(What happens when the newcomers outnumber the incumbents in the new country? It begs the question whether discrimination can occur in reverse? Is mono-culture or multi-culture the answer? This is my favourite story although it's a tad long, first published in my story collection Fringe Dwellers (Hidden Brook Press) in 2008, and now in its second edition)
Let My People Stay!
The Rev. Julia Styles looked out from the rectory and across the road towards St. John’s. It was a beautiful spring morning and the grove of sugar maples under the old matriarch tree shading the front entrance would soon be in bloom. In no time, her church would be returning to nature and become worthy of its name again – St. John’s-among-the-Maples. Beneath its large, new neon sign, the caption, “All Christians are welcome,” echoed the beliefs of its founding fathers from fifty-five years ago. On Sundays, the parade of Mercedes’ and BMW’s will arrive with the Chinese service goers. The poorer ones will come via public transport, or on foot, for the outdoor service under the large tent that has taken up the old parking lot; and they come from all over now, even as far as the lakeshore. It seemed like only yesterday when getting newcomers, let alone younger people to come to Sunday service had been an uphill battle. Now you couldn’t keep them away. God had indeed willed it, and she was happy for this.
She took the little white tablets out of the bottle; she needed more of them now just to keep that demon of pain at bay. Swallowing them down and steadying herself, she put on the ‘nature’ chasuble made by the children, over her white alb. It was covered in prints of trees from all over the world, which the children had hand painted: maples, akee trees, bamboo shoots, coconut palms. Today was also her special day, her day of reckoning, she knew. Her mind went back disjointedly to the events that had led to this pass. It had all started about five years ago.
***
“We can’t run like this anymore – it’s all deficits,” Marion Derby, the senior warden and treasurer said. “The Women’s Auxiliary is in deficit, the Sunday school is without a teacher, the building is in need of repairs and our weekly intake is less than our expenses.”
The annual general membership meeting was in full swing, and Rev. Julia looked among the audience of regulars. Old Joe Smiley sat in the same seat he had occupied when she was still a teenager. His wife had passed away the previous year and the man was going downhill fast; he even had an oxygen tank and tubes in his nostrils. The number of canes and walkers had gradually increased and Julia was glad for the investment they had made in the elevator soon after she took over as pastor from Rev. Morris six years prior to this very day. It had drained the building fund but at least these folks could get around inside the church now – including going to the hall downstairs for coffee after service, and to other social celebrations that kept this community together.
Harry Bailey, retired high school teacher and former warden, piped up, “I didn’t hear that clearly – my hearing aid’s acting up. Why the devil are we in deficit? We ran our affairs so well all these years. I would think the new wardens need to get their act together.”
Here it comes, thought Julia, the same old factional bickering – a disease that spread among this aging population faster than the cancers and strokes that were killing them off steadily. But then, old people do get cranky, she reminded herself.
“Just a moment, Harry,” Julia said. “It’s not a question of the wardens not doing their job. We saw the aging of this community years ago. We have not been successful in bringing new people to the church. Now we are paying a price.”
“People who would come to this church have left the area – moved to the burbs –Ajax,Whitbyand the like” someone piped up from the back row.
“There are only them immigrant types now,” Joe wheezed through his oxygen tubes. “I got two of ’em on either side of my house – oriental looking.”
“Maybe we haven’t been inclusive enough,” Julia said, knowing this would provoke a reaction.
“Wha’d’ya mean?” Maggie Kendrick, head of the Women’s Auxiliary jumped up. “They came to this country – they gotta play by our rules – isn’t that right?”
There were hesitant “yeas” in the room. Five years ago, when Julia had suggested a multicultural service the “nays” from this group had been louder. There had been more of them too, now many were dead, and the rest were not so sure.
Marion Derby brought the gavel down. “All this debate is well and good, but we don’t have all evening. So here are our options. We can either wind up matters – that is “die with dignity” as our church leaders say, or we can partner, amalgamate, join – whatever you want to call it – with another church.”
“You have a third option.” Julia whispered inMarion’s ear.
“Yes, as Julia here reminded me, we have an offer from the local Christian Chinese Association, the CCA, to hold their services in our church. Their start-up donation alone will wipe out a big chunk of our debt.”
