This morning I should have gone to church, to the Methodist church we’ve started attending here on my daughter’s request. By “request,” I mean that she wants to go to the same place her friends go on Sunday mornings, with the added bonus of being in the same building as the preschool she attended. Even though I’m not a member of any organized religion and haven’t attended church regularly since I had a curfew, we went to church. I may be a heathen, but I’m not a heathen who will tell a five-year-old “No, you can’t go to church.” For the better part of the past year, we’ve been semi-regular churchgoers.
I like it. The atmosphere is welcoming, as are the people, and it’s just noncommittal enough that I feel like I can be on the campaign trail without declaring my intent to run for office.
A big reason for my comfort level there has been Pastor G. He’s been there for over a decade, and he’s beloved by all. I’ve run into him around town and talked to him enough to know he loves gooseberries and used to drive an Astro.
Only, Pastor G isn’t there anymore. He’s been reassigned to another part of the state. His last service was performed while I was traveling on the east coast. There was a big to-do to see him off, but I wasn’t here to attend. I didn’t even say goodbye.
Today, I would have met the new pastor, whom I’m told is quite lovely. I got a glimpse of him and his wife the other day surrounded by boxes on his front porch when I passed the parsonage during my run. But I can’t bring myself to want to meet him. I feel cheated. I finally started not just attending church, but enjoying it, and the biggest part of why was Pastor G.
I miss my pastor.
Tonight, while rationalizing our absence at church with the gas it took to drive (at 22 miles each way, this isn’t an idle excuse) and the niggling thought that my kids needed a day at home since we’d gone out of state the day before, I had a Laura thought. And then I had another one.
Pastor G was my Reverend Alden.
I hope the new Pastor isn’t Reverend Brown.