Vestments by John Reimringer

Author:John Reimringer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Milkweed Editions
Published: 2010-07-28T16:00:00+00:00

The summer passed in a blur. I got up before dawn most mornings to say my office, beginning the day with matins and lauds, a habit I’d started in seminary. So much prayerfulness had aroused suspicion among my classmates and the seminary faculty—as Phil said, contemplation has always been the role of the religious orders, a monastic schedule not fitting parish life. Out in the world, though, I found that when the dailiness of my job—the meetings, bills, and reports—became overwhelming, observing the liturgical hours and seasons was a good reminder that I was moving in God’s time and at His behest. It was also said to make celibacy easier, measuring out a life in moments, each directed to the service of God.

When the weather was good, and sometimes when it was bad, I said my morning prayers while walking the border of the bean field behind my rectory. I would stroll away from the house beneath paling stars toward the first brush of color in the eastern sky, and maybe, as I skirted the edge of the woods on the field’s far side, spot the gray humped shadow of a raccoon scuttling into the underbrush or hear the sudden thud of hooves as a deer retreated deeper into the trees. When I made the last turn, toward the Saint Hieronymus steeple, I’d close my breviary and number the tasks that needed to be done that day: counting the collection plate, doing the books, arranging repairs and improvements, writing reports to the Chancery. A rural parish is a business run on a frayed shoestring. My congregation was small and aging—last rites and burials more common than marriages, the confessional more necessary than the baptismal font—and that meant a small collection. I envied the parishes in the Cities where a priest could afford a support staff to take up the slack. Up here, my paid staff consisted of three part-time positions: secretary, housekeeper, and groundskeeper. I had to budget even for urgent needs like a new roof for the sanctuary, and I did what I could on my own, starting with nailing up new gutters on the rectory.

The old man agreed to come up one Friday in the fall to help with the gutters. That morning, when I turned the corner of the bean field, I saw him and Granddad leaning against the fender of Otto’s Park Avenue, smoking cigarettes and watching my seven a.m. Mass regulars, all middle-aged working people and retirees, drifting into the church.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said to Granddad when I got close. He’d lost weight, I thought then, but he looked hale enough. He wore a houndstooth vest and matching hat. Dad was in his usual working duds. His short-lived second marriage had happened over the summer, the new wife come and gone before most of the family were aware of her. I was curious, but I wasn’t going to bring it up in front of Granddad.

Otto dropped his cigarette on the blacktop and crushed it under the polished toe of one shoe.

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