A dead silence descended on the room as everyone digested this bit of information.
Then Maggie steamed up again, “And they’ll turn this place into something unrecognizable. Soon we’ll be burning joss sticks.”
“Getting rid of the debt is not a bad idea,” Harry said. Then he shrugged. “On the other hand, I don’t know. Maybe, as Maggie says, it’s not a good thing after all. We’ve always managed without outsiders.”
“They’ll stop us from coming to service!” Joe wheezed. “I know; they never talk to me. Every time I say ‘good morning’ they nod and run indoors.”
“Maybe your neighbours don’t understand English very well, Joe,” Julia said. “Folks, I know this is a lot to deal with. Why don’t you reflect on this? Pray on it and ask God for guidance. We have some tough choices ahead of us.”
***
Two months later, Julia walked among the maples in the evening twilight and reflected on that day’s events. The proposal to accept the CCA, made by the wardens that morning, had been ratified by the congregation at a special general meeting. It had not been an easy event and there had been a lot of soul searching and angst.St. John’sneeded the money, no question, and its members had agreed reluctantly – some even shedding a few tears. Following the vote, Julia made the call herself that afternoon on Mr. Charles Wang, president of the association, at his offices inAgincourtwhere he ran a trading company.
Mr. Wang was a slight man of fifty-five, with thinning grey hair and large glasses. He was dressed in a suit. He rose from his desk, bowed and shook hands with his guest. Julia towered over his five foot-nothing height. He kept craning his chin upward making his neck seem longer than normal. He fussed about ordering a clerk to bring tea, coffee or anything that the priest wanted, all of which Julia politely refused. Finally she settled on a glass of water, just so she would not offend him.
“Ah, Rev. Styles, that is good news. At last we have our church.”
His office was adorned with large rattan chairs, porcelain jugs reaching above her head and large paintings depicting the years of the Chinese calendar. But interspersed in all this ethnicity were photographs of the queen, the prime minister ofCanadaand the Toronto Maple Leafs. Outside the office, clerks and other employees rushed back and forth speaking animatedly in Mandarin.
“Mr. Wang. May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.” Mr. Wang beamed.
“Most of your community is in this area and there are many churches here that offer service in your language, why are you coming down to our side of town?”
“Ah, but yours is the area where the regular Canadians live. We must be there. Not in our little box, no?”
“You call this area your box?”
“Well, you see, it is like this. One Chinese person comes, then he brings another, because he has no one here. Then they bring others. Very soon we have so many of our own kind to talk to and we don’t need anyone from outside. But all the time our children are going to Canadian schools and don’t like their parents ‘ghetto’ – yes, that is the word?”
“So you are trying to get out of your ghetto?”
“It is a great privilege for us.” Mr. Wang beamed again. “More water?”
“No thank you. I must be going. As I mentioned our service is atten o’clockin the morning. You can have yours in the afternoon.”
“Afternoon very good for us – everyone will come. And we can also use the hall?”
Julia hesitated. “Well the hall wasn’t part of the deal – but if it’s not in use by one of our various committees, you can have it. Give us plenty of notice. The Building committee would also appreciate a donation for the use of the facility which goes towards its maintenance.”
“Ah, no problem. Money is no matter – we will pay. You won’t have any more financial problems now.”
Julia began to flush. Is this how Judas felt when he received the thirty pieces of silver? But this was not just her doing – the membership had spoken. She was merely the messenger. She shrugged off her feeling of guilt. “I wasn’t thinking purely of money, Mr. Wang. The building needs upkeep.”
Mr. Wang deftly rose from behind his huge desk and came over, took her hand and escorted her to the door. “Thank you Rev. Styles – this is a big day for us.”
Now she walked in the fading twilight among the maples and wondered if they had done the right thing.St. John’swas certainly going to change radically. But wasn’t change part of growth?
