And yet there always was that wonderful seriousness about her. When she first came to church she would sit in the corner at the back of the sanctuary, and still I would feel as if she were the only real listener. I had a dream once that I. was preaching to Jesus Himself, saying any foolish thing I could think of, and He was sitting there in His white, white robe looking patient and sad and amazed. That’s what it felt like. Afterward I would think, That did it, she’ll never come back^ and then the next Sunday there she’d be. And once again, the sermon I’d spent the week on would be ashes in my mouth. That happened before I even knew her name.
I had an interesting talk this morning with Mr. Schmidt, T.’s father. It seems he overheard some inappropriate language. I’d overheard it, too, in fact, since it has been the favorite joke between the two of you for the last week. I’ll admit I didn’t see the need to object. We said the same thing when we were children and emerged unscathed, I believe. One of you asks, in a naïve and fluting voice, AB, CD goldfish? And the other replies in the deepest voice he can muster, a voice full of worldliness and scorn, L, MNO goldfish! And then outrageous and extravagant laughter. (It is the L, need I say, that has disturbed Mr. Schmidt.) That young man was very earnest, and I had a terrible time keeping a straight face. I said gravely that, in my experience, it is better not to attempt too strict an isolation of children, that prohibition loses its force if it is invoked too generally. He finally deferred to my white hair and my vocation, though he did ask me twice if I was Unitarian.
I told Boughton about this, and he said, “I have ong fet that etter ought to be excuded from the aphabet.” Then he laughed, tickled with himself. He has been in high spirits since he heard from Jack. “He’ll be home soon!” he said. When I asked him where he was coming from, Boughton said, “Well, the postmark on his letter said St. Louis.”
I won’t tell your mother about my talk with Mr. Schmidt. She wants very much for you to keep your friend. She suffered when you didn’t have one. She suffers for your sake much more than she should. She always imagines the fault is with her, even where it appears to me there is no fault at all.
She told me the other day she wants to read those old sermons that are up in the attic, and I believe she will do that, I really do. Not all of them — that would take years. Well, perhaps I can get a box of them down here somehow and do a little sorting. It would put my mind at ease to feel I was leaving a better impression. So often I have known, right there in the pulpit, even as I read the words, how far they fell short of any hopes I had for them. And they were the major work of my life, from a certain point of view. I have to wonder how I have lived with that.
***
Today was Lord’s Supper, and I preached on Mark 14:22, “And as they were eating, he took bread, and when he had blessed, he brake it, and gave to them, and said, Take ye: this is my body.” Normally I would not preach on the Words of Institution themselves when the Sacrament is the most beautiful illumination of them there could be. But I have been thinking a great deal about the body these last weeks. Blessed and broken.
I used Genesis 52:23–32 as the Old Testament text, Jacob wrestling with the Angel. I wanted to talk about the gift of physical particularity and how blessing and sacrament are mediated through it. I have been thinking lately how I have loved my physical life.
In any case, and you may remember this, when almost everyone had left and the elements were still on the table and the candles still burning, your mother brought you up the aisle to me and said, “You ought to give him some of that.” You’re too young, of course, but she was completely right. Body of Christ, broken for you. Blood of Christ, shed for you. Your solemn and beautiful child face lifted up to receive these mysteries at my hands. They are the most wonderful mystery, body and blood.
It was an experience I might have missed. Now I only fear I will not have time enough to fully enjoy the thought of it. The light in the room was beautiful this morning, as it often is. It’s a plain old church and it could use a coat of paint.
But in the dark times I used to walk over before sunrise just to sit there and watch the light come into that room. I don’t know how beautiful it might seem to anyone else. I felt much at peace those mornings, praying over very dreadful things sometimes the Depression, the wars. That was a lot of misery for people around here, decades of it. But prayer brings peace, as I trust you know.
In those days, as I have
