Francesca noted darkly. And
then she remembered her earlier resolution to be kinder to Patricia. I’m going to have to start with my thoughts.
“You look lovely this morning,” she heard Randall say to
Patricia and then Patricia giggled and seemed to puff up like a peacock.
Francesca was surprised to feel a hot tide of jealousy surge from somewhere
deep within her and settle in her throat.
“Good morning, Randall, good morning, Patricia,” she
said as nonchalantly as she could. Patricia barely looked at her, but Randall
smiled.
She took her seat next to Bertha Chumley ,
an obese cheery woman in her sixties whose clothes always seemed to need a more
thorough washing. Today, she noticed, Bertha was abloom in an expansive flowery
print dress with ruffles on the bodice and a skirt that looked like it might
provide shelter for a small town. Once again, Francesca realized she was giving
hospitality to unkind thoughts. Lord, she prayed, save me from my judgmental
mind.
Bertha looked at Francesca appraisingly. “Are you coming
down with something? You’ve got a rash.”
A
rash! Francesca fumbled in her purse for her mirror and
scrutinized herself frantically. Her face was covered in bright red splotches.
Hives, something she had once been stricken with in college. When she’d left
the house, there had been no sign. She quickly hurried downstairs to the ladies
room, where she splashed her face with cold water and added a generous layer of
foundation.
While she was making her repairs, she heard someone
talking out in the hall. The word “archbishop” floated through the door.
Curious, she inched toward the door and stood listening. There was a small
group gathered in the hall, talking about signing a petition to send to the
archbishop.
“We’ve put up with these problems long enough,” one man
said angrily.
Randall’s
a fast worker, she thought, heading back upstairs. As she stepped
into the sanctuary, she saw Father John being engulfed by a female parishioner.
The woman planted a firm kiss on his cheek, leaving a scarlet imprint, and then
squeezed his bicep appraisingly.
“Oh, he’s such a darling priest,” the woman gushed to a
friend standing nearby.
Father John, whose face had turned the color of rare roast
beef, nodded vaguely and then stuck his hand out to greet the next parishioner.
“Let’s go over the psalm. Number 652 in your books,”
Randall announced, as Francesca took her seat between Bertha and Rebecca.
“My soul pines for you like a dry, weary land without
water,” she read silently from the book. “On my bed at night I remember you.” Hmmm, rather a nice sentiment , she
thought, glancing up at Randall, who seemed deeply engrossed in directing the
men.
“Guys, let’s speed it up a little,” he urged, as the
tenors and basses sang through the first verse. “This is not a dirge. Let’s put
some joy into it.”
After the women practiced the psalm, it was time to run
through the day’s anthem. There were only about ten minutes until Mass started,
and Randall seemed nervous. There never was enough time on Sunday mornings.
“Come on, folks, get out your music and get ready to
sing.”
The choir members all stood up. “What are we singing?”
Bertha began shuffling through a nest of sheet music that she’d stuffed into an
over-sized floral-print canvas sack.
Randall took a deep breath before replying. “The same
thing we practiced at rehearsal this past Thursday: ‘If Ye Love Me.’”
As Bertha continued shuffling, he glanced meaningfully
at his watch. “Everyone should have a copy,” he said through gritted
teeth. Bertha continued riffling through
her bag.
“I wasn’t here, and I don’t have the music either,” came
a nervous voice from the tenor section.
With a dramatic sigh, Randall flipped through a folder
and found extra copies of the music.
“OK, folks, let’s give it a try.” He plunked out the
opening notes on the organ.
Suddenly Father John appeared
then she remembered her earlier resolution to be kinder to Patricia. I’m going to have to start with my thoughts.
“You look lovely this morning,” she heard Randall say to
Patricia and then Patricia giggled and seemed to puff up like a peacock.
Francesca was surprised to feel a hot tide of jealousy surge from somewhere
deep within her and settle in her throat.
“Good morning, Randall, good morning, Patricia,” she
said as nonchalantly as she could. Patricia barely looked at her, but Randall
smiled.
She took her seat next to Bertha Chumley ,
an obese cheery woman in her sixties whose clothes always seemed to need a more
thorough washing. Today, she noticed, Bertha was abloom in an expansive flowery
print dress with ruffles on the bodice and a skirt that looked like it might
provide shelter for a small town. Once again, Francesca realized she was giving
hospitality to unkind thoughts. Lord, she prayed, save me from my judgmental
mind.
Bertha looked at Francesca appraisingly. “Are you coming
down with something? You’ve got a rash.”
A
rash! Francesca fumbled in her purse for her mirror and
scrutinized herself frantically. Her face was covered in bright red splotches.
Hives, something she had once been stricken with in college. When she’d left
the house, there had been no sign. She quickly hurried downstairs to the ladies
room, where she splashed her face with cold water and added a generous layer of
foundation.
While she was making her repairs, she heard someone
talking out in the hall. The word “archbishop” floated through the door.
Curious, she inched toward the door and stood listening. There was a small
group gathered in the hall, talking about signing a petition to send to the
archbishop.
“We’ve put up with these problems long enough,” one man
said angrily.
Randall’s
a fast worker, she thought, heading back upstairs. As she stepped
into the sanctuary, she saw Father John being engulfed by a female parishioner.
The woman planted a firm kiss on his cheek, leaving a scarlet imprint, and then
squeezed his bicep appraisingly.
“Oh, he’s such a darling priest,” the woman gushed to a
friend standing nearby.
Father John, whose face had turned the color of rare roast
beef, nodded vaguely and then stuck his hand out to greet the next parishioner.
“Let’s go over the psalm. Number 652 in your books,”
Randall announced, as Francesca took her seat between Bertha and Rebecca.
“My soul pines for you like a dry, weary land without
water,” she read silently from the book. “On my bed at night I remember you.” Hmmm, rather a nice sentiment , she
thought, glancing up at Randall, who seemed deeply engrossed in directing the
men.
“Guys, let’s speed it up a little,” he urged, as the
tenors and basses sang through the first verse. “This is not a dirge. Let’s put
some joy into it.”
After the women practiced the psalm, it was time to run
through the day’s anthem. There were only about ten minutes until Mass started,
and Randall seemed nervous. There never was enough time on Sunday mornings.
“Come on, folks, get out your music and get ready to
sing.”
The choir members all stood up. “What are we singing?”
Bertha began shuffling through a nest of sheet music that she’d stuffed into an
over-sized floral-print canvas sack.
Randall took a deep breath before replying. “The same
thing we practiced at rehearsal this past Thursday: ‘If Ye Love Me.’”
As Bertha continued shuffling, he glanced meaningfully
at his watch. “Everyone should have a copy,” he said through gritted
teeth. Bertha continued riffling through
her bag.
“I wasn’t here, and I don’t have the music either,” came
a nervous voice from the tenor section.
With a dramatic sigh, Randall flipped through a folder
and found extra copies of the music.
“OK, folks, let’s give it a try.” He plunked out the
opening notes on the organ.
Suddenly Father John appeared
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