Sanctuary

Two years ago, when everything was still weeping-wound fresh with the breakdown of my marriage, I sat in church, the one I had grown up in, and thought I was going to fall apart, right there, in the middle of all those familiar, unknown faces. So, I got up and left. I scurried through the building, like a mouse, from one room to the next, looking for sanctuary. I needed a place to be quiet and alone with God, but all the rooms were full of children, and classes, and white glue with sparkles. And so, with my broken heart about to bleed out of my eyes and mouth in loud gasps, I ran into the women's washroom. It was empty, and for one moment, I had God to myself, under harsh, fluorescent, lighting. And then, the door opened, and I wasn't alone. Elsie Giese walked in.

Elsie and her husband Heinze, had been going to our church for longer than my family, which is to say over 20 years, which is to say, longer than I know, which is to say, a long time. You never saw one of them without the other, and, I always thought them such a well matched pair, both, tiny people, with thick German accents and gentle movements. At church "business" meetings, Elsie was always quiet, while her husband, in his beautiful voice, asked if we could please, sing at least one hymn a service, and not just these new choruses? I always liked them, though I never knew them, and would have gladly sung hymns, lovely old hymns, thick with their memories and meaning, for them.

But, two years ago, Elsie found herself without Heinze, for the first time in over fifty years. He died unexpectedly, suddenly. And she was alone. And she walked into the church bathroom that Sunday morning, with the same need as me. I don't remember if we stood there for a moment, crying, in our own circles of grief, but I do remember, that eventually, I went to her and put my arms around her tiny shoulders and hugged her while she cried. And I thought about her grieving a lost past, and me grieving a lost future, and the similar, hollow places that remained in the empty space in bed, across the kitchen table, car seat, church pew, heart, heart, heart. I passed her Kleenexes, noticed the spot she had missed combing in her white puff of hair, her rounded shoulder, dripping nose. I said nothing but for, "I'm so sorry." There were only the sounds of sniffling and rustling cloth. After a moment, we wiped our faces, washed our hands, dabbed at our eyes, and left the sanctuary of the bathroom.

I attend a different church now, and we only sing hymns. Most of the faces are unknown and I still seek sanctuary from the sanctuary, from time to time. I think about Elsie often. I pray for her when I remember to. The sadness being, I have not spoken to her since that Sunday. The beauty being, I will never forget the gift of grief shared.