The Western Light by Susan Swan Page B

(i.e., mental patients were part of the landscape, like our drinking water, said to be as pure as an Arctic glacier, and the Great Bay that brought tourists up from the city).
    Fixing my eyes on John’s ducktail, I tried not to fidget. Up on the altar, Reverend Attridge strolled towards us in his purple Easter surplice. Hitching up the legs of his ballooning trousers, he stepped into the pulpit. “Why is Jesus a hero for our times?” Rev. Attridge cried. “Because Jesus put others before himself and he didn’t expect praise for his actions. We should all follow his example and serve others.” Rev. Attridge smiled down at the prisoners. “Now I want you to cast your minds over your own heroes. Perhaps for you it’s Gordie Howe of the Detroit Red Wings? Or Frank Mahovlich of the Toronto Maple Leafs?”
    Men and women chuckled in the pews. Even the hospital guards were grinning. John had his back to me so I couldn’t see his reaction, but I wondered if he felt as surprised as I did. Nobody in my experience had compared Jesus to a hockey player. Then it came to me that Rev. Attridge had designed his sermon so John would appreciate it. He knew that John had played for the NHL so John was bound to be even more interested in hockey heroes than the people in Madoc’s Landing. My own heroes included the most famous hockey star of all, Rocket Richard of the Montreal Canadiens, although I didn’t bother mentioning how I felt about the Rocket because the English-speaking people in Madoc’s Landing were fans of players like Tim Horton from the Toronto Maple Leafs.
    My other heroes were Brébeuf, the Jesuit martyr who wore a necklace of red-hot axe heads. Then came my great-grandfather, who discovered oil and found his lost father, and finally, Morley, who put the needs of his patients before himself.
    â€œI won’t criticize you for being a fan of Gordie Howe, although I prefer Frank Mahovlich myself,” Rev. Attridge cried in his electrifying voice. “Mahovlich stays out of the penalty box, for one thing.”
    The congregation laughed uproariously; everyone, that is, except Big Louie, who sat snoring softly between Little Louie and me while Rev. Attridge harped on his theme: “It’s fine to admire hockey players. They give themselves to a great sport. But their contribution isn’t as important as the contribution Jesus made. Why is Jesus so important? Because Jesus came to this earth so we would learn to give ourselves humbly to the task of helping others.”
    Beside me, Big Louie mumbled in a sleep-thick voice: “Oh, bugger off.”
    â€œMom, you’re in church,” my aunt whispered. My grandmother jerked wide awake. Mortified, she looked around to see if anybody had heard, while my aunt and I giggled helplessly behind our gloved hands. Our attention seemed to waver for only a few minutes, but by the time we composed ourselves again, Rev. Attridge had come to the end of his sermon. “Blessed is he that considereth the poor,” he said, quoting from Psalm Forty-One. Then he added: “And blessed are those that provideth for the sick and needy. The Lord shall deliver them in times of trouble.” The congregation murmured, “Amen,” and Rev. Attridge stepped down from the pulpit.
    In his pew at the front of the church, John jumped to his feet. There were gasps and cries as he turned to face us. “I would like to invite the congregation to help these poor men sitting here.” He waved at the other two prisoners. “I’m asking you to consider the injustice of giving parole to hardened criminals and denying it to those of us who are recovering from mental illnesses. How many of you good Christians know we can’t have our cases reviewed?”
    The guard pulled John down, but not before he turned around and grinned at his mother. She smiled back, shrugging her shoulders, while men in the back pews started