He did the same last week

He makes his way between the pews,

hymn and prayer books in one hand,

pew sheet in the other;

            (his day pack, as it were, for this short trip to who knows what).

In passing by he nods to some.

An eyebrow raised. A formal smile.

Hand raised. No words.

Admirable manners and civility.

Shorthand body talk.

No word for closeness.

In this place where habit reigns

            he did the same last week and the weeks before.

Like others in this sacred space, he knows his place.

He finds his seat, unmarked
but understood by all but strangers (mercifully few),

to be his spot.

It's been that way since Adam was a lad - or so it seems.

            It was his last week and the weeks before,

The organist plays softly.

The tune, familiar, though not rousing, sets a mood.

He checks the hymn list,

grateful that among them are a few he knows,

but irritated that there is one he's never heard or sung.

The matter gets but passing thought.

It's been a while since he sang ...anyway.

The minister will no doubt tell his flock

that it is good to try things new.

            He did that last week and the weeks before.

A reflex causes him to glance

at the empty spot beside him.

She sat there every week,

but now she's gone to God, or so they said,

though he has trouble grasping that,

or picturing the look of her at all.

How strange that all those years have left so little trace;

that memory is but a passing joke.

            He missed her last week and the weeks before.

His fragment reverie is shattered by the organ's chord

and in comes ”Rev” in fancy dress

(where did that ir-Rev-erent thought come from?).

And so the show begins.

At last the pastor steps up to that higher place

and tells of mighty works of God,

and grace, and love, and peace,

            as he did last week and the weeks before.

He tries to follow,

but his truant mind diverts and taunts him,

taking him down twisting paths.

He tries, O God he tries, but fails.

The pastor, nice bloke that he is, cannot connect.

The sermon ends though, trying,

he cannot bring to mind the point of it,

assuming that it had one.

Was it about sin and forgiveness?

Those ideas he still can't understand,

despite the memories of hurts he caused ...and injuries.

He tries to pray, but fails. He tries again.

            It was the same last week and the weeks before.

The final prayers and hymns march on, and then it ends.

His back is sore. He never mentions it,

but pain is what he pays

for this strange hour in the house of God

Were he to bother, he might see his pain as penance,

but he won't, because it's not his word,

            nor was it last week or the weeks before.

He shuffles from the pew,

and in the aisle a lady asks about his health

and a bloke shakes hands and says g'day

and someone comments on the weather

and invites him to stay for a cuppa and a cake.

            It was the same last week and the weeks before.

In time he gets back home,

seeks out his favourite chair,

registers the emptiness and,

remote control in hand,

he falls asleep.

            He did the same last week and the weeks before.

© Karel Reus