Wish You Were There

I have been a member of St. Dunstan’s for about three years now. But until recently, my husband Ron has only been a few times, for Christmas Eves and a funeral. He’s one of those spouses who takes pleasure in saying things like, “My wife does the worshiping for me.” As a science person and “thinker” he’s the first to point out the ills of organized religion—the Inquisition, James Town, Jim and Tammy Faye Baker. Ron grew up Methodist in a small town in rural Alabama, where church attendance and outings were about as natural and expected as summer naps on the sandy banks of the Warrior River.

While my husband has never tried to sever my connection to organized religion, I really haven’t extended much of an invitation to church services or functions (other than Christmas Eve and yes, I am one of those mothers whose children will sometimes tell you they came to church ‘because my mother made me.’)

Anyway last vestry meeting Patricia pretty much commanded that we vestry members to be present at two church functions: the Flying Pig Bar-B-Q last Saturday and the Evensong service last Sunday for which the choir sang a piece commissioned especially for them by Dorothy Yates in memory of her husband Charlie. The third gathering—not mandatory—was an invitation for a fun night out, to hear country music provided by an old journalism buddy of Patricia’s from Nashville, Keith Miles.

I don’t know what made me ask Ron if he would accompany me to the church BBQ after three years of respecting his wishes to remain aloof of organized religion, but I did and somewhat to my surprise, he didn’t hesitate in accepting. A day later, I asked if he would come with me to the Evensong, again, sure thing. (I admit I knew that coming out to hear the St. Dunstan’s choir really wasn’t a hard sell, Ron has heard them on Christmas Eve and it’s a pretty damn good invitation.)

The deal with the Keith Miles concert last night was that everyone bring their own drinks and hor’ derves to share. Ron and I agreed the concert would make a good date night, something that is not a weekly or even regular occurrence (we’ve been married 13 years). When we arrived about 30 minutes before the music began, Ron headed straight for the kitchen, where he made himself at home with others who were putting the final touches on their dishes and waiting for the oven to reach 450 degrees. I left him there and went to reserve one of the intimate round tables, which were set up with flowers, an ambiance best described as what you might get if you crossed a French café with a night club and a church fellowship hall.

So we all enjoyed Keith Miles’ music and when he asked how much longer he should continue to entertain, Patricia rightly said that we, the audience, would stay as long as he wanted to play. We audience people were quite satisfied with our food and wine, our cozy seating arrangements, listening to Keith playing guitar, singing and telling us about his career as a songwriter, making the charts in Nashville, selling a song to Kenny Rogers, getting radio play in Norway.

As the evening drew to a close, there were small groups still lingering here and there in the shadows, chatting. Gilda came up with her camera for a group shot—me, Ron, Steve and Elizabeth Mark, and a friend of theirs who called herself “Momma Nature.” Gilda said she wanted to take a picture to show the parishioners who didn’t make it just what they were missing.

This morning Ron asked me if we had a sort of “recipe corner” on the St. Dunstan’s website, mainly because there were several recipes he wanted to get from last night and he was worried that Claudia’s daughter’s mother-in-law Ginger would not be able to read his recipe for rumaki, which she had jotted down on the back of a multi-colored paper napkin. As we hashed over the evening, he raved about a buffalo chicken casserole and then added, “Tim has a great recipe for bacon chili.”

“Was it good? I didn’t have any,” I said. I don’t cook but of course I married someone who does so I’m pretty much covered for food.

“He didn’t make it last night, he was telling me about it and he’s emailing me the recipe,” Ron explained. “It sounded really good.”

At that point I went ahead and asked if Ron if he would do the cooking next time I’m signed up for coffee time. And guess what? He enthusiastically agreed.

While I’m not quite ready to ask my spouse to get up at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning for the early service, I do think something has taken hold. And maybe unconsciously, he’s getting why showing up matters—sure part of it is to make a crowd and support something that usually somebody else has put a lot of effort into—whether it’s hearing the choir at Evensong or sewing angel wings for the Christmas pageant—but more importantly it’s what you get when you arrive that changes the equation from being asked “Will you come?” to you asking “What time shall I be there?” And I guess you could call that fellowship, a commodity that St. Dunstan’s has in abundance.