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Esther
It felt like a kick to the stomach. Esther stopped breathing. She must have heard wrong. She looked around the sanctuary, trying to gauge the reactions of her friends. They looked shocked. Confused. Maybe she had heard correctly.
She returned her eyes to her pastor, but he was expressionless. “I’m sorry about this, ladies,” he said. But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded ready for retirement.
Hot tears filled her eyes, and she let them spill down her cheek. Her arms felt too heavy to reach for a tissue.
“Let’s stand for one more song together,” he said and opened his hymnal.
Esther glanced around again and then followed suit. What else was there to do? Have an emotional outburst? Stomp out of the church in protest? No. She would sing a song with her sisters. Apparently, for the last time.
“Number two thirty-three,” the pastor said, and the organist started to play. Instantly, Esther recognized the familiar notes, even before she saw the hymnal page.
She tried to sing past the lump in her throat, but she was singing a lie. It was not well with her soul. How could God do this? How could he rip her church away from her? This was all she had left! These were her friends. This was her one outing per week. This was her one source of comfort. This was what she looked forward to.
She thought of Russell, and the lump grew too big to sing around. She closed her mouth and silently wept. She’d married him in this sanctuary so many years ago. Their babies had been christened in this sanctuary. And then all their friends and family had said goodbye to Russell in this sanctuary. She looked at the light filtering through the stained-glass window. What would become of those windows? What would become of the building? She looked up at the rafters and breathed in the familiar scent of the place. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. “Change this. Fix this. Make this better. Don’t let this happen to us.” She opened her eyes, but nothing had changed. She looked over at Vicky. Vicky wasn’t singing either. Vicky always sang. She’d been the star of the choir, back when they’d had a choir. Now she just stood there, leaning on the pew in front of her, looking shell-shocked. She hadn’t been married in this church, but her kids had grown up there too. How many Christmas plays and Easter musicals had Vicky and she sat through? How many angel and shepherd costumes had they sewn together?
Vicky caught her staring, and Esther smiled, trying to be encouraging. Vicky did not return the smile. Instead, she returned her eyes to the pastor, and Esther realized something. Vicky was angry. And it was contagious. Esther realized she was angry too: with the pastor, though there was probably nothing he could have done; with the diocese; and, she realized, with God. Her eyes returned to the rafters. Being mad at God made her feel guilty, but didn’t he deserve a little of her wrath right now? How could he do this to her? She’d served him since she was a child, and now, in her final years of life, he was going to take away her entire support system?
Her children lived halfway across the country. They were busy with their own lives, their own families. She didn’t want to be a burden for them. The church was supposed to take care of the widows, and this is what they decided? To throw her out into the street? Who would help her when she needed it? Who would check on her when she was ill? Who would notice when she was missing? Who would notice when she was gone? Where would her funeral be held?
The song ended, and the pastor gave a benediction. Immediately, he was swarmed. “What are we supposed to do?” Barbara asked.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “If I were you, I would find another church. St. Thomas is nice.”
“St. Thomas is not nice,” she snapped, and Esther bit back a laugh. “I don’t want another church. I want my church. Why didn’t they give us any warning? We could have stopped this—”
The pastor held up a hand. “Ladies, there are seven of you. That’s it. That is not enough to keep a church going. If you don’t want to try St. Thomas, I recommend Calvary.”
“Calvary?” Barbara cried. “In Belfast?” That was an hour away. None of them would be driving that far to attend church. None of them could afford to.
“That’s the closest church that is within our diocese,” he tried.
Vicky went after him then, asking what they could do to stop it.
Esther waited for that argument to play out and then asked, “What will happen to the building?”
“I’m sorry,” the pastor said, cupping a hand over his ear. “What did you say, Esther?”
She tried to speak up. “What will happen to this building?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, for now. It will be vacant.”