She remembered when her father Jack had returned from the war, when all the men in the neighbourhood had returned. She had been about ten then. The men had been silent, some stayed in their homes all day; others went to the hospital regularly to have various missing limbs and injuries treated. Jack hadn’t been hurt, but his tone towards her mother changed; he snapped often and went out drinking with the guys every weekend. Julia would go down to the garden in Old Bailey’s dairy, and pray under the maple trees. The suburbs were filling up and there were no more spaces to pray in the old churches built before the war; there was also no church in her fast growing sub-division. Those moments of prayer were better than any of the formal services she had ever attended. She would strum tunes like “The Garden” and “My Cathedral” on her guitar as she sat and meditated under the trees. One Sunday morning, her father, returning home from a night on the town with his pals, found her deep in prayer under the giant sugar maple and suddenly grabbed her hand and said, “Honey, the diocese agrees, we are going to build ourselves a church.”
That day he stopped his carousing, got the men rounded up and they converted the old dairy into a church, helped by a grant of land from old Mr. Bailey himself, who had lost both his sons in the war. The men volunteered their time, working night and day and on weekends while the women kept the food lines coming. To the men it was just like a battle, and they went about it with grim purpose. She remembered her father issuing orders through his megaphone as he surveyed the construction. She had never seen him more animated since his return from Europe. St. John’s-in-the-Maples was built in three months. At the opening ceremony, her father squeezed her hand and said, “Julie, remember you must always have a purpose, it gives you reason to go on.” Two months later, with the church fully operational and the men returning to their normal activities, including her father to his weekend binges, Jack Styles blew his brains out with his hunting rifle and the community was shocked, but the men only nodded grimly.
She prayed for guidance after that. Her mother became depressed and would stay in her room for hours while Julia cooked, studied and generally tried to keep the whole show going. And she played her guitar and prayed when the emotional load got too heavy. At eighteen, and on the cusp of entering university to take a degree in divinity, she met Rob, a handsome, rather rakish engineering grad with a red sports car. She remembered nights at the movies, Rob driving like a maniac along Kingston Road, the first night they made love up on the bluffs. He had given her a trillium that day. Even to this day she maintained a trillium bed in the church garden, which the children were forbidden to touch. On the night of her graduation, Rob asked her to marry him. She prayed to God for answers. Was this the right thing to do? She never got a chance to answer him. That night after the graduation dinner, with a little more to drink than usual, Rob drove his red sportster into a tractor trailer and died on the spot. She survived the crash and was left with her evening gown stained in his blood and the divine answer she had been looking for. The next month Julia enrolled in divinity school.
The fifties, and even into the late sixties, were great times to be a priest. Churches were booming. Children filled Sunday school classes; there were christenings and confirmations by the dozen and people religiously came to service because there was really nothing else to do in this city on the Lord’s Day. The formality and spiritual rush she felt when celebrating the Eucharist was intoxicating. No wonder priests felt so different from mere mortals. Yet she missed those quiet moments of meditation among the maples when she had felt nearer to God than when in front of hundreds of people chanting hymns during a regular Sunday service.
During that period, Julia moved from church to church all over the province, doing four or five-year stints at each stop, always coming into a new community with lots of determination to make a difference, always leaving with tears over the many hearts and souls she had touched and changed. In the mid seventies, when her mother became ill with the cancer that had taken many of her family, Julia got a position as assistant to Rev. Morris atSt. John’sso she could be near to her only living relative.
Walking now under the maples, she remembered how the neighbourhood’s demographics had slowly changed. It started soon after her mother died. The war generation started moving out as they became empty-nesters in the early eighties – down to cottage country or elsewhere out of the clutches ofToronto. The new entrants were immigrants from all over: China, the Caribbean, India, Sri Lanka and the Middle East. These were people unfamiliar to her, but the children were sweet; they spoke English or picked it up quickly in school. But there was no Christian religious instruction in the public school system now, so how could she attract these new families to church? Many of them already had other religions. The only thing in common appeared to be the struggle they all underwent as newcomers to this country; trying to hook onto career paths, climbing social ladders and making economic progress. Providing counsel to immigrants on these subjects was, unfortunately, outside her mandate or experience.
Even the suburban bungalow-style housing, so characteristic of her community, began to change. Because of the immigrant influx, re-zoning had led to high rise apartment complexes springing up around the parish. Emerging from themaple groveand looking skywards she saw the lights from these new structures. One particularly large apartment building just across the street, was about to be completed this summer; it was twelve stories high and nearly a block across and its shadow darkened the parking lot that had always been so sunny. Dust from its construction was constantly in the yard. On his first visit toSt. John’s, Mr. Wang had seen and approved, “Good, just like Hong Kong, lots of construction – sign of health.”
