nthposition online magazine

Unforced rhythms of grace

by Sam Oborne

[ fiction - may 07 ]

Do you remember Nick's wedding? We sat at the back of the church. You smiled and gave the thumbs-up at Jodie when her dad led her to the front. Everybody sang loudly and some dropped to their knees. Instead of exchanging vows, Nick and Jodie laid hands on each other and prayed about their commitment, and everybody shouted these weird noises at them which Nick told me later were called Tongues. We looked at the floor and tried not to catch each other's eye, and then I made a flob-a-dob noise and you cracked up, and some bald guy in front of us turned round and glared.

There was more praying once they were married. Four people grouped around them and took turns with a microphone. Someone poked all eight of their fingers into Nick's kidneys and said, "Oh, oh, oh my Jesus," and Nick doubled over and groaned. Jodie looked concerned but he stood straight back up and smiled with his eyes closed like he'd just had a wet dream. Another person read a poem that I distinctly remembered hearing on a UKTV Gold Eastenders repeat several weeks before. Nick's mum was the last to pray for the couple. She whispered fervently, holding the microphone tight on her chin, and a bridesmaid dabbed at Jodie's eyes.

While they were signing the register a woman sang Fields of Gold while a skinny guy picked out the chords on a bashed up guitar. Her voice filled the room with white doves carrying rose petals in their beaks and her eyes were on fire. Friction hovered over the congregation. Men were systematically falling in love with her as she sang, their hearts popping like over-inflated balloons, spinning and skidding into the air above us. She wasn't wearing shoes. I remember pointing that out to you, and you craning your head out into the aisle to see the front of the church. I suggested that I could put you on my shoulders so you could see better and you laughed, and then hooked your arm through mine and said how much you loved Fields of Gold, but you preferred the Sting version to Eva Cassidy's. I said that we could have the Sting version played at our wedding. You looked up at me and smiled.

A man stood up after the song and looked very serious and held a Bible in the air. The congregation quietened down, the buzz from the song dropped, several people bowed their heads. The man didn't use the microphone but his voice was powerful enough. He was making an appeal for people who felt convicted by anything that had been spoken, sung, read or thought. He waited for half a minute, then invited people to come to the front and receive prayer. I felt sick. I could hear my heart beating. Something was pulling me forward, as if from a string protruding from the centre of my chest. I thought it was you tugging at me, but you had let me go and were sitting down, looking through your handbag for something.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them there were three men at the front being prayed for. They were all crying. Once again I felt something pulling me forwards, just a light sensation of momentum. I fought it, leaned back into the wall behind me, acted as if I was being casual. You touched my hand, asked if I was okay, said that I looked pale. I looked towards the front and the man with the Bible caught my eyes. He stared at me for a few seconds before looking away, concluding his part of the service and inviting us to remain standing as Jodie and Nick walked back down the aisle.

Nick winked at me when they passed us but I don't think I responded properly. My face felt numb, my neck thick and my arms heavy. Jodie smiled, the muscles in her neck tightening and protruding momentarily, and then they were gone, through the door into the church's lobby. We sat down.

As we left the church the three men at the front were still crying like babies. I thought of their wives, who would be watching, and felt ashamed of them. I squeezed your hand extra tight because I wanted you to take me out of the building. You produced a packet of cigarettes and out we went, joining six or seven others with the same idea. One guy came up to us and offered a light.

"What did you think of what that guy said?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"The man at the end. I was just wondering if you had any thoughts about what he said to us?"

I couldn't think of anything to say. You just smoked and looked at a cat rolling on its back on the other side of the car park. "I felt a bit ill, actually," I said to the bloke.

"Oh," he said.

"Not because of that, I don't think. Not because of him, I mean."

"Oh," he said again.

"I mean, it was good, I guess, what he said. It got to them didn't it?" I gestured with my head towards the church.

"Oh, yes, awesome ay? They've been on the edge for a while, so I suppose it just tipped the scales."

"Yeah," I nodded, and smoked, and nodded again.

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" said the bloke.

"Go for it, I guess."

"Would you like me to pray for you right now?"

I took a long drag and held it down for a few seconds, then blew the smoke out in your direction. I followed your eye-line. The cat stood up and stretched out its back paws, yawning, then walked to a wall and rubbed its face on the edge.

"Look," you said to the bloke. "Piss off, alright?"

 

Do you remember that conversation? I didn't think you were going to step in. I thought you'd leave it. I thought that the cat had caught your attention. But no, there you were, just when you were needed. When the bloke walked away you squeezed my hand and finished your cigarette quickly, flicking it into the gutter. Then you went on tip-toes and blew smoke into my mouth. It swirled around, filled up my lungs with your breath, and evacuated itself through my nose. I kissed you, then we went inside.

The bloke was giving out cups of tea along with several others. I realised that he must have been an usher. He was smiling like a drone, seemingly unfazed. You sat down on a chair next to Nick's grandmother and I went to get coffees from a woman standing behind a trestle table. When I got back you were already in conversation.

