The church bell

So I cam back to this after a long period of being busy with teaching/other projects. I have kept the same structure: I suppose I find it difficult to change the structure of a story unless I am unhappy with it (which I am not in this case.) Reading too much Hemingway these days, I have really taken to the idea of truthful sentences, as he describes them - and I have tried to do that here. So I will post the latest edit because...why not.

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The sound of the church bells was enticing on this early Sunday afternoon and I was early for work, so instead on walking past the church as I did every day, I made a left and walked down the small path that led to the large wood door. It was open and the room was empty. I invited myself in, slowly at first for I was afraid someone would jump out at me and tell me I was not welcome. A red carpet led down to a small wooden pulpit. I moved down the rows of oak pews as the wind from the open door pushed me forward. Taking my seat three rows from the front I studied the empty room. A small pot of orange flowers. Two pentagonal stained glassed windows of abstract patterns dimly lit by a cloudy sky. There was nothing to keep my attention so I pushed my glasses away and buried my head in my hands and sat still until a noise made me look up with the expectation to see someone in front of me. I readjusted my glasses and looked around. A tall man in a grey sports jacket over a cobalt dress-shirt and a white collar around his neck stood behind me, his hands pressed against his hips.

“I’m sorry – father?” I said.

“Only to my daughter,” he said with a faint smile and a shake of his head, “Reverend John, or just John.” I wasn’t sure if I should go shake his hand. I didn’t. He walked along the rows scanning for garbage. He made his way to the pulpit and shuffled some papers around. He gave me no acknowledgment. I wandered into his home and invited myself to his sofa and it was all natural to him; someone must do this every day. But it wasn’t natural to me. I was there for a reason, but I didn’t know that was yet. I needed to ask him a question, if only to rationalize my right to be there.

“So Reverend, what was your sermon about today?” He studied my goofy smile and wandering gaze. What should I have said? Should I have asked, “Reverend, what do I do?” Should I have said, “Reverend I am scared?” Too much reading imbued me with the false idea that a simple church had the power to comfort me. He didn’t say anything and neither did I. I continued on my way to work.

I remember when I first noticed the unimposing Anglican Church. Or rather, I remember the incident that happened just before I noticed the unimposing Anglican Church. It was my first year at university and I was walking home from class when I passed by a young man and woman. They were both dressed in a plain white shirt and black pants. They leaned against a table stacked with Bibles. A banner was taped to the front of the table: “Campus for Christ.” The man called out to me as I passed:

“Jesus loves you!”

“Probably not. I’m Jewish.” I continued to walk.

“Wait,” he called, “it’s okay, you’re still cool, it’s alright.” I remember that I laughed at him, or at least that is how I told the story. But I am sure I was angry. How could someone be so genuinely nice and condescending at the same time? What did I have to feel ashamed about? Why did I need his validation? But I told the story in a way that I came out on top, laughing at him over my shoulder and walking away to leave him humiliated. And over the years, in my mind, he became more and more genuinely nice and his silent partner more and more sexualized, her hair colour changing each time. I would not be able to pick either of them out of a small crowd, but they were both happy and successful, their faith provided for their every endeavour.

I seemed to give them a least a second’s thought every time I looked at the church; shaping the characters until they were perfect. They graduated, they had jobs, they had families, and they were happy. They were everything I was jealous of as I walked to a job that didn’t pay enough for groceries, and worked towards a degree that promised more of the same.

Charles,

This reader is hardly qualified to comment on any piece. And that's the truth. Lately the truth has been important. In fact, it's the most important thing there is. It makes no sense to talk about this piece in the old ways; in the predictable, reliable ways. Just compare the two drafts- anyone can see something going on here, even if not everyone can articulate it.

Nobody is fit to give you direction except you. What this reader sees is a struggle "behind your forehead" like the James Joyce quote goes. Tracking these two versions together seems to suggest that you're on your way somewhere. You ought to be excited. Not everybody is on their way somewhere.

Old Jack of Hearts is no critic and never met one he liked (hillwalker being perhaps the exception, although he was more like a writer dressing up like a critic, kind of like when Monty Python puts on drag). So all that's left to offer you is readership and empathy.

Keep on truckin'.







J

It's nearly time for the yearly check-up. Turn your head and cough, Chuck.



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J

Should be retitled 'The Revision That Never Came.' Shame on you.




J