***
“They’ve strung up a big Chinese sign and it’s covering our notice board!” Maggie Kendrick came storming into the minister’s office one Saturday afternoon as Julia was preparing her sermon.
“It’s for their service tomorrow. Mr. Wang asked my permission.”
“But no one will see our special service information.”
“Be serious Maggie, who does anyway? That board is so obscurely placed no one drives out here just to read it. I’m sorry to sound negative, but that is the truth. And what’s wrong with sharing our church with people who want to worship, even if it’s in their format?”
“My God, have you become one of them? Has their money gotten to you too?”
“No, I’m simply trying to be charitable.”
Maggie grunted and sat down. She fussed about with her papers. Then she got up and paced.
“Something bothering you, Maggie?”
“It’s George, he’s not doing too well again.”
“Oh, you should have told me. Do you want me to come over?”
“No, it’s all right. I have to manage haven’t I? All the others – Marion, Agatha, Phyllis – they all lost theirs, didn’t they?”
“Shall I put his name down in our ‘prayers for the people’ section? At least, we can pray for him.”
Maggie came closer and there were tears in her normally feisty eyes. “I’m scared this time, Julia. I can feel it, he’s not gonna pull through.”
Julia rose and embraced Maggie. The woman was trembling. “Now, now, you know, we are always with you.”
“Is that what dying with dignity means?”
“What?”
“What they said the other day that we are all dying off, and all this church is doing is seeing us off to the hereafter before shutting its doors.”
Embracing this dear parishioner who had given so much of her life and time to this church, Julia was unable to respond. She merely held Maggie closer.
***
“Mr. Wang, I cannot agree to this. You know my parishioners have been attending theten o’clockservice for decades. They will not settle for an afternoon service.”
“But afternoon not convenient for my people. Many working now because of Sunday shopping. Your people are retired, no?”
“That’s not the issue.”
“We have too many protestations in our association about afternoon service now. Maybe we will have to move to another location. But we like your location. Would you please reconsider?”
Julia paced her office. Her guest sat silently watching her every movement.
“I will put it to the committee. This will not be an easy decision for them.”
“Much financial risk for you, if they say ‘no’, no?” He rose and bowed. “Make decision soon. We can’t wait.”
***
“What’s next? We gave them the hall, gave them the morning service, now they want to be on our committee?” Maggie Kendrick was livid. George had just passed away two weeks earlier, and she was still in deep grieving.
“They are now contributing about sixty five percent of the finances. For the first time this year we have a surplus to help with outreach,” Marion Derby said, peering over the ledgers, trying to remain neutral.
“They’re gonna take us over.” Joe Smiley said wheezing and gasping for air through his oxygen tubes.
“We can’t always have them on the outside,” Julia said. “As demanding as they are at times, they have a right to be included.”
“But they will soon discontinue our services.” Harry Bailey said, “That’s what they’ll do. It’s all about money with them. All those auctions and donations and stuff going on here. Never seen that in my time.”
“Come now Harry, Julia said. “Your generation built this church. My dad was one of your buddies. You had fund-raising then too; we’ve all done it at one time or other. We just haven’t been successful in recent times, while the CCA has.”
“But not like this – a hundred dollars for a ticket to their anniversary dinner?”
Marion Derby cleared her throat. “If I can bring you folks back to the point we are discussing, Mr. Wang has asked to be represented on our governance committee.”
“And I say ‘no’!” Maggie Kendrick erupted.
Julia went over to her and put her arm around her, and the older woman burst into tears.
“Oh, well – let ’em in.” Harry said in disgust. “Let ’em in and let’s be done with it. This place is not what it used to be, anyway.”
“This place is changing Harry,” Julia looked up from tending to Maggie. “The war changed you men permanently. Now we have to be open to the changes in our neighbourhood.”
“I wish I could go somewhere else, up to Keswick or somewhere. But I can’t afford it anymore.” Harry banged his walking stick on the floor.
After further debate and a downwardly spiralling argument to exclude the CCA, a vote was taken and Mr. Wang got his place on the committee.
