11:15 a.m. and the cars were beginning to arrive all at once, as if on cue and a gateway had been opened. They pulled into the gravel parking lot, filling in their predestined spaces, no white lines needed here. They glanced briefly my way, for this was a car that usually wasn't there. I was probably parked in someone's "space." There was an air of mystery beginning to develop and I decided I like the anonymity, enjoying the feeling of being a stranger in a new land, my own Jerusalem.
I began to hear faint singing in the background, traditional old hymns sung on this day, Palm Sunday, the time of the Passion readings. The parishioners had gathered outside to begin the procession into the church, after having received a palm which had just been blessed. It had begun.
Mothers and fathers with young children, young newlyweds, and grandparents stood in line, awaiting to process in. I was frozen in my seat, for suddenly I felt so out of place, so disconnected from the people in the church, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I couldn't get out of the car.
I watched as the Priest and a woman dressed in red led the congregation into the little church. I surmised she was the preacher who had invited me, but now was not the time to chat or small talk, or thanking her for inviting me.
I sat a few minutes more in the car, timing the space between the opening prayer and the readings. The reading of the Passion was long on this Sunday, as it is every year, and I knew I would have a little time to sit before the Preacher would begin her homily.
I walked up to the front door and realized I would not be able go in and sit down. The people were standing, every pew full, and the closest I could get was to the vestibule. The doors were closed and I could see her face through the little window in either swinging door that led inside. But I could hear her strong, clear voice, as if I was standing next to her.
In the beginning, she didn't see me. She read her homily, pausing at the places she wanted to make a point. She had begun by smiling and asking the question "Where do we go with this story?" and added her own interpretations.
When it came time to quote my words, she glimpsed my face in the window, our eyes locking for a brief moment. If she realized who I was, her face didn't show it, never stopping to proclaim my belief to the congregation and confirm everything I had written.
She understood what I was saying. She understood my passion about the Passion.
What a wonderful gift she had given me. As she read my name, tears gathered in my eyes. I began to feel the peace and the warmth I had felt when I first pulled into the gravel parking lot, remembering the church of my youth. I have come home, I thought. I am home.
As soon as she finished, I turned to leave. Still not realizing she had spied me, she walked through the swinging doors to find me turning the corner to head towards my car.
"Eileen?" She asked in a faint voice, as Mass was continuing, the communion rites being read.
I turned to face her and my smile was from east to west. "Thank you" I said, as I hugged her. "Thank you for sharing my heart."
"Thank you for writing it, and allowing me to proclaim it" she said. "You don't have to leave, you know, you can come back inside."
I know, I smiled. But not today. I will be back.
I will go back. I know now that I am welcome.
To the little Church in the country by the lake.
EPILOGUE
The town has grown and the Little Country Church was bursting at the seams - so it and another parish nearby combined their finances and spirits and built a much larger, more magnificent church in the center of the town.
I have been to the bigger church and it is indeed beautiful, and one can see the love and thought that went into the planning of the new worship space. I will most likely go there for Easter some time again. But I will always hold dear the feeling I had as I spied the preacher through the doorway, and hearing her read my words, interwoven through hers.
I am still passionate about the Passion.
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