I love the neighborhood I moved into almost a year ago. It is a lovely subdivision with wide lawns and large mature trees, and has a peacefulness about it that makes going for a walk pleasant indeed.
I have been considering finding a church to attend for some time now, although I am not sure why, but the thought persists often enough that I first considered what church it should be. You see I have attended and joined many churches in my lifetime; christened in United after birth, baptized in water at age thirteen in the Baptist Church, converted to Roman Catholicism through RCIA at the age of fortyish, and joined the Salvation Army at my last unfortunate attempt at marriage. The Church remained, husband did not. I was happy and active in each of my churches, largely I believe, because I am comfortable in my faith, and I will not argue ideological differences that some cling to in attempts to say their church, their God is right and no one else is.
Anyway, I decided to look for a church that was within walking distance. Yes, I drive, but the thought of walking to church has a certain appeal. There is a lovely little United Church just down the hill a little over two kilometers away, so about one and a half miles each way. I watched for signs each time I passed it to see what time service started. Last week I noticed it was a ten o’clock service.
So this morning I awoke, put on my Sunday best and headed off twenty minutes before ten, enjoying the walk on a lovely not too warm sunny day. I came to the parking lot first and noticed only one vehicle, which I thought strange. A few more steps took me to the front doors where a sign read, ‘Closed July and August.’
Maintaining my Sunday Best Approach I decided to head back up the hill intending to stop at a Timmies, A Tim Hortons (Canada’s addiction) and treat myself to breakfast and a latte. The day I figured was not completely lost.
Now Tim’s has booths, all of which were full, and tables and hard on your butt chairs, and two delightful faux leather stuffed chairs by a delight faux fire. I take my breakfast, latte and napkins to the comfy stuffed chairs, pull out my tablet (free wifi), notebook and pen, prepared to continue research in my present endeavor. Ah. Perfect.
Balancing my tablet on my lap, holding my coffee, I reach for my pen. In the blink of an eye, or in the more modern phrase, in a nanosecond, my latte is spread down the entire left leg of my virginal white pants and in a wide arc around my reading chair.
You all hear about how nice Canadians are so while I kneel to start clean up a young couple come over and help with the mop up. Then a young worker shows up with mop and pail. I head off to the ladies room to try and wash some of the coffee from my pants as another worker calls out, ‘don’t worry I will have another free latte here for you when you come out.’ You see there is still a certain perfection to the day. Unfortunately the washroom has an automatic tap and only an air hand dryer.
So I throw handfuls of water on my once white now brown pants then use thin bits of bathroom tissue to mop up the floor. When I return back to the counter the young lady has my new latte ready.
I decide to sit at a proper table and chairs to work, but find the urgency to get my pants into a good soak a soon as possible is, well urgent. So I gather all up and walk the remaining one thousand steps home, still savoring the beautiful day and gardens and parks.
My clothes are now clean and wearable again and now I head off to see my Auntie, and while the Nursing Home insists I brighten her day, I have to say she brightens mine. So I guess all in all, this is still a pretty perfect Sunday.