***
One day, she tried standing in front of the newly opened apartment building across the road –HaltonTowers– handing out flyers aboutSt. John’sand inviting the new residents to come and worship. Passers-by extended hands mechanically and took the brightly coloured leaflets, but no one looked excitedly at the “good news” in them. They seemed pre-occupied with the work of putting bread on the table, juggling jobs and minding kids, the daily struggle of new immigrants starting at ground zero. A young woman with two children in tow was staring at her. In between her distribution activities, Julia observed the woman closely. She looked like a Tamil, dark long hair, thinly built; she was wearing a cross and chain.
“Hello, I’m Julia Styles from St. John’s.”
“I know.”
“Oh”
“My husband and I came for your service once – very traditional, no? We couldn’t follow. And the Chinese service too, but we can’t understand their language.”
“You’ve been toSt. John’s?”
“We were at back of church. People were staring. We are not used. Another priest was saying the mass.”
“Oh, that must have been Reverend Gillies, my back-up. I must have been on a retreat. Will you come again?”
“I like to. But my husband very shy.”
“What service did you have in your native country?”
“We are from northernSri Lanka. Our church was burnt in the war. We prayed in the open or in our homes sometimes.”
“Are you happy here?”
“Not like back home, but better – no killing, at least. My family all killed. Mother, father, two brothers. All killed.” The woman was resolute in her delivery as if she were talking about the weather. But Julia realized that this young woman had the maturity she too had attained at a young age – a maturity that comes with intense and tragic loss.
“Will you try and come out at least one more time? We need people like you.”
The woman averted her eyes. Then she pulled the hand of the toddler and made to go indoors. “I will try.”
“What is your name?”
“Mira. Mira Kandasamy.”
“God go with you Mira.”
Mira smiled and a faint playfulness exuded. “God is with me, even though I don’t come to your church. He led me out of hell inSri Lanka. And saved my children also.”
Then pushing the little boy ahead of her and carrying the infant, she went through the front doors and was swallowed up in the building.
***
“You, what?” Rev. Julia Styles was aghast. The proposal from Mr. Wang and his cohorts, who were now the majority on the governance committee of St. John’s, was shocking. Cancelling the afternoon English service because it had fallen below the mandatory twenty-five attendees required!
“Afternoon service too expensive. Not enough donations. Have to spend far more on heating, electricity etc. etc., especially during winter.” Mr. Wang had a determined look on his face, something she had begun to notice in recent times.
“But this is our church. We built it!”
“No longer. Now everyone’s church – your people and mine – especially more Chinese people now.”
“So what alternative do you propose?”
“Your people can come to either morning service or afternoon service. Both in Mandarin, I’m afraid, but we sing English hymns.”
“That’s not going to work. We don’t understand your language.”
“And many of my people not comfortable with yours. They struggle with it in business and at work; even their children speak to them in English and make them feel like strangers. They need to come to church to feel at home again. Very difficult to get out of the ghetto all at once. Only very slowly. Their church, very important to them.”
“You wouldn’t have done this if we hadn’t got you on the board.”
“But you did. Now many of your board members are dead. So who will carry burden, eh?”
Julia grimaced, it was true. They’d had four deaths and one serious illness on the board in the last twelve months, so the Chinese had stepped in. And things were running better too. But the loss of their Sunday afternoon service? Unthinkable!
“Why don’t you come to our service and see?” Mr. Wang said. “Not too different than yours. English hymns.”
“It is different. I came and saw the last time. Your visiting minister is a stranger to my parishioners, the format is unrecognizable; the traditions are unfamiliar. It’s not the same.”
“That’s what we felt when we first came to this country. That’s why we need our own service.”
Julia rose. There was no further use talking. “Mr. Wang, I think I made a big mistake inviting you into our community. We tried to build bridges between cultures – to include you. But you are excluding us. We may be dying out, but we are not gone yet. I am asking you one more time; will you let my people stay and have what they were used to?”
“Impossible financially. That is my final answer.”
“We shall see.As God is my witness, and I do not mean to be acrimonious, but we will not be forced back into our homes. I know what it was growing up without a church. We will fight back, if necessary.”
