Arts
The following Wednesday night was fine and clear, and the bright moon was just beginning to wane. The Figgy Pudding Singers had a long outing, and they came back to Mark and Sandra’s house having sung themselves hoarse. John Quick had not sung with them, but had stayed behind, brewing something in the kitchen, something that he said would soothe their vocal cords. It was hot, creamy, and delicious, and very soothing—but it also seemed to cause people’s voices to jump up by at least an octave, for a minute or two after each swallow. Naturally, everyone found it hilarious, and nobody rested their voices. Judging from the look on John’s face, that was his plan all along. Mark found some sheet music online for “Christmas Don’t Be Late” by Alvin and the Chipmunks, and printed it out, and he played it at the piano while Otter, Star, and Rick Pearson performed it in their newfound ranges. Charity Jackson laughed so hard she cried. Mark was happy to see that she was feeling comfortable with the group; tonight, as was often the case, she was by far the youngest singer. Mark noticed something else, too, for the first time that night. He was watching John Quick, who, with just the hint of a twinkle in his serious eyes, was ladling out his special brew. John filled a glass for Timi, and there was just something about the way she took it from his hand—a lowering of the eyes, perhaps a faint blush—and Mark thought, O-ho! So that’s how it is. Several times after that, during the evening, Mark caught Timi watching John with a look of furtive admiration. I wonder if John knows? he thought. Promptly at nine o’clock, Mark and Sandra drove Charity home, as they had promised her parents they would. On the way, Charity said, “Can I ask you guys a question? How come you don’t, like, fight all the time?” Good grief, Mark thought with alarm, is that what she thinks grown-up couples do? But Sandra realized what she was really asking: “You mean, because I’m not a Christian?” “Yeah, that,” said Charity. “Oh, that,” said Mark. “Well, of course, we disagree sometimes, about this and that. But not about religion, particularly.” He paused as he drove, trying to leave a gap for Sandra to jump in, but she seemed to be letting him field this one. He went on: “Honestly, it just doesn’t seem like that big a deal. It’s like, in our different ways, we’re both interested in the great Mystery that lies at the heart of reality. In my tradition, we call that Mystery God, and we try to live into it by following the Way of Jesus. In Sandra’s tradition, there are different names and different teachings. But we both agree that it would be a mistake to think that any one tradition has all the answers, and no other tradition has any.” Sandra said, “It’s kind of like, he follows the Cardinals, and I follow the Cubs. It gives us lots to talk about, maybe even debate sometimes, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, or watch the game together.” “Now, let me ask you a question,” said Mark. “Are you still going to church?” “No, Pastor,” she said in a chastened voice. “Except your Christmas Eve.” “Hey, I was just asking. I’m not the church police. Of course, you’re always welcome in my church. But I hope you know, even more, that you’re always welcome to come talk with us, either one or both of us, whatever spiritual path you choose. If you need someone to talk to. Is it making problems for you at home, not going to church like you used to?” “Well,” she said, “yeah … it’s a little … tense, sometimes. I wish my parents were more … but anyway, they’re pretty cool, really. It’s just a little … tense, like I said. And I hate disappointing them, you know? But I just … I can’t always be who they want me to be.” “Well,” said Mark, “I’ve talked with your parents, and I agree: they’re pretty cool. It can be tough for parents to let go of some of the things they’ve planned for their kids. But I think you’ll come through it okay. They love you,