Don’t Be Late!

“We should be leaving now! Are you ready?” My daughter’s cheery voice drifts through the open doorway of my walk-in wardrobe. I snatch an outfit off the nearest coat-hanger. Clambering into it, a muffled response limps back to her. My cramped quarters barely impede my speedy transformation. Even Clark Kent would be impressed.

“Almost, I’ll be with you in a minute… or three.” Just as well we always allow a bit extra time. It wouldn’t do to be late for church. My mind spirals back, back down the tunnels of time… to another church, in another town, in another state.

That summer of’84, dawn arrived bright and early, in the small town of Strahan, Tasmania. My travel buddy, Leanne and I moseyed about, getting dressed for church, in a leisurely manner. We were prepared, with a capital “P”!

Three months of tripping around Australia typically saw us overnighting in a different town most nights. ‘Putting down roots’ meant we’d stayed put three nights. Yesterday, we’d scoped things out, driven to a quaint little church and perused its sign board advising of service times. Those were the days… life before the Internet and mobile phones and many digital devices.

We set sail in plenty of time for an early arrival. Soon, the church appeared, waiting right where we’d left it hours ago. But, where were the cars, where were the people? Absent! Not a soul in sight. Our minds scrabbled for traction. Yes, it was definitely Sunday. Our watches were both ticking in time, time which should have seen church starting soon. In desperation, we leapt out of the car and peered more closely at the old wooden door. With sinking hearts, we read the small hand written note taped to it.

“Fifth Sunday, 9:00 am combined service at Holy Trinity Anglican Church.” That was five minutes ago! Undeterred, we whipped out a tattered paper map and frantically searched for our new destination. Soon, a few blocks away, we screeched to a halt and hoofed it uphill to a church hunched waiting for us. Wafting out of open windows, lively singing accompanied organ music. Then, silence… except for the sound of our shoes crunching on the blue metal driveway.

The Welcome team had already given up and sat down. We grabbed a hymn book and showed ourselves in… into a church jam packed with three congregations! Fully committed — unwilling to abandon our endeavour — we scanned pew after pew in a vain hope of unobtrusively tucking ourselves into a space near the back of the church. Oh, deluded quest.

With a gulp, we resolutely aimed for the only seating available… right up the front. Three clergymen stood together on a dais, taking it turns to share a lectern to address the congregation. We seemed silently invisible as we scuttled up the short aisle towards the three leaders. We veered off to the left, an arm’s length away from the organist, who also faced us. What a relief it was to pour ourselves onto the vacant wooden pew, well polished by decades of parishioners perching on it.

We’d done it, the worst was past, we’d arrived. At last, we could settle back, relax and join in the service. Wishing! Nervous laughter bubbled up from deep within us. Valiantly, we strove to contain, subdue it. To no avail. Mortified, we spluttered, giggled, chortled. Tears rolled down our cheeks. We held our breath, bit our lips; ground our teeth and pinched our arms. Still, our poorly suppressed laughter snuck past our fragile defences. A moment or two passed… we managed to fix our attention on the Bible reading. All was fine… until it wasn’t. We snuck a peep at the organist who glared stared straight back at us…

A snort erupted. Leanne desperately hissed “Stop it!” Several unspeakable minutes went by, until we collapsed into an exhausted silence. Sadly, our minds were in a fog, incapable of processing anything, bar the need to sit still and keep quiet. O’ what sweet relief it was to rise with everyone and heartily belt out a well known hymn. Then, we staggered back down the aisle, funnelled towards the exit.

The ‘scowling’ organist greeted us with an amused grin and commiserated with us about our mix up over the service time and ensuing embarrassment. We offered profuse apologies to not one, not two but all three ministers. One jovially responded with, “That’s all right, worse things happen at sea!” However, when pressed, he was unable to console us with a single example. What a gracious group of strangers they were. We were warmly welcomed to a feast of home baked delicacies for morning tea.

The mortifying ordeal is firmly fixed, forever in my memory. How thankful we were for the generous understanding bestowed upon us, rather than judgment over our unintentional, disrespectful attitude. I sometimes wonder, does anyone else from the service that day remember two strange young ladies, hysterically snickering in the front pew?

“Mum? We’d better head off! We don’t want to be late…” My daughter’s voice penetrates my vivid memory, reeling me back to the present. With a shake of my head and an amused smile, I quip “No, we sure don’t!”

Only when writing this story did it occur to me that we probably took the clergymen’s briefly vacated seats! I guess they had to find alternate seating!

Written for the challenge below: