Date: Thu, 07 Aug 2008 16:50:15 -0400
From: montrealormolu@aol.com
Subject: The Glance - chapter 1

As he put the Host into each hand, he repeated the mantra, "The Body of
Christ, the Bread of Heaven," letting his fingers rest for a split second
on the palm of each pair of hands, his eyes briefly making contact with
each person's face. He had done it for so long that he knew how to time it
-- just long enough for each person to know that they had been seen, but
not so long that he intruded into their time with God. Those glances were
always so shockingly intimate, so vulnerable as each person reached up to
touch God through the Host.  Somehow he felt that he had been let into each
person's life for just a moment at an unusual depth; it was always a bit
unsettling to see into a person's soul. Sometimes he wondered what they saw
when they looked back at him. "The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven,"
and he placed the Host into the next person's hand, briefly looking up into
the eyes and finding himself locked by an incredibly blue gaze, early sky
blue, ice blue, drowning blue. He jerked his head away, uncomfortable with
what he had glimpsed. He glanced back as he went along the altar rail, and
found the man looking back at him, too. He paused, lost. Then he carried
on, forcing himself to focus on each person kneeling before him, "The Body
of Christ, the Bread of Heaven."

The service went on. He moved through the ablutions, the cleaning up of the
vessels at the end of communion, said the final prayer and blessing, and
moved into place for the closing hymn. Thank God he had been doing this for
so many years! It was only his memory that carried him through. His
conscious mind was still back at the altar rail, looking into the eyes of a
man he didn't know -- but yet did. Who was he?

As the procession wound its way out to the back, he just couldn't help
himself; he looked around the church with its rows of singing people, but
he didn't see him. Maybe the man had left after receiving communion? He
took his place at the back, said the dismissal and prepared to shake
hands. He took off his vestments, standing there in his alb, and began to
greet people, asking questions, pressing hands, touching shoulders, looking
into people's eyes as they began to file out of the church. Here a new
widow, there a young couple newly married, here a child with a hand-drawn
picture as a gift for him, there a middle-aged man in a troubled marriage
-- one after another, they each claimed his attention for a quick, quiet
word. He became lost in the reality of all those needs, and all that pain;
yet still a small part of his mind wondered, who was he? Somewhere in the
middle of the receiving line, a new hand shook his, and those blue eyes
looked at him. He flinched, unused to someone looking at him that way, to
seeing a deep yearning that matched his own.

"Welcome. I'm Father John. I'm glad you came to be with us this morning."

"I'm Chuck. I'm new to the area and thought I'd give this church a try."

"Well, I'm glad you did. Please stay and have some coffee. I'd like to chat
with you, get to know you better."

"OK."

The line moved on, he turned to greet the next person in line and noticed
that his hand was still holding Chuck's. He let go suddenly, shocked by his
actions. Giving himself a little, imperceptible shake, he offered his hand
to the next person, reaching down to the child wanting to be picked up. He
couldn't believe what was happening. He was glad that his robes hid his
physical reaction to this stranger. It would be embarrassing -- for
everyone -- if they could see underneath the robes.

He finished the line and moved into the coffee hour, that unofficial
sacrament of the Church. He moved through the crowd, seeking a cup of
something to drink, feeling the tiredness of a full morning beginning to
creep up on him.

"Here, I brought you a glass of cold water. You looked like you could use
it." Chuck had suddenly appeared at his elbow with the glass.

"Thanks. You're right."

Fingers touched as the glass changed hands, a small electrical charge
sparking. They looked at each other, the glass held between them. John took
it, trying to cover up the fumbling and the surprise. He drank, needing the
refreshment, needing the time to pull himself together.

"This may sound brash, but do you want to go to lunch?" asked Chuck. John
hesitated. "If it doesn't work with your schedule, that's OK. Perhaps
another time?"

"No! I mean, yes...I'd love to have lunch. I won't be free for another
twenty to thirty minutes though. Is that OK?"

"Yep."

Chuck smiled, and John felt his own grin spread across his face.

"Good. I'll see you in a few minutes then."

Somehow he felt free to go about his usual busyness now, buoyed up by a
good feeling that he couldn't explain. He glad-handed his way through the
crowd, saying all the right things, making mental notes of the people with
whom he needed to do some follow-up. He got to the other side and ducked
into his office, taking off his robes and hanging them up, sitting down at
the desk to write some reminder notes to himself. When he looked up, there
was Chuck lounging in the doorway. He smiled.

"Checking up on me to make sure I don't forget?"

"Well, you were certainly pretty preoccupied with everything around
you...just making sure."

"I wasn't going to forget, Chuck. You can be sure of that," John said
firmly.

Chuck quirked an eyebrow, looking at him with a wry smile, then he
laughed. "Well, let's go then, if you're ready."

"Your car or mine?" John suddenly blushed at the unintended
double-entendre.  Chuck laughed again. He offered, "Let's take my car. We
can come back for yours after lunch."