“Wish you all the best. After you finish fighting, you can always come to Sunday morning or afternoon service.” Mr. Wang turned away and busied himself on the computer.
Julia stormed out of the church office. Outside,HaltonTowersloomed down on her. Clothes hung on lines and junk filled the balconies. Soon it would be just another dirty, cramped apartment building.
“Help me, dear God,” she said looking skywards. “Give me a sign that will help my people stay and die with dignity. A sign that will see this church grow in tolerance and love again.”
A full bus disgorged a number of passengers outsideHaltonTowersand tired workers trudged up the walkway to the building. Inside, blinds were open in many of the apartments. She could see people moving about: children studying or playing in cramped quarters, adults moving tiredly after a long day’s work. She waved at Mira Kandasamy who was sitting on the balcony with her children, looking anxiously at the bus stop, waiting perhaps for her breadwinner husband to come home. In another apartment, a couple was arguing; their hands waved furiously as the children remained glued to the TV. Where was God in their lives? Or had they temporarily forgotten Him because they had so much ground to recover since coming toCanada? Or were the avenues to God – churches likeSt. John’swith their insulated traditions – closed to them?
Then it hit her. They too must be looking for a sign to come into the fold, to be included. And all this time she had been looking only for one for herself and her dying flock!
***
“Are you crazy?” the normally calm Marion Derby exclaimed. “The weather is cooling now; people are going to catch their death outside.”
“Not if there is warmth in their hearts,” Rev Julia Styles was arranging the plastic chairs – hauled from the church hall in the basement – in rows on the front lawn. She had managed to bring out the full contingent of thirty chairs; they probably would not need any more. She had personally called each member to inform them that despite the notice last Sunday from the governance committee informing that future afternoon English services were discontinued, she, Julia Styles, was conducting a “special service” and would they all come? And bring some warm clothing along too. She had left Marion for last, her sense of realism telling her that Marion would put a damper on it.
“Will you help me bring the table out,Marion?” The older woman looked perplexed, but nodded and followed Julia back into the basement. They struggled, but got the table out on to the lawn
Julia placed a white alter cloth on the table, pinning its edges down in case the wind picked up. Then she placed her prayer book, a loaf of fresh bread bought from the supermarket, carafes of wine and water, a bowl and a cloth. She had borrowed two braziers from the foundry at the top of the road, and filled them with briquettes that she would light when the gathering was assembled. And she had her guitar handy, knowing that old Harry Bailey would strum. He missed a few chords these days, but they would all follow anyway.
“What the devil is going on Julia?” Maggie Kendrick was struggling up the walkway. She used a walking stick now and paused tentatively before stepping onto the lawn. “Is this where we are having our new service?”
“Maggie, please take a seat, and enjoy,” was all Julia could say as she busied herself with the arrangements. She had wind-proofed the candles by placing glass Dollar Store cylinders around them.
Slowly, the old parishioners began to arrive; some even went up the church steps before figuring out that the action was taking place on the lawn instead. There were many questions, but Marion, who had got the general drift by now and turned into chief usher, was herding the new arrivals to their seats, offering brief explanations of what was about to take place. CCA members were arriving too, and they looked with amusement at the growing gathering outside as they entered the cosier confines of the sanctuary for their new afternoon service, about to start at the same time.
“Good on ya, Julia,” Joe said taking his seat on one of the plastic chairs and resting his oxygen container on another.
Mr. Wang came hurrying over. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a bright yellow tie, his hair, slicked back and shiny. “Rev Styles, what is happening here?”
“We are merely having our service, Mr. Wang. Nothing to be bothered about. And we will not interrupt yours. You can shut the front door.”
“But we get in trouble with the municipality, no, if too much noise outside?”
“Then we will deal with it when that happens. We can’t be thrown in jail for worshiping our God, Mr. Wang. This isCanada, after all. And this is not ‘noise’. Now if you will excuse me…”
Seeing the determined look on the priest’s face, he shook his head and retreated. At the door he threw one more barb, “We will have problems, I tell you. And then you will be responsible.”
“God go with you Mr. Wang.”
