Day 5 (July 19): I Am Not a Oncer

Today being Sunday, I rose early to shower, eat another filling breakfast, pack, and meet Teresa by 8:30 at the small Catholic Church she attends in Presteigne. 

The service and liturgy were lovely, with a meditation based on the parable of the wheat and the tares. After the service we had tea, and I chatted at length with Ruth, a bright-spirited woman who remembered Ruth’s and my visit to the church last year. (All these threads of connections—even the most tenuous—give me joy.) Then Teresa and I hugged and said good-bye, and I climbed into my trusty little car.

It was only 10 a.m. at that point. I was to pick up Arielle (fellow writer) at Manchester Airport at 5 p.m., but that was only a 2 1/2-hour drive away. So I decided to detour a bit and drive to the small country church in Evenjobb that Ruth and I had found last year, thinking I’d sit on a bench and read for a while before making the long drive to Manchester.

After a pleasant drive through the Welsh countryside—rolling hills and bluffs, fields, copses of trees and brambles, and above all the glorious blue sky—I found the church and pulled onto the wide expanse of grass surrounding it. I noticed to my surprise that two or three cars were parked near the church, so I walked up to investigate.

I entered and was greeted warmly by a man who handed me a service guide and hymnbook and invited me to find a seat. There were three other people in the pews, so I sat in a pew near them. It was 10:58, and apparently no one else was coming. Someone was playing the organ behind a screen, and no vicar was evident up front. 

Promptly at 11, the music stopped and a woman appeared from behind the screen. She walked to the front and greeted everyone, then proceeded to lead the service, explaining that she was a layperson who would lead morning prayers and read the sermon (again on the wheat and tares parable) that the vicar had written. When it was time for a hymn, she would disappear again behind the screen to play the organ, and we stood up to sing. Fortunately one of us knew the tunes and sang loudly enough that the rest of us could follow. It was lovely. I left feeling welcomed again into the family of faith.

Then began the journey toward Manchester, with a stop at a Tesco superstore to buy provisions and gas up. I parked at the rental car village and took the shuttle in to the airport. Finding a Starbucks, I drank my steamed soy milk and waited for Arielle, whose plane from Dublin had been delayed. When she arrived—exhausted, excited, and ready for a cup of tea—we took the shuttle back to car and began the 1 1/2-hour drive up to the Lakes.

It was a treat to see the landscape change from flat to gently rolling hills to the majestic fells of the Lake District. There is no place quite like it. We were wise enough not to stay in Windermere, which is crawling with tourists, especially in midsummer. Our cottage is part of a larger group, perhaps an old mill at one time. A stream (the Gilpin) rounds almost directly under our cottage, providing the soothing sound of running water. 

The Gilpin

We unpacked, heated soup for dinner, and unwound after a long travel day. And then to bed!

(An explanation of the title: When I was growing up in the Christian Reformed tradition, my family attended church every morning and evening. We referred to those who attended only the morning service as.”oncers.” Sanctimonious, I admit.)