ONE LAST EFFORT TO ATTEND A CHURCH SERVICE AFTER COMBINED PANDEMIC AND ILLNESS IMPOSED HIATUS

Mother and son, new church members in October, 1951

Grace Wright and her 13-year-old son were welcomed into membership of St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church in Dresden, ON. in the fall of 1951 and together were later received into full Communion. In less than two years time young Dick became the teacher of a class of Sunday School boys a mere five years his junior, thus filling a vacancy left with the death of his youth leader father Ken in 1952.

Just one month shy of 71 years to the day of being received into the full communion of the Presbyterian Church in Canada, I attended what may well be my last worship service this Sunday, October 30. It has truly been a long journey in search of spiritual fulfilment, with sufficient detours in personal faith, commitment and growth over the years to last what has turned out to be an extended lifetime.

Almost three years in absentia due to the unfortunate  complications of cancer which has just recently reared its ugly head once again, the necessity of several serious surgeries followed by extended rounds of radiation and chemotherapy rendering me a virtual recluse (thanks in no small measure to coincidental isolation precautions imposed with the advent of COVID 19), I experienced an overwhelming impulse when preparing for bed Saturday evening. Something seemed to be urging me to make a super-human effort next morning to get up early, pull myself together with hope of avoiding the very real possibility of ostomy emergencies that tend to interrupt daily routines, in order to pay a long overdue visit to my old church congregation at St. Andrew's in Southampton...as I say, for perhaps one last time, given the uncertainty of what lies ahead as I face the return of the now inoperable colon cancer in what assuredly will be the final laps of the aforementioned journey that has taken me into my 85th year thus far.

My heart was heavy as I slowly negotiated my way up the steps of the century-old church and into the sanctuary this morning, feeling very much like an intruder after such an extended leave. I struggled with composure as I was greeted with the familiar sights, sounds and smells of the aged worship chamber, in addition to the recognition of a dozen profiles of people I hadn't seen for a while. 

I had no trouble finding my favorite pew of long standing and it was vacant -- in fact, there was only one other person sitting on that particular side of the sparsely occupied church. 

The Order of Service was a condensed version of the one I was accustomed to -- sans choir, anthem, offertory and the traditional passing of collection plates. As in all walks of life and out of necessity due to changing circumstances and times, some things change and not always for the better to my traditional way of thinking. The same may be said of me, I rationalized in an attempt to shrug off attention deficit symptoms that blurred the message coming from the pulpit.

I made several pathetic, vain attempts to sing along with some of the hymns but discretion dictated that I just listen because I could not keep up with the words printed in the hymnal. The once rich(?) baritone voice with which I formally belted out lyrics, was reduced to a forced squeak, hence added validity to the expression "If you don't use it, you lose it."

The minister, Rev. Randy Benson, made prayerful reference to Psalms 23:4: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;" which hit home with me as a reminder of scripture from Revelations 2:10 quoted on the Communion Certificates (reproduced above) presented to me and my mother 71 years before: "Be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee the crown of life."

I had a chance to renew some acquaintances and say a few goodbyes over coffee at the back of the church following the service.  Upon exiting I remembered the small offering cheque in my pocket that I had written at home earlier in the morning and had to retrace a dozen steps in order to place it on an innocuous collection plate located at the back of the pews, conspicuous only because of its emptiness. "They didn't take up offering," I said to no one in particular. One of the ladies standing nearby said she would make sure my meagre contribution got into the hands of the treasurer.

All in all, an interesting and meaningful experience in many respects. I think that God acknowledged my intentions but I suppress the impulse to feel self-righteous about it.

It was the least I could do after 71 years of adhering to the faith, and I'm glad I responded to the impulse. No big deal really, but it did feel good in a soul-nourishing sort of way...As going to church on Sunday morning always had in better, loftier days!

God bless those who tarry within!