June 10, 2012

We drove through the sheeting rain and the flailing wind, Dad, Deb and I did, to be in the Hanna church this morning for its 75th anniversary.

There are many reasons I am always happy to go to Hanna on a Sunday morning: Dad's long-time family friends, Lawrence and Edith, go there along with their son, Phillip, and his wife, Sharalyn. Doreen, my Nana Ironside's great friend, goes there. We know so many people with so many stories from Dad's and his siblings' histories, and they're all ready to share them with us. I love that they knew and loved my Uncle Gordon, Dad's elder brother.


Another reason I love to go is that they have a fancy electric keyboard at that church - but it remains covered up, for the most part, and the trusty old piano with the scuffed case and the sweet tone that comes from a piano well played is invariably chosen.


I love how Pastor Paul isn't afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve regarding his love for his church and for his people and his burden for his community.


I love how sociable the congregation is, looking for a reason to celebrate or to break bread together. The most tasty potluck lunches I have eaten have been after Sunday morning service at this church.


But the thing I love most about this church is that it was here my Dad preached the last Sunday sermon my Mum would hear of his on this earth. 
The text was from Song of Solomon chapter 4:

¹² A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

¹³ Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard,

¹⁴ Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices:

¹⁵ A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon.

¹⁶ Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.

He mentioned that this garden, created in the desert, had three sources of water: a fountain, a well, and streams from Lebanon where the run-off from the snow on the mountains would wend its way through the garden. 

The garden was enclosed; it was not a public park but a place created by a specific person for a specific person. It was a haven, an oasis, a sanctuary.

Interestingly, he went on, none of the plants listed are native to the area. All of them would have had to have been imported. Many of them were from India!

As he drew the sermon to a close he pointed out how verse 16 encourages the wind to blow upon the garden. And as the wind blew, the air would become redolent with the fragrance of the spices and plants in the garden. The garden's exquisite loveliness  would bless the tired passers-by as well as the parched soul who yearned for beauty.

I was playing the piano that day; I finished the closing hymn and then started playing a postlude. As the people made their way out, my Dad slowly came off the platform and walked toward my Mum. She stood up, stepped into the aisle facing him. So gently, so tenderly, they brought their faces together until their foreheads touched. They stood thus for long moments, gazing into each other's eyes. No words were spoken. None were needed. The love they had for each other was palpable in this sacred space with the muted buzz of the rest of the people - oblivious to this interchange - at the far end of the church building.

Today would have been their 51st wedding anniversary. As I sat there this morning listening to the sounds of the piano flowing out, swirling around me, wafting through the little country church, my heart filled with gratitude for these two people who created a beautiful garden of love, integrating and tending to its lush verdure, keeping the sources of water pure and not taking them for granted.

As a result, the fruits and the fragrance of their beautiful garden spilled out to their children, their grandchildren, their community, their work, and indeed to the whole world. After she passed away, Dad received letters from people in many different countries who had been blessed by her and by them both.

What a unique treasure their garden was and continues to be! I as their daughter am so grateful for the rich heritage I have been given.

1994