It was a beautiful Sunday morning as I entered the small church for the first time holding hands with my 7- and 4-year-old daughters. I had been raised in a fundamentalist, evangelical tradition, a tradition I could no longer indoctrinate those two wonderful little souls who sat next to me into. I was nervous and didn’t really know anyone. A smartly dressed woman, small in stature, with beautiful silver hair cut in an attractive bob approached us quietly. I was afraid I had chosen a seat occupied by “the regulars” and was about to be asked to move. As she stopped at our pew, she broke into a lovely smile and asked if I needed any help with the service books. This was my first time in an Episcopal church and far from any worship I’d known in my 32 years. I was grateful for her offer, and she slid in next to us and guided me through our first Holy Eucharist. Little did I know what our friendship and time together would become and the significance it would have on the rest of my life.
Several months passed and we had been welcomed into this church community with hospitality and care. Her name was Geri, and she, along with many others, were bringing me and my girls right along with all things Episcopal. This would include coffee hour with donuts my girls couldn’t wait for. As I was getting ready to leave the Parish Hall, Geri asked if she might have a quick conversation and ask, “a favor.” After everything she had done for my family, my answer was “absolutely!” I sat back down, she sat across from me, looked me directly in the eye and said, “I think the perfect solution to getting you more comfortable with our faith tradition is to join the altar guild and I will teach you everything you will need to know.” The first words out of my mouth were “Geri, I don’t even know the names of any of the things you all use up there.” Her reply, “And that, my dear is exactly why you need to do this!” Geri was small in stature but a formidable personality. One didn’t refuse an offer of this magnitude. Thus began my education into all things altar guild.
The all-too-familiar nervousness was upon me that first day that was to begin my training. I hesitantly walked up the steps to the Sacristy and timidly pushed open the door…it stuck, so I ended up putting a shoulder to it and entered with a loud crash as I knocked over the incense stand. “That’s quite an entrance,” she exclaimed, “now let’s get to work.” She and Wanda, her Group B partner, patiently taught me the ropes. I polished, I trimmed candles, I dusted pews and altars. I then graduated to linens and how to properly launder and iron them. The two women not only taught me the how but the why which was invaluable to the way my mind worked. She was a perfectionist, and I had many do-overs, but eventually through the next two years, she announced that I was ready to do this on my own. I was thrilled and petrified!
Fast forward to the year 2008. Geri had been widowed years before I met her that Sunday in 1990 and she continued to live on her own in a small well-cared for house in town well after his passing. It had become evident that the house and yard was too much for her and she had decided to move into a small, assisted living apartment close by. My phone rang and I heard her voice say, “Beth, I have another favor to ask of you, but first I’d like to have tea at my house before I move.” Again, “absolutely,” was my reply. I had been there a few times to pick her up for church, especially on icy Sundays in winter, so it was a bit melancholy for me when I realized this would be the last time I would be visiting her in her own home. As always, she greeted me with a smile and a hug, and we walked into the small living room where she had a very proper setting ready for tea. I cherished these moments and our conversations through the years. She was instrumental in support of my discernment and call to the diaconate. We talked of quiet service behind the scenes and laughed about my training foibles during my altar guild years. Her life was now packed up in boxes and she was deciding what she could take with her and what she could donate as she would not have the space to accommodate it all. We finished our tea, and she turned serious, took my hand and said, “Now I need to give you a gift…not really a gift…but a responsibility.” I immediately informed her that our friendship and time together was the only gift I needed and that would continue even though she would not be able to attend church as often. “I’ll be right back,” she said and disappeared into her bedroom. She returned moments later carrying a cushioned, wooden bench. I rushed to help her, and we set it down beside my chair. “Remember, I taught you what this is called…a prie-dieu, a prayer bench.” It was a beautiful piece made of finished walnut. Into the back was carved a ladder, a spear, a long-handled sponge and over all these was a crown of thorns. I could make out the indentations where her knees had made their impression from many hours spent in prayer and the worn space where her prayer book must have rested. I started to protest, and she stopped me, “Hear me out young lady.” I was about your age when I received this prie-dieu from another woman prayer warrior who had received it years before from one like us. It came with explicit instructions to use it, care for it, and when the time comes, you will know who the woman is that it is to be passed on to and you will also know the time. I knew it was you the moment you walked into the church years ago, and now it is time for you to carry it forward. It is a privilege and a responsibility and one not to be taken lightly. And one day, you will also know who to pass it to and when it is time to do so.” She then handed me an envelope that contained all the names of the women who had cared for the prayer bench before me. My name was at the bottom of the list with that day’s date. I looked at the names on that enclosed sheet of paper that dated back decades to when the bench was first gifted. Only then did the realization of the responsibility she spoke of hit me.
Geri passed away some years ago and I am being faithful to my promise to her and to the women that have prayed so fervently on that bench. There are times when I sense that I can feel their hands on my shoulders, praying with me and for me. A precious gift I can only hope to honor with my best effort always. I have not met the next prayer warrior that will carry the gift/responsibility forward, but I am ever vigilant and confident that I will.
I tell you this story because, dear altar guild members, of what Geri’s service meant to me in my spiritual journey. All of you care for the quotidian essentials of the tasks at hand, however, never underestimate how your dedication and service feeds the faith and well-being of others. When that person comes through your church door with little ones in tow, after a while, sit them down at coffee hour and ask them for “a favor.”
The Venerable Beth Drew, Archdeacon, The Episcopal Diocese of the Great Lakes