be
late
at
this
rate
if
we
don’t
get
a
hurry
‐
up,
and
I
imagine
my
friend
CJ
turning
around
in
her
church
waiting
for
me
to
arrive.
Thoughts
of
leaving
early
begin,
but
I
push
them
aside,
I
can’t:
my
loyalty
is
here
first.
Then
it’s
Communion,
and
returning
back
to
my
pew,
Frank
holds
out
a
cane
basket
with
mini
Easter
eggs
in
it.
I
take
one,
and
unwrap
it.
The
one
hour
Service
goes
for
one
hour
and
35
minutes
and
I
bowl
out
of
the
door
and
into
my
car,
with
a
flurry
of
smiles
and
air
kisses.
I
am
on
my
way
driving
westwards;
to
Ashgrove
and
a
Catholic
mass;
to
be
with
my
friend.
I
owe
her
one
Service,
as
she
kept
me
company
in
Rockhampton
and
attended
the
Anglican
Church
with
me
when
we
did
our
road
trip
together.
I
wonder
what
dad
would
say
about
going
to
Church
twice
in
one
day
(and
one
of
those
a
Catholic
church!)
,
but
I
don’t
care;
I
haven’t
been
to
Easter
church
for
years,
and
I
am
making
up
for
it
today.
He
would
be
pleased,
and
see
the
humour
in
it.
Arriving
ten
minutes
late,
the
Service
has
begun,
but
the
crowds!
They
are
huge,
milling
around
outside,
seated
on
hastily
brought
in
pews
and
extra
chairs.
Most
of
the
people
still
stand,
unable
to
see,
or
hear
what
is
going
on.
That’s
not
for
me,
I
didn’t
come
to
stand
in
the
garden,
I
want
to
see,
and
hear
everything,
and
I
will.
I
make
my
way
upstairs,
pushing
gently
through
the
younger
crowd.
Looking
to
my
left
where
the
choir
sit,
looking
for
CJ’s
hubby
Ron,
(I
know
he
is
going
to
sing
today)
I
spy
a
woman
(dressed
in
red)
I
also
recognise,
and
she
points
to
me
and
indicates
to
sit
beside
her.
Blankly,
I
turn
around
looking
behind
me,
until
I
point
to
myself
and
question
her.
Me?
Yes,
you,
come
and
sit
here.
Grateful,
I
bunker
down
beside
her,
and
with
the
next
hymn
try
to
read
the
small
print
on
the
Power
Point,
a
response
chorus
to
Ron’s
leading
voice.
A
long
white
ceiling
light
‐
one
of
twelve
‐
spins
in
lonely
circles.
Small
children
stagger
with
dummies
in
their
mouths;
fathers
wander
in
and
out
to
quietly
change
nappies,
woman
fan
themselves.
Ron
truns
around
and
sees
me
with
a
smile,
he
doesn’t
miss
a
thing.
I
can
see
the
back
of
CJ’s
hair
‐
she
is
to
my
front
right
‐
and
when
the
time
comes
for
“Peace
be
with
you”
I
shake
a
couple
of
local
hands
then
surge
forward
like
a
ruby
player
to
pump
CJ’s
hand.
She
is
delighted
and
we
are
both
so
happy
to
be
together,
in
church.
Why
have
I
started
going
to
church?
I
honestly
don’t
know,
it’s
something
that
has
occurred
to
me;
an
awaking,
and
something
that
I
enjoy
doing;
for
the
time
being.
I
love
the
literature,
the
music,
the
memories,
the
architecture,
the
company,
the
tradition,
the
artworks
and
the
sense
of
common
history
“binding
us
together
in
his
love
.”
It
could
be
worse!
It’s
now
leading
up
to
Communion,
and
the
Priest
sounds
like
a
race
‐
caller.
He
says
everything
in
one
nasal
sentence:
“wearetheonebodyforweallpartakeoftheonebread
”
and
without
pausing
for
breath,
or
effect;
he
gallops
onwards
racing
towards
the
best
part
of
the
Service.
If
Fr
Tom
had
spoken
this
fast,
we
wouldn’t
have
been
so
late,
ha.
We
gape,
Abba
‐
like,
to
his
words.
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