Peoples' [sic] Vineyard Rock

II. What Never Happened

We'd talk sometimes about the weekend retreat at Edith's that one time. It was supposed to be everybody, but only three of us showed up. How she put on her dinner gown, and her heels, and her pearls, and had her driver's license ready, to take delivery of pizza at the door. A dozen extra-large, so four per soul. She'd put in the order a few days ahead, to be on the safe side, and had laid in Costco-sized jugs of Diet Dr. Pepper that she said she'd already mostly stirred the bubbles out of. We took the left-over jugs to the building we used, so we'd have something to pour in the plastic cups at communion.

This one time, Mary said she'd seen an ad on the local TV station for volunteers to serve Thanksgiving dinner at the mission. Ernie had this superannuated Plymouth Voyager, that he kept calling a "Voyageur" without trying to be funny, and bunch of us met at the building and went. Eaoim admitted he was nervous, but thought he better come along anyway so he wouldn't 'miss his life or something'. Edith brought along her left-over coupons for Diet Dr. Pepper.  Ivor sported a bow tie in burnt puce or whatever that thirty-eighth color in the Crayola pack was, and optimistically brought his contrabassoon. When we got there the big service kitchen seemed to be piled everywhere with boxes of food and stacks of dishes, and there were just a few people who seemed to all know each other chopping vegetables and talking and stuff who looked up and stared at us when we came in. The guy we checked in with seemed like he didn't know what to do at first, but then finally said, "I'll tell you what, team. We have more volunteers than we know what to do with this time, so you all get to go back home and enjoy the rest of the holiday. Thanks for coming out anyway." On the ride back Eaoim went on about how disappointed he was, but it seemed more like he was relieved that he'd managed to do his good deed by getting himself told not to do so.

We met every Tuesday, five to seven PM, because that's when we could get the building we shared. A sort of Quonset hangar out in the industrial park. Between a Burger King with bars in the bulletproof drive-through window, that served as the church washrooms, and an abandoned lot filled with rusting fridges and stoves and stuff. We managed to move one of the fridges into the hangar and got it sort of working. Nobody wants warm Dr. Pepper at communion. And across from a diesel pumping station. Where only the king of kings might stoop to join us, if ever anyone. We chipped in for the few hundred a month it cost us, and for part of Pastor Jimmy's salary. Sometimes, we'd have to pause the service when the roar of a diesel engine outside got too loud. Sometimes, as a special treat to ourselves for going to church, we'd go to the Burger King afterwards, and sometimes people would glance at us and smirk while we said grace over our Whoppers, variously with and without cheese, and fries and Diet Cokes.

Some of us would show up early to help set up the folding chairs and the card tables we were allowed to keep there. And the candles, bubblegum-scented because they were on sale, and the plastic cross from Walmart. Eaoim would stumble-bum his way through the superfluous 'Welcoming' and made-up 'Announcements'.   Then we'd sing, and pray, and share, and listen to a message from pastor Jimmy, and talk about whichever book of the Bible we were doing. Pastor Jimmy said he was ordained off the internet. Sometimes, the rain on the corrugated steel superstructure, along with the occasional 'Poot!' from the contrabassoon, made it seem melancholy in there, but also kinda goose-bumpy.

And for a little while, each week, we, at least, had each other. Drawn together by the beautiful delusion that even we could at least pretend to have social value. And the beautiful hope that wherever two or more are gathered in His name, He really is there also. Even here. Even with us. And, if the wind was just right, you could even smell the deep fat fryer from next door.

If you're looking for Jesus, that's where he is. Out in the industrial park, every Tuesday. Out among the lepers and the weak betas. Where he's always been. With the only ones who can see him. The last of us.

Here. Down at the bottom of the world. Where everything is broken.

God, they were so beautiful, each one of them.  It still hurts.