When Julia, fully garbed for the service, looked at her congregation, there were muted smiles and uplifted faces. They normally grumbled; today that was all gone, replaced by a feeling of pride. George took the guitar and strummed “Oh,Canada” which surprised everyone but they sang it with gusto. People in the street, stopped and watched, some even stood to attention during the national anthem. Blinds were being drawn in the windows inHaltonTowers, when Julia stepped forward to address the audience with her father’s old construction megaphone, which still miraculously worked, having needed only a new battery.
“My dear friends, today we begin our new life in this community as worshippers in the way Christ taught us – out in the fields, in the open, subject to the elements. We will break bread as He did; not indulge in pre-packaged wafers. We were once like that, in the days before this church was built. But we got cozy and insulated. Others who have followed us, and espouse the values we pursued, have also gotten cozy and insulated.” She paused and the organ sounded inside the church, accompanying an English hymn sung by accented voices. “And most of all, we will not be relegated to praying in the isolation of our homes. This is a community, and we will keep it together until the last one of us is gone.
“As we get older and return to the Lord, it is time to return to innocence, to nature and I invite you all to pray for everyone in this community, both inside the church and outside, so that St. John’s will go on, no matter what. You will notice that for today’s service, all the long prayers are gone. Today we will pray as God taught us, with our hearts and minds, and in the words that come to us in that state of grace.”
Joe cackled in the front row. “Let’s show ’em, Julia. If Jesus himself did it on theMount of Olives, heck, why can’t we do it here, eh?”
“This is not a competition, Joe. This is our quest for God, no matter what or where.”
The prayers came easily after that. They all prayed in a stream of consciousness, the jumble of voices sounding almost as if it were in tongues; but all together they emanated like a serene and heavenly buzz. The hymns were “Across the Bridge” and “I’ll Fly Away”, but not “God Save the Queen”. When she raised the chalice during the consecration of the Eucharist (the only formal part of the service) Julia saw many blinds fully open in the windows of Halton Towers. Mira Kandasamy was on the balcony, and her toddler was holding a candle in his hands. Even the quarrelling couple was standing side-by-side inside their window, intently watching the service. And Mr. Wang had come outside and was slowly shaking his head.
When the service ended, sooner than customary (thanks to the trimming of the eulogies and antiquated hymns), the congregation dispersed, gratefully shaking Julia’s hand and thanking her. Yes, they would come again, despite the cold. It had been good for the soul, they said. Uplifted, Julia packed away her things to take indoors. She felt a presence and turned around. Mira was standing there, shrouded in an oversize coat. Her children were also bundled up.
“Thank you. We like your service. We understood it.”
“You did? Will you come the next time?”
“I’d like to. And I will also tell others.”
“What others?”
“Our people. Many are praying in motel rooms onKingston Road. God helped my family get out of there. But the others are still waiting for His help. I think He has sent you to help them.”
***
“Okay, okay – so I make a shed in the parking lot for your service before winter,” said Mr. Wang. He was pacing inside his office. “With heaters.”
“And you will get the necessary municipal permit for shifting our car park to the office building onDorset Road.”
“But too many people now on the lawn. Need to control crowds.”
“God is in control, Mr. Wang. There is no need to control anything.”
“But people from building next door are also on lawn now.”
“And it’s about time too. They needed to see God in action, not in the confines of a mono-cultural church. They saw, and now they have come. I would advise you not to follow the path we followed, or one day your numbers will also diminish.”
For the first time, she saw the little man look worried.
“Okay, okay,” he said and continued pacing.
Yes, that was how it had all panned out, the turn of the screw. The “lawn service” became an outdoor service and ran right into the winter, before the shed and heaters arrived to improve conditions. And many came from near and far, and themidnightmass on Christmas Eve even blocked the road. Police had to divert traffic but no one complained. Complementing Julia’s small group of aging parishioners on the lawn were Indians, West Indians, Sri Lankans, East Europeans; they came mostly from Halton Towers, donning parkas and mitts, wanting to be a part of this community that had suddenly lost its exclusivity. The service was simple and non-intimidating. One prayed in the language one was familiar with. Even the regulars did not complain that Julia had cut out the longer prayers and readings, since they couldn’t stay out for long in the bitter cold. They wanted only the essence, and were grateful for the fact that they still had the opportunity to pray together. Maggie Kendrick summed it one day when she hugged a West Indian child who had come with his parents: “Julia, when one is as close to dying, as I am, it’s just nice to be surrounded by people, even if they are strangers.”
