Strawberries, mud, and grace...

Heat, heavy and bright. Heat that shimmers off the pavement and gilds the horizon with haze. The breeze moved fitfully. The church was cool, lights flickering under the pull of air conditioning. We used to sit beneath the vaulted roof, reliant on stained glass windows, barely angled, to cool the nave. The church was full, new faces whispering to one another. We have gone to one service for summer the early and the late mingling at last. It was a crowded happy congregation and for once I got to sit among them.

We settled in the cool afterward, the study group gathered under the low white arch of the chancel. My priest motioned me out and we huddled in the sacristy. She handed me a folder, stuffed full of catalogs and course lists. And the whole process became real and shockingly immediate. A year, a year and I might be packing and planning. What seemed like an eternity, a lifetime, has suddenly become a heartbeat away.

But there is more to do until then, more growing and learning. I am asked to be an Lay Eucharistic Visitor (LEV). It is a daunting honor. But if I am really ready to do this, if this is really where I am called, what more natural way to begin? I took the little instruction book, and with a deep breath, agreed. Here I am Lord.

I had other commitments yesterday as well, including a promise to a friend. I rolled down the windows, rolled back the sunroof and drove, singing at the top of our lungs over the rush of the wind. North to the sandy fields where I picked strawberries as children. I loaded the boot (its a British car don't ya know?) with half a flat of berries so red and ripe the scent wrapped around us like silk.

Then South again, into the cool shade of the barn. Image hurt herself, her left hock was swollen on Saturday and I was back to check it and hose it down with cold water. I fetched her in from the pasture, the wrap sagging around her leg. The heat was oppressive now, her neck so wet with sweat she dripped water. We hosed her down, scrapping way the dirt and sweat and wrapped her leg again. E crouched beside her, hands full of thick gray clay, plastering it around the swelling, showing me how to wrap and secure the quilting. And I was reminded against snap judgments. This woman who can be waspish and angry, who can speak cutting words, who can be demanding, overbearing and snobbish. This woman who was now concerned and helpful, patiently showing me how to plaster and wrap, where to start, and how to end. I listened and felt and thanked God for the reminder that there is good in all of us. It is not my place to judge.

We left them all inside the dark cool of the barn. The fans turning slowly, moving the heavy air. The earthy sounds of contented nickers, and horses chewing hay.

I am burned on one shoulder and arm. Happy reminder of a day spent with a good friend and the windows rolled down. It is summer, and I savor it.