All this time he’d thought he had to hide his love for Ian from her. Now he could see it in her face. She knew and had probably known for a long time. And it was okay. She understood, and she cared. She opened her arms, and he accepted the hug. She held him as long as he needed without letting go.
Sunday
In his 1864 book The Sacred Mountains, a Presbyterian minister named Joel Tyler Headley wrote, “There are some mountains standing on this sphere of ours that seem almost conscious beings, and if they would but speak, and tell what they have seen and felt, the traveler who pauses at their base would tremble with awe and alarm…. Thus do mountain summits stand the silent yet most eloquent historians of heaven and earth… their solitude and far removal from human interruption and the sounds of busy life, render them better fitted for such communications than the plain and the city.”
The church was packed that Sunday. The largest attendance the church had ever seen. Everyone knew about the outcome of the big vote and that Paul would be making a special announcement. It was the greatest drama in their church history, much more interesting than anything on TV. No one wanted to miss whatever was about to happen.
Congratulations, Mike, Paul thought. You got your growth.
Normally before service on Sunday people talked and laughed. The foyer and pavilion were alive with voices. Those who spoke this Sunday did so in hushed tones. Few people greeted Paul when he passed. They were too uncomfortable.
Paul stood in the bathroom in his black robe. He took a long look at himself in the mirror. When he was ready, he ran his hands over the material to straighten out any wrinkles, took a deep breath, and walked down the hall and into the sanctuary. He could feel all eyes upon him.
Paul took his normal seat, and Emily began to play the prelude. There was all of the regular ritual to get through before the much anticipated sermon. The congregation sat through it with impatience. But Paul took his time. He performed the rituals with particular reverence. The reverence of someone who knows he is doing something cherished for the last time.
I would have held you longer….
When, at last, the time came for Paul to deliver his sermon, he stood at the podium without notes. He took a deep breath. There was no sound but the gentle rattle of the air conditioner.
“I won’t be delivering a normal sermon today,” he began. “This congregation has been through a difficult challenge. We’re deeply divided, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I let this division happen. I probably could have put an end to it before it got to the point it did. But sometimes love can blind you. I love this community. I look out and I see adults who grew up here. I remember performing your baptisms. I see husbands and wives, and I remember performing your weddings. I remember the people who are no longer with us, and I remember performing their funerals. I am so grateful to every one of you for sharing so much love with me, for letting me be a part of your lives.”
His throat tightened, and he took another breath and swallowed, trying to get his voice back.
“I want to thank all of you who voted to allow me to stay and serve as your minister. I’m humbled and grateful. And to those of you who voted the other way, I want you to know I have no hard feelings.”
Paul looked down at the podium to the place where his notes would be if he had them. There was a long pause.
“I’ve been blessed to have two loves in my life. I don’t know why God chose to send them to me. But I’m grateful. Each one taught me so much. And one thing I learned is that sometimes….” His throat caught again, and he continued at a higher pitch, “Sometimes when you love something, you have to let it go. As hard as that may be. And I love this church, and this community, too much to stay and see it torn apart.”
Paul cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “That’s why I’m resigning as your minister, effective this Friday. This will be my last service in this church.”
There were sighs and gasps in the congregation. Julie, who was sitting in the front row, was crying. Paul’s own tears started to flow.
“Thank you for the honor of allowing me to serve you for so long and for being such an important part of my life. Now it’s time for this community to heal. Please join me in a silent prayer for healing.”
Mountain
The first summit in the Bible, the first important peak, perhaps in human history, is Mount Ararat. It emerges from the floodwaters of an old world washed away, ready to accept a world reborn.
Paul wasn’t particular when he scanned the job listings on the Internet. He wasn’t seeking ministerial posts or professional jobs. He wanted something else. Something that would take him away from anything he’d done before. He lingered over listings for forest rangers and positions on fishing trawlers. He was waiting for something to jump out at him, a new world and a new life. No experience necessary. In the end, it was one word that got him: mountain.
The ad for a Mount Rainier tour guide promised lodging in a pristine mountain setting. Paul let himself believe it was a direct sign from God. He would go the mountain, and he would find his angel there just waiting to be reunited. But there is a lot of west, and there are a lot of mountains. The reunion was not to be.
Paul took very little with him to Washington. He loaded up his car with his clothing and a few sentimental items, the pictures of Sara, the angel ornament, and Ian’s favorite cereal bowl. The rest of the contents of his condo were sold by an estate agent. (He got about as much money for all of his worldly possessions as he’d originally paid for his big-screen TV.) He drove out of town past the church. As he took one last look at the building that had been at the center of his life for so long, he noticed the contractors on the roof. They were starting to repair the old steeple.
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It was a Wednesday afternoon, usually a throwaway of a day. Tours were light in the middle of the week. But the weather this afternoon was ideal. The mountain was out, and the sky that surrounded its peak was an almost cloudless blue. The group was small enough for Paul to engage them each personally, to tell his most directly tailored stories. He could give them lots of time to wander and take photographs to bring home to flat states like Indiana and Kansas for the absent friends they wished were there to share the view.
Paul kept one special photograph in his bus. It hung from the rearview mirror, where it was always in his peripheral vision. As she got out of the bus for her solitary mountain time, a woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties asked him about the picture.
“Is that your son?”
“His name is Ian,” Paul replied.
“He’s handsome. You must be very proud of him.”
“I am,” Paul said. “Very proud.”