Excerpt
"The Pedicure Goddess"
During recovery, there were day-dreams of impressions, never of concrete events. A prayer, as if in an empty church, echoed in his imagination.
Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, intoned the Assistant Rector the Sunday the Rector was on vacation.
As Bannerman sat in his accustomed pew, his gaze turned upward, toward the ruby-colored, stained glass above the altar. Its dedication was illegible but he knew it bore Lige’s name.
Each Sunday morning, sunshine blazed across the red carpet bisecting the nave. He would take note during early service, of when the morning sun grew unbearable as it shone in through open Venetian blinds on the sidewalls of that Church, and blinded him.
Later, when he thought about it, that solar event invariably arrived during the sermon.
The late Rector, Elijah Brockenborough White, III, had said a proper sermon should be about God, about Man, and about twenty minutes. That thought passed though his wandering mind, with an inconspicuous nod toward his wristwatch.
…all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse our hearts…
How uncomfortable it must be to know the true motivation of congregants there gathered, Bannerman mused. Why had they come? Had their lives and reasons changed over the years? The words implied hearts that wanted a regular cleansing.
When he had resumed regular worship after decades’ absence, the words of The Liturgy assumed a meaning different from memories of boyhood.
And from whom no secrets are hid…
His own return arose from diverse motivations. It must have been the same for others, who had steadily grown in number from a half-dozen fifteen years earlier, to perhaps two or three dozen in the first months of the Trump Administration.
* * *
The Book of Common Prayer (1928), acknowledged as one of three foundational works upon which English as a language was based, was an aspiration for writers aiming for an enduring piece. It was possible to transcend a mere political tract or transiently fashionable novel, he was certain. It was daunting to achieve something of lasting substance.
Everyone had at least on book within them. Most forgot that Somerset Maugham had paired it with, and that’s where it should stay.
The puzzle was his irresistible urge to write, like every other patient, How I Survived Cancer, implying a Herculean struggle that ended in success. Thus far, he had resisted the temptation to attempt to plumb (and vocalize) the notions that really didn’t matter. Yet, he had nothing much to say.
But as he sat listening to the sermon, either directly, or as it turned over in mind later, there might be something between the covers of the Common Prayer he held before him or on the cushion beside, to guide him toward meaning that had quietly abandoned his later years.
* * *