The wonderful ordinariness of congregational life

The first thing I notice when I ease into my seat is her hair. Except for the long months of the seemingly endless pandemic, I’ve been sitting behind Deidre Worthington for close to 20 years. Although there was that time, for a year or two, when she and her husband, Bertram, stopped coming because the sanctuary was going to be remodeled, and not to their liking. Somehow replacing the 1950s aqua bathroom tile mosaic backdrop behind the altar with simple board and batten was an affront not only to them but also to God.

This evening I am puzzled. Deidre’s short, blonde-highlighted hair is usually sleek, not a hair amiss. Proper and befitting an elegant transplanted British Anglican living in Berkeley and married to a rather dour, silent man who took on the role of parish archivist to make sure someone else didn’t do a sloppy job. Deidre is the long-suffering head of the altar guild, the women—always women—who wash and iron and starch the various white altar cloths, polish the brass and silver, arrange the seasonal floral displays flanking the choir, and, most important, never complain. Deidre has been briskly commanding that hardy group for as long as I have been sitting in the fourth pew from the front, and she has resumed her duties now that we are gathering in person again.

Tonight Deidre’s hair is not smooth, not sleek. Little tufts stick up, out, sideways in the back and on the sides. Her tousled bangs look as though she has not recovered from the severe ruffling of a violent windstorm. I am surprised. I can’t help but stare, trying not to be obvious. I can detect no apparent cause in her expression or demeanor, just a slight forward curve in her usually upright slender back. But it feels like a disturbance in the congregational field.