And Julia knew that her life’s intent had manifested itself when the next annual budget showed that the outdoor service on a stand-alone basis was not only covering its costs, but also contributing to the general coffers of St. John’s and its outreach work. At the elections for wardens, one new warden was elected to counterbalance incumbents Marion Derby, Mr. Wang, his cousin Mr. Low and their cousin Mr. Lee. The new warden-elect was Joseph Mbako, the man who had been quarrelling with his wife just months earlier. He was now a regular attendee at the outdoor service. Mr. Wang looked relieved. “Ha, now we are multi-cultural, no? Now you won’t give me any more hard times eh, Rev. Styles?”
The Woman’s Auxiliary took off as well. There were events almost every other week. Mira Kandasamy ran the daycare so people could once again drop off their kids when coming to service, something thatSt. John’shadn’t seen since the late seventies. Julia was awash in activity herself, overseeing the myriad church committees that were springing to life again; helping her older members pass on; assisting the revived youth group with Bible study; inducting members who kept coming, as word of mouth spread among the newcomers, trying to learn the new customs and languages. She was even teaching spoken English to some of the new arrivals. Joe Smiley passed away that year, smiling and happy as he had always been. Harry Bailey had a stroke and was confined to a wheelchair in the nursing home. Even when she started having the first pains in her breast, Julia focused on integrating newcomers into her expanding church. After all, that pain had gotten most of her family and it was her turn now, but there was still so much work to be done, and suddenly much less time to do it in. She increased her workload at the church and tried not to think of the growing lump.
***
“You are going to say mass, today? It’s only Wednesday.” Mira Kandasamy said, her two kids in tow. She came in during the week to clean the rectory, now that Julia was having difficulty most mornings, especially after the morphine took hold.
“No, I just wanted to feel good, feel that my life has been useful. Wearing these garments is a measure of my worth. Like a general wearing his military uniform and medals in public.” Julia said, and sat down, exhausted. The pills were taking affect and her near- permanent grimace was easing. Cramped face muscles relaxed. It was a relief to let go.
“You should not exert yourself now, Reverend.”
“Oh, Mira, I’d rather be dead than still. Here, help me onto my chair and push me across the road to the maple grove. I need to sit in the sun under the trees today.”
With Mira pushing and the kids running ahead, they crossed the road to the church. The shed, soon to become a permanent extension of the church when construction began next month, loomed huge – it now housed more than seventy-five people and had outgrown its purpose. Its replacement would still maintain the concept of a “garden” with large indoor plants, a glass ceiling and a sandy central area with altar and pews running around it – Julia had designed it herself. The main building was sporting a new coat of paint and Mr. Wang had sprung for the neon sign and a taller steeple that rose above buildings in the vicinity. People were coming and going from the church – various committee members – even on this weekday. The new pastor, Rev. Jason Lee, fully bilingual in English and Mandarin, was talking to a couple of Women’s Auxiliary members at the front door. St. John’s was alive and bustling.
“Do you want me to stay here with you?” Mira asked respectfully bending down.
“No Mira, please take the children with you. You have work to do. I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?” Mira’s dark eyes showed concern but also understanding.
Rev. Julia Styles smiled. “Yes, my child, I am with God now, just like He has always been with you. Get on with your work.”
As the young woman hurried back across the road, Julia smiled and raised her head heavenward.
“Reverend Styles –” the voice was tentative.
Through a haze she saw the slicked back hair, the suit and the neck no longer straining upwards but looking down at her in the wheelchair.
“Mr. Wang!”
“I bought you small gift.” He stretched out a hand holding a huge bouquet of flowers.
“Thank you Mr. Wang. Put them by the trilliums for now. Later you can put them at the altar. And come and sit by me in the sunshine.”
The Asian flowers, anthuriams and orchids, looked vibrant next to the trilliums.
“St. John’s growing church now, eh?”
“Yes – it’s just like Canada, Mr. Wang.”
“Yes – like Canada.”
Mr. Wang sat by her in the maple grove for a long time, until time itself did not matter to her anymore.