Five years ago, when we moved back into the area of my childhood home, I would drive past the church I had attended as a little one.
I stopped going to church when I moved away from home. I missed it occasionally, in the way you miss something but can’t put your finger on why.
When we moved back, I thought about attending a service again, but there just didn’t seem to be time. The weeks were fraught with work deadlines, the weekends with social invitations.
Then one Saturday morning, when I took my pooch for her tinkle and we walked past the church, I saw everyone setting up for a fete.
The tables were out in the grounds, there were festive banners, and people were placing goods out for display. It was early, but everyone had a cheery smile and seemed to be having the best time.
I went home and didn’t think about it again until teatime. I walked up to take a look.
There were many people there and lots of children. I browsed and spoke to the vendors who were all so lovely, ate glorious pancakes, and watched a musician sing beautifully.
I met a woman, also called Pat. She invited me to the sermon the next morning. I politely declined.
Her invitation didn’t leave my thoughts. So when the morning came, I kissed my sleeping hubby goodbye, left him a note to walk the pooch, and made up the road in the hopes that I hadn’t missed the morning service.
I made it in time and the sermon was perfect. There was a practicality to the messages about love and kindness. It was perfect the week after and the week after that and every weekend since.
But that is not why I kept going back. I kept going back because of Pat.
Pat and Mary and June and Claude and all the other people who make up the congregation.
Being part of the community meant I was part of something. It meant I had a place to be useful and meaningful. This was especially true when I lost my job and had more time on my hands.
I was knitting bunnies for fetes and beanies and blankets for the underprivileged. I was sitting in coffee groups and chatting about the week.
Being part of the community meant that we were baking together and walking to church together, setting up for the fete and helping others do the same together.
It meant that when the other Pat’s husband passed, she had a support system that extended far past her immediate family or friends. It meant that when children and grandchildren were born, they got kitted out with booties and cardigans and beanies in a heartbeat. It meant that when someone suffered a heartbreak there was always someone there to lend a shoulder.
Love is funny that way. It has so many faces, so many ways to be felt, so many ways to be expressed.
I’m not saying it’s always perfect. As with all communities of strong and complex personalities, there are disagreements. People occasionally argue about the silliest things. But as with all communities built on mutual respect and care, these are easily resolved.
Being part of this community has taught me that love is more than just an expression for those who are part of our inner circle. It can be a communal expression of care and repair.
Pat didn’t have to talk to me that day at the church fete. She didn’t have to invite me to tea after that first sermon. The other congregants didn’t have to be friendly and kind and welcoming.
But they were, and because of that my life is expanded and my love has new places to flow into and be multiplied.