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UNMUSICAL BUMPS
by Andrew
Campbell-Kersey
I turn the corner. The
church is at the end of the road. I can see people heading
into the adjacent hall. As I draw nearer I can see that they
are all carrying tins and Tupperware containers. I feel
guilty turning up out of the blue empty handed. But what am
I celebrating? The large banner outside the church hall
announces the farewell supper to my father and to wish him.
well in his forthcoming retirement. My mother does not even
merit a mention, although she has tirelessly supported his
calling. The start time is not for another quarter of an
hour, yet my father has managed to impress upon, not just
his family, but his entire congregation the righteousness of
punctuality.
I find a seat in the back
row. These blue stackable plastic chairs are a welcome
improvement, yet thirty years too late for my back. It was
one of my unenviable tasks, 'in the service of the Lord' to
erect, and then collapse wooden chairs for prayer meetings
and bible studies. I would always be chastised for never
putting out enough of them. My teenage excuse was that empty
chairs looked depressing. My father always attributed it to
my workshy attitude to life.
I don't recognise the man
from the eulogies. Apparently, we are here to honour a
saint, not the petty and vindictive man who is my father.
Speaker after speaker rises, in an orderly fashion, to pay
tribute to his plethora of admirable qualities. I am not a
big fan of science fiction but maybe here is an example of
parallel universes. I spent my first formative nineteen
years, growing up in the same house, yet do not recognise
this paragon. All I can see of him is the back of his head
which nods from time to time. He remains facing forward, no
doubt lapping up the unctuous praise from his disciples.
Occasionally I can pick out my mother's profile as she turns
to gaze adoringly.
It is his turn. He leads
everybody in prayer. As he raises his head after his final
Amen, his voice seems momentarily bereft of its usual
authority and certainty. Is this due to the emotion of the
occasion or has he caught a glimpse of me? His ministry is
coming to an end. I delight in the knowledge that he will no
longer impact upon the lives of so many. The thought that
his opinions and moral guidance will not be so highly sought
must be choking him.
At the end of my father's
address, there is a standing ovation for the old fraud. If I
do not follow suit I will stand out. As he proceeds down the
aisle, with my mother in his wake, I seem to be invisible to
him. Then, just as he passes by, he reaches out his hand. I
feel the power of his fingers on my shoulder. He leads me to
the familiar small storage room at the back of the hall,
which houses the chairs and trestle tables.
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