She read well, in a strong, clear voice, and sat down to nods of somewhat grudging acceptance. Roger, who had sat during the reading, stood up and—once more—cleared his throat.
“As ye can tell … I won’t be able to talk for long. So the sermon will be short.” That seemed agreeable to the congregation, who all nodded and settled themselves.
“I know ye mostly all heard Mr. Cunningham talk this morning, and ye were moved by his testimony. So was I.” His voice was a sandpaper rasp, but it was understandable. A hum of response, and sober nods.
“It’s important to hear of great events, of revelations and of miracles. These remind us of the greatness of God, and His glory. But most of us—” He paused to breathe. “Most of us don’t live life in situations of great danger or adventure. We aren’t called upon so often to make a grand gesture … to be heroes. Though we have a few among us.” He smiled at them, meeting eyes here and there in the crowd.
“But each one of us is called to live our lives in the smaller moments; to do kindness, to risk our feelings, to take a chance on someone else, to meet the needs of the people we care for. Because God is everywhere, and lives in all of us. Those small moments are His. And He will make of those small things glory … and let His … greatness … shine in … in you.”
He barely made it through the last line, forcing air to support each word, and had to stop, mouth half open, struggling for breath.
“Amen,” said Jamie, in his most decided voice, and the people chorused “Amen!” with great enthusiasm.
Roger was instantly submerged by well-wishers mobbing up to the front. I saw Brianna, off to one side, smiling through tears, and it dimly occurred to me that I was doing the same thing.
I’D THOUGHT THAT most people would have lost their appetite for religion after the first two rounds, and at least half of them did head back to their homes for dinner, still discussing the virtues and defects of the rival liturgies. But a good twenty people—not counting our family—came back down through the woods in the late afternoon, and—in some cases, visibly girding their loins—prepared to enter the Meeting House once more, clearly wondering what the hell they were about to encounter.
Rachel and Jenny had rearranged the benches so that they stood in a square, facing into the center of the room. In the center was my small instrument table, now holding a jug of water and a tin cup.
Rachel herself stood by the door to welcome people, with Jenny and Ian at her elbows.
“I bid thee welcome, Friend McHugh, and thy family with thee,” she said to Sean McHugh. “It is our custom that women sit on one side of the room and men the other.” She smiled at Mairi McHugh. “So as thee is the first woman, thee may take thy choice.”
“Oh. Well, then. Er … thank thee? Is that right?” she whispered to her husband.
“How would I know?” he asked reasonably. “Do we say ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ when we’re here?” he asked Rachel, who, with a straight face, told them that they needn’t use Plain Speech unless the spirit moved them to do so, but that no one would laugh if they did.
I heard a murmur of relief from the people behind me, and a slight relaxation as the very large McHugh boys passed gingerly through the door, one at a time.
Jamie and I waited until everyone went in.
“Ye’ll do fine, lass,” Jamie said to Rachel, patting her shoulder as he turned to go in.
“Oh, I don’t mean to do anything,” she assured him. “Unless I am moved by the spirit to speak, in which case, I imagine I’ll say something suitable.”
“That doesna necessarily mean she willna start a stramash,” Ian muttered in my ear. “The spirit tends to be very free wi’ its opinions.”
SUPPER WAS SIMPLE, because there had been no one to stay at home and cook it during the day. I’d made a huge kettle of milky corn chowder in the morning, with onions, bacon, and sliced potatoes to fill it out, and after the usual obsessive checking of hearth and coals had covered the cauldron and left it to simmer, along with a prayer that the house would not burn down in our absence. There was bread from yesterday, and four cold apple pies for pudding, with a little cheese.
“’Snot a pudding,” Mandy had said, frowning when she heard me say that. “Issa pie!”
“True, darling,” I said. “It’s just an English manner of speech, to call all desserts ‘pudding.’”
“Why?”