lips in unison with Sister Patsy and the rest of the believers both seen and unseen.
Glancing along the back wall, I was just in time to spot a mischievous nine-year-old point his bony elbow at his seven-year-old brother’s ribs and launch a surprise attack, swiftly jabbing at the exact moment his victim had intended to swallow. Poor brother spat the blood of forgiveness across his lap. Ben and Michael are good boys, joyfully wild in that not-entirely-restrained way afforded by trusting parents. Steve and Betsy had waited a long, long time for those boys, enduring several miscarriages.
Miscarriages. Lord have mercy.
I made sure to tell Bonnie that Betsy had been in worship. The Lewis family attends sporadically, which has put more distance between Steve and me. But our wives have remained close. They have shared tea together every month since Bonnie discerned Betsy’s infertility troubles from a friend of a friend’s insensitive comment in the church parking lot. Often the cup we share is one of sorrow. But there is a red hymnal in their pew marked with an even redder streak across a portion of the Communion liturgy, the telltale stain of horseplay when my boys were about that age, fidgety and mischievous in the exact same pew. Indeed, there is mercy.
Both of my sons are hanging out between semesters, working a little, and mostly doing God-only-knows-what since they do not tell their father. Though away for the summer, they are remembered by many of the faithful sprinkled throughout the sanctuary on Sunday mornings. These witnesses likewise recall that Communion service long ago when a homeless man received the elements with the rest of us and then shuffled slowly down the aisle, departing without a word. He was never seen again, though I think of him often. That was the first time I ever presided alone at the Lord’s Table. And the keepers of this church’s memory preserve the saga of the gold-plated cross gracing the Lord’s Table, which once went missing for months on end and was presumed lost forever until finally discovered in a small cave less than a mile away by a group of children playing Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. No questions were asked, which might represent the difference between mercy and grace.
I happened to notice Jacob’s grandmother offer the remains of her cup to the same sticky fingers. About a year ago, I baptized this little boy in this very sanctuary. How he had cried! More than a few people have reminded me of this fact with a quiet hand on my shoulder and the hint of a hint of a smile. Jacob accepted the drink with quiet reverence during today’s sacrament. But then he declared in his high-pitched voice, “Yes, yes, yes, yes!”
Yes, indeed. I felt a sense of the nearness of Christ.
When I returned home, I found Bonnie wrapped up in her favorite blanket on the living room couch with about a third of the bottle of liqueur. She was poring through one of our oldest family photo albums. I made a pot of tea and joined her, my entrance perfectly timed to appreciate her soft sigh of wonder at one of our favorite images of all time. It is of Nathaniel, our first baby boy, asleep on my chest on another Sunday afternoon. His scrunched up newborn face is slack with utter contentment, his drool pools on my freshly starched shirt. In unison, we quote the doctor’s first words when Nathaniel James Wheeler came into this world.
“What a handsome boy!”
We flipped the page and there he is again, sitting on top of his first bicycle, the one with a yellow seat shaped like a banana. And there he is at his high school graduation, wearing that funny-looking square hat, a noticeable redness on his neck from that morning’s razor burn. Nathaniel paused on stage after receiving his diploma and turned to face the audience. He refrained from show-boating unlike some of the other graduates who made outlandish gestures for shock effect or applause. I admire the way my son savored the moment.
Having zoomed through his life, I fetched the twin album that bore the images of our second child. Bonnie in the hospital bed, smiling wearily. We heard that the second one was easier, but she labored twice as long. From the day he was born, Philip has had a full head of dark hair like his mother. Her green eyes, too. In the next picture, our new baby lies on the couch beside his brother and Nathaniel’s mouth hangs open wide as if in amazement. Yet another of both boys, each wearing a Pirates baseball cap. Pittsburgh has always been our team. Squinting at this fading photo, I can barely distinguish a white blur suspended between Nathaniel’s empty hand and Philip’s outstretched glove. They were five and three because that was our first spring at Talmage Moravian. The sanctuary is visible behind them, which was true for most of their lives.
Now that both are in college, Philip no longer attends church and Nathaniel volunteers with a ministry for high school students. I believe my sons share many of the same ideological commitments; yet they have increasingly crossed swords, clashing during heated dinner conversations and angry phone calls. Sometimes I tell Bonnie this is just another phase, which they will grow out of soon enough like bed-wetting or smoking marijuana. Sometimes I even believe myself.
I do not believe I have been helpful in these matters of dispute. I am prone to defend Nathaniel’s position, which is often in defense of the church, specifically, and the way they were raised, implicitly.
It helps to remember one late summer evening when the boys were in high school and the three of us were fishing in the little pond behind the church. There are no pictures, but I can clearly remember how the weather was unusually cool, not the least bit humid, and how the reds and oranges and pinks of the setting sun were like streaks of paint across the surface of the water’s canvas. But the language of both boys was like ugly graffiti scrawled across a moral landscape. I forget what they were arguing about. I only know that my offspring ignored my plea for peace and quiet, completely impervious to my stated desire. This only made me madder, naturally. But Philip suddenly let out a whoop of excitement. His pole was being pulled out of his hands.
Part of me hoped the catch would turn out to be an old boot or something—a mirage instead of miracle. Despite myself, I shared their excitement as Philip reeled and pulled, fighting whatever it was for all it was worth. As much as we fished, we rarely caught anything. Both boys followed in their father’s footsteps in this regard. Philip finally reeled the fish over to where we were standing on the bank. With a dramatic tug, he pulled it up and out of the water. I watched the squiggly silver projectile sail through the air and land with a thump on the bank, right in the middle of all three of us.
“Wow! Look at that! Amazing!”
They had forgotten their age and how nothing was supposed to impress them. And I had to admit this catch was worthy of exclamation. This is no fisherman’s tale: it weighed at least eight, maybe ten pounds and upon closer inspection was covered in bright colors cascading down both its sides. As it flipped and flopped on the green grass, the fish blurred bright like a kaleidoscope. For a few moments, we all watched in silence.
“Let’s throw it back,” Nathaniel declared. For once, Philip nodded in agreement. Both of them bent down together, working in concert, as Philip held the fish still while Nathaniel eased the hook from its mouth, careful to minimize the damage. He nodded at his brother. Four hands lifted the catch and lowered it back into the pond.
Bonnie would have appreciated that memory. But slightly buzzed and full of her crepes Suzette, she had drifted off to sleep on the couch. After gently transferring her head from my shoulder to a pillow, I decided to drive to the Pleasant Shade Senior Living Community and offer Communion to those who could not attend this morning’s service. Sunday is Sunday, anniversary or not.
Entering the lobby, I noticed an elderly resident slumped in a wingback chair. I assumed he was asleep, his eyes hidden underneath his American flag ball cap, until he jerked his cane toward my Communion set.
“Son, what the hell you got in there?”
I
