I fled both the church and the small town in which it was located as soon as I graduated from high school. I looked back with disdain upon the rather simple activities of the church, the uncritical acceptance of what I perceived to be church members' idiosyncrasies and the dogged determination to keep the dwindling congregation alive.
Forty years after my successful escape, I found myself travelling back to my hometown every weekend to visit my mother who now suffers from dementia. Initially these visits consisted of card playing, shopping and animated conversations with family and friends. As my mother's cognitive impairment progressed, conversation became more difficult and the visits more troubling. They saddened me because of her deteriorating condition. They frustrated me because of her oft-repeated questions. They angered me because funding for her care was inadequate. They frightened me because I feared that her situation might be a premonition of my future state. And, they made me very lonely because no one shared these intense experiences with me.
When my mother no longer recognized me and I found the visits increasingly awkward, I decided to take her to church. We were welcomed with open arms. People were genuinely happy to see my mother and greeted her with the respect and friendship that she had earned during her many years of communion with them. The warmth of our greeting was palpable. People came to our pew to say hello and chat with my mother, oftentimes joking in a way they knew would delight her. When the music started, so did my mother's toe tapping. Although she could not remember my name, she remembered the words to most of the old familiar hymns and happily sang along.
This became our regular Sunday morning activity. These were the people who had accepted me into their community as a youth and who were accepting me again in middle age. These were the people who had struggled to keep the congregation alive when others and I had abandoned it. These were the people who remembered my name even though I had forgotten many of theirs. These were the people who through their goodness and kindness offered acceptance, comfort, and companionship when it was desperately needed. And, these were the people who had no idea how valuable their fellowship was to me and how critical it was to my ability to continue to spend time with my mother. I recognized that in that wonderful church I had experienced the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit. I will always be profoundly grateful to the members of the Margaret Rodger Memorial Presbyterian Church in Lachute, Que., for the joyful moments they gave their eldest congregant and the solace they provided their prodigal daughter.
