Chapter 24
MORNING DAWNED IN TYPICAL Colorado fashion, with spotless blue skies and a bright, unobstructed sun welcoming me into the new day. After having some coffee, my parents and I got ready and gathered in the foyer to leave for church.
“Do you want to wear a dress?” Mom asked, attempting to keep her tone light as she gestured to her own long, floral getup.
I glanced down at my rag it was important to the residents for the church to be well preserved, for its ancient bones and beauty to endure for yet another generation.
We drove past the church’s original wooden welcome sign (When you’re here, you’re home!) and pulled into a space.
“Now, just remember,” Dad said, “I didn’t tell you about the broccoli fiasco. Al would be humiliated to know that I mentioned it to you.”
“Roger that.” I nodded. We surfaced from the car and walked toward the church, a stream of fellow residents ambling alongside us. My eyes dashed to and fro, scanning for any faces I might recognize as we entered the church’s familiar foyer.
The scent of wood polish and freshly brewed coffee filled the air along with the rumble of voices and warm, neighborly conversations.
As the only church in town, Saint David’s encapsulated a few different traditions and several generations, with the older crowd gussied up in their Sunday best and the younger crowd clad in skinny jeans and knit sweaters that were stylish for Colorado.
Sue waltzed up to us with a box of donuts. “Happy Sunday, Caldwells! Please, help yourself. Fresh from my bake shop.”
We each plucked out a glossy glazed donut, mumbling our thank-yous. As I discovered seconds later, it somehow tasted even better than it looked. Before I could compliment Sue, she continued circulating and passing out goodies.
“Coffee?” Dad offered. I nodded, and he weaved his way through the crowd. My eyes skimmed the room, catching sight of a few faces I knew from years past, but the one face I was hoping to spot was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, Constance—the oddball antique store owner who Evelyn, the other half of the dynamic duo at my mom’s birthday breakfast, had mentioned squabbling with—floated into my view.
“Jane, darling, so good to see you,” she said in her slow, singsong voice that made me wonder if she was putting it on. She smoothed out her raw crystal statement necklace and pushed up her cat eye glasses.
“Hey, Constance,” I said. She pulled me in for a double cheek kiss, her signature greeting. It was just one of those things I picked up from when I lived in Paris, she’d always said about her three-month trip, believing herself to be more cultured than she actually was.
“How are you, sweet girl?” she asked.
“Not too bad.”
“Jane is too humble. She’s doing really well. She’s writing a novel,” Mom interjected. Constance’s eyes grew wide. I looked over at Mom to see her beaming at me. A smile spontaneously stretched across my face at her brag. She lovingly squeezed my shoulder.
“Well, isn’t that something. That’s wonderful, Jane.”
“Thanks, Constance. I’m pretty excited about it.”
Dad strode up moments later with piping hot cups of coffee. Surprisingly bold and rich, it rivaled any eight-dollar cup of coffee you could find at an overpriced New York coffee shop. The artsy stamp on the side of the cup informed me that it came from Obscure Coffee.
Those beanie-clad hipsters really do know how to make coffee.
“I heard you’re thinking about starting a painting group,” I said, letting the cup warm my hands.
“Oh, yes, well, there’s been a little bit of controversy about whose idea it was first.” Constance did little to hide her annoyance, unsubtly looking over at Evelyn, who was mingling on the other end of the foyer. She gave me an Isn’t that ridiculous? smile.
“Any chance you two would ever run it together?”
“So she mentioned it to you, did she?” Constance narrowed her eyes. With the same wave of her hand that Evelyn had given me at the birthday bash, she dismissed my suggestion: “There’s no way. Our visions just don’t align.”
I hid my smile at Constance’s answer—exactly the same as Evelyn’s—behind a sip of coffee. Our conversation with Constance wrapped up, and she wandered off. Soon after that, it was time for the service to begin.
We poured into the sanctuary, a simple white space with beams stretching across the soaring ceilings and sturdy pine pews.
The stained glass windows, depicting Jesus ascending into heaven, cast a kaleidoscope of vivid hues across the room, with shades of royal blue, ruby red, and vibrant gold in every direction.
As with any small-town church, the seats were unofficially assigned.
There weren’t any place cards, but once someone’s seat was established, they would never sit anywhere else.
My parents headed for the same pew as always: on the right side of the church, smack-dab in the middle of the rows.
The rest of the town filed in just as efficiently, and in the span of a couple minutes, everyone was seated.
The low chatter of voices bounced off the walls as we all awaited the beginning of the service.
Could anyone tell how many years it had been since I’d set foot in a church?
Even though it had been nine years since I sat in a pew like this one, being here today felt right, oddly enough. Not dissimilar to the feeling I’d gotten pulling into my parents’ driveway when I first arrived. The sensation of being home for the first time in a long time.
Just then, a door on the left side of the sanctuary flew open.
My heart skipped a beat as Noah walked through dressed in a plain polo and slacks—a departure from his typical jeans-and-T-shirt getup.
His chin-length golden hair had been tamed, neatly parted and combed.
There was no doubt that he cleaned up nicely, but he seemed ever so slightly out of place as he strode up to the platform and slipped his old Martin guitar over his head.
The room quieted as he assumed his position.
Gently, quietly, he plucked a few notes before stepping up to the microphone stationed in front of him.
His rich voice filled the room as he sang the first few words of “Amazing Grace.” For how wild Noah had been in high school, I hadn’t expected such a tender voice to come out of him.
And yet, even with its beauty, it still held an edge of roughness, of masculinity.
He crescendoed and ascended the scale with ease, and a sprinkle of goosebumps spread across my forearms.
Noah’s eyes drifted over to me, a faint grin appearing on his face before he looked away. I smiled back, flushing red and hoping my parents wouldn’t notice. He glanced over a few more times before the song was over, his gaze lingering a bit longer each time.
Pastor McNamara stood from his seat in the first pew with his wife and two sons as Noah finished the first song, making his way to the front of the room.
The new pastor was tall, welcoming, and despite his salt-and-pepper hair that suggested he was somewhere in his fifties, young—compared to the string of older pastors who had led Saint David’s over the years.
“Welcome,” his voice rang out, commanding yet kind.
He launched into the service, taking care and putting thought into his every move.
I’d been to church more times than I could count in my younger years, but something about the way this new pastor read Scripture and prayed and spoke about God struck me.
He did it all as if it was so significant to him that words couldn’t fully express it.
His passion for what he was doing was palpable, to the point where watching him lead the service almost felt like going to church for the first time.
Soon, it was time for his sermon—the portion during which younger Jane would accidentally begin to daydream. But this time, I found myself engrossed.
He began with the story of the woman at the well—an outcast in her society due to her endless search for love in the arms of a slew of different men—who came across Jesus at a watering well.
“Jesus talks about how those who drink the water that he gives will never thirst again. This woman he was talking to had been looking for fulfillment through relationships that fizzled out over and over. How many of us have been there? Looking to be fulfilled through our accomplishments or relationships or money or status? Looking to be fulfilled by anything and everything but God?”
My heart stirred at his question. He looked around the sanctuary and raised his own hand, saying, “I certainly have.” A few others in the crowd bravely raised theirs as well. The pastor nodded.