Chapter Four
Where The Hell Have You Been?
The vestry, to one side of the altar, was my man cave. My laptop sat on the old wooden desk, I sat in a battered leather office chair. Sun shone in through the small window in the thick stone wall of the church, illuminating dust specks in the air. My filing cabinet and bookshelves took up much of the room. The ancient wardrobe, once actually used for vestments, still containing church paraphernalia, left only a small space for signing of the marriage register by brides, grooms, and witnesses. These and other such ceremonies created the occasional need for tidying up and sorting and letting the cleaner in. Nowadays, Hero’s cushion and chew toys infiltrated and covered a lot of the worn red Persian rug underfoot. A plump brocade lounge chair occupied a corner, facilitating and inviting the odd nap.
I was writing Sunday’s sermon. My mobile phone was turned to silent. The radio was on, and napping was not on the agenda. I get quite enough of hymns and sacred music, so was tuned in to WSFM, listening and singing along to ‘I’m too Sexy for My Shirt’. Not quite the serious tone needed for sermon writing but energising nonetheless. Glad no one was watching me bopping to the beat. There was reason to be lively, as on this day Julia had agreed to meet me for a coffee after she finished work!
Love was on my mind and 1 Corinthians:13 explored the nature of it. I typed:
“If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.”
An apt lesson for the congregation I thought. Then, unbidden, other paragraphs danced blasphemously unbidden into my mind:
“If I speak in the tongues of men or angels and my congregation do not have love, I am only delivering resounding pearls to the to the clanging swine.”
“If I wear the sexy shirt of angels and cannot fathom the mysteries of feminine desire then mountains do not get moved and I am nothing.”
I did not type these.
“Hmm,” I thought, “Perhaps I need a break, my concentration seems to be otherwise engaged.”
“Come on, Hero. Time for a short walk.”
… No response was forthcoming. Normally the word WALK was a catalyst for excited jumping and whimpering. I looked outside. No canine presence. It was then that I noticed the gate was wide open. My heart sunk to my boots. Surely I had closed and fastened the gate as I normally do on my way in.
I spent the next 15 minutes calling and running round like a decapitated martyr. I asked a few passers-by if they had seen a black dog with little brown eyebrows, to no avail. I was about to head inside, gather my belongings and go home, when I spotted a figure in the distance. Lo and behold it was Mrs Hobson with Hero dutifully in tow. I strode to meet them.
“Where the hell have you been?” I said fruitlessly to Hero. Hero whined and wagged his whole body.
“Well!”, said Mrs Hobson, her eyebrows slightly raised at my sacrilegious language, “He turned up whining and scratching at the front door. I knew he should be with you, so I’ve walked him down. If you had answered your mobile, you would already know, and you would also know that there is more to this than meets the eye, Horace!”
“Thank you, thank you so much, I’m so relieved to see you, but what do you mean?”
“There was a piece of paper wrapped around his collar. I’ve brought it to show you, look!”
I unfolded the large sheet of crumpled paper. There, in thick black marker, was written, “NEXT TIME HE WON’T FIND HIS WAY HOME”