"Screw ‘em," Nick's grandmother was saying.

"You laughed and took your coffee.

"Maybe that would be a good idea," you said.

"Listen to ‘em prattling on, on and on and on, la-dee this, la-dee that. Screw ‘em all, that's what I say. They can take it and stick it." She illustrated her point by jabbing a finger upwards.

"Can I get you a coffee?" I said to her.

"Ah, you're not one o'them god botherers are you?" She pointed at me.

You were still laughing. Pissing yourself, in fact.

"I'm not, no," I said, smiling.

"Then yes," she said and laughed. "Go get me a bloody coffee."

I gave her my own drink and went to get a replacement. I could hear you cackling together. I could also see several ushers standing militantly by the door to the church, so I approached them.

"Hi," I said.

"Photos I'm afraid, mate, you can't come in just yet," said the one who I recognised as Nick's brother. "You on the list to be done?"

"Might be, I guess."

"Let's have a look." He produced a piece of crumpled paper. "What relation are you to the bridal party?"

"Close friend, I guess. Not sure where I fit in."

"Christian or non?"

"Non."

"Okay," he said, frowning at the page. His friend was trying his best not to talk or look at me. I smiled at him. He looked like he could be Nick's cousin, or some other distant-ish relation. They had the same nose. "Well," Nick's brother said after a few seconds. "Family are just finishing, then its Christian, then its non-Christian, then we're done. So I guess you'll be a while."

I smiled. "Be easier if we did all the friends together, don't you think?"

"The plan's been made," said Nick's cousin.

"Okay," I said, and turned towards the coffee again.

They had run out. The woman behind the trestle table was gone.

 

Then he was standing next to me and I hadn't even heard his footsteps. He still had his Bible in his hand and he was smiling, ear to ear, his face stretched un-naturally wide. I glanced in your direction and you were still talking to Nick's grandmother, coffees in hand. No help this time, I thought.

He held out his hand. "Doug," he said.

"James," I said, his grip squeezing my palm.

"Good to meet you James," he said. "Good to meet you."

"Mm," I said.

He kept hold of my hand for several seconds, looking with a firm care into my eyes, his smile dwindling to an inquisitive smirk. Then he let go and held his Bible with both hands to his chest.

"Are you tired?" he said.

"Pardon?" I said, and I really hadn't heard him. I was still hoping that you might rescue me again, looking at you across the room, talking and laughing, willing you over.

"I said, James, are you tired?"

I looked at him. "I don't know," I said, tripping over my words. I couldn't maintain eye contact for long, had to keep glancing away. I wanted to make excuses, leave, but the same feeling that I had experienced in the church was pulling me into his voice. He held me there by talking, reeled me in by that string on my chest.

"Let me share something with you," he said, flicking instantly to a page in his Bible and running his finger down the small-print column. "Are you tired?" he read. "Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me…Walk with me and work with me. Watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace."

He stopped, closed his Bible, looked at me and smiled again, broad, and slapped his hand down on my shoulder.

"I like that," I said, smiling with him. "I like that a lot."

"Nothing about this is forced," Doug said. He paused. "Nothing," he repeated.

"Thinking about it, I am a little tired," I said. I could feel it. I could feel the tug again, like tightness.

"You look tired, James."

We both smiled. He squeezed my shoulder, then turned and walked away.

 

I went back to you. Nick's brother was leading his grandmother away and into the church. You had finished your coffee. I sat next to you and you leant into me, smiling, turning your head upwards and staring at my eyes. You were bubbling, excited. I remembered how much we were in love.

"You'll remember me, when the west wind moves," you sang, in a whisper, raising your lips close to my ear.

We hugged and I felt a rhythm in my chest, pulsing, and I couldn't work out whether or not it was the emotions, complex and compounding into a tremor of the heart, or the fact that I hadn't had any coffee, and suddenly the tiredness really did fill me. It started at the tips of my toes and filled me up, up, through my calves and thighs and groin and hips, into my mid-rift, tingling at my nipples, up through my neck and into my face where my smile dispersed into my cheeks, my eyes closed, my scalp grew sore and my head fell back against the wall behind us. You hugged me tighter and I felt as if I was going to cry.

I opened my eyes and saw, across the room, Doug talking with Nick's cousin and brother, pointing his finger firmly into his Bible and then them all turning, looking at me and nodding, and then walking towards me.

Then the tears started and you let go of me as they surrounded me. They were there, all three of them, hands on me and fingers jabbing me and voices, whispering voices in my ear. I looked at you, standing a few feet away looking concerned and mouthed, "Don't let them take me," but at the same time I felt warm, welcomed, invited, and you didn't even respond, didn't seem to understand what I was mouthing.

You weren't even looking at me in fact, and as I followed your gaze to the floor I saw the cat again, rubbing its face along the doorframe. You smiled, bent down and stroked it from head to tail, and all the while your image was being blurred out of sight by tears.