It wasn’t until she started dating Greg that the verses started to make sense. And that phase had lasted all of a few weeks so that now the most delight either of them took in their marriage was when they could go to bed and fall asleep without breaking into some sort of argument.
Maybe her mom was right. Maybe Katrina was wrong to expect anything different. Maybe the fairytale really was a lie after all.