Home Stretch of Holy Season

by Sibley Fleming

This morning as we gathered in the Beech Grove with our palm leaves, it occurred to me just how close we are to the end of Lent. I guess the palms were a good clue, the triumphal procession Jesus made riding on the back of a donkey into Jerusalem to protest Roman military oppression. And now we are only a week away from the resurrection.

So how did it go so fast? It seems only yesterday that we were eating pancakes and Nancy Dillon and I were trying to decide which piece of the King cake the plastic baby was buried in on Fat Tuesday (sorry, Shrove Tuesday). The tables were decorated in green, purple and gold, a taste of Mardi Gras and Bill Hancock’s good cooking.

That was the point that historically I suppose people are supposed to start giving up foods and habits that are perhaps considered indulgent. But that’s not necessarily how it’s done at St. Dunstan’s. During Lent, we don’t give up so much as we add.

We add more books and time in study and contemplation, prayer and special services—Ash Wednesday, for instance. Many of us walked the Stations of the Cross for the first time. We searched and we questioned, walked the path in the woods up behind the church with our feet. We went in pairs and groups and alone to perhaps feel the meaning of the death and resurrection.

And while we studied and practiced, we gathered together—a lot. We sat around tables and broke bread—from the supper at St. Bede’s that preceded the first Lenten lecture “God on Trial” by Joe Monti, to the supper last Friday night where Bill Hancock fed us fish fried two ways: in beer batter and Southern style in corn meal. The Japanese magnolia tree outside the parish hall blossomed. The hawks did a mating dance, which Patricia caught on film.

Then yesterday it was Saturday. I was scheduled to meet Tom Gibbs at the church to rehearse for Easter Sunday. (Tom says he likes to rehearse, which is a good thing because whenever I play anything these days on my flute, I need a lot of practice!). I walked in at 2 p.m., a young man was putting away his trumpet and Gilda was putting the final touches on a flower arrangement for the altar—long strips of palm leaves dotted with small, blood-red roses. It was perfect. “Sometimes it’s about knowing when to quit,” she said.

As Tom and I were wrapping up our practice, Gilda left a bouquet of fresh cut flowers for us to share, I think some kind of zinnias, whitish green and lovely.

Then this morning after rehearsing again with Jane and Elizabeth and Molly, after drinking a couple of cups of coffee, standing around watching Claudia and Barbara Bradshaw pulling together goodies for coffee time--some kind of blue berry crumb cake that I had a hard time keeping out of—after all of that, Maggie gathered the Passion readers into the office and gave us direction. The play and service went off with only a few hitches, the imperfections made perfect by our laughter and fellowship.

Sibley