Sunday, 8 September 2019

Thank you, Sam.

Post-birthday week church in the pouring rain this morning, the church warm and dim after a night filled with lightning and thunder that never stopped. Maybe Caleb was quietly celebrating Lochlan's decision to send August home, across the driveway in the deluge of sleet that blurred the edges of the night.

Lochlan did it to keep me from seeking out Jake. It's a kindness masked by authority and this morning I relay my gratefulness for him straight to God when I take my place in church. He holds out our coffees once I'm settled in, coat off, purse tucked against my ankle, and I take them while he shrugs out of his coat. I hand his back and he winks at me. It's a reassurance and I shift position to lean against him.

Sam brings his own mug of coffee over, and sits on the top step.

I don't think anyone else is coming. We'll wait fifteen minutes and then head out. 

He and Lochlan talk softly about winterizing preparations for the church and for the point, a little bit about how August is adjusting back to life post-burn and then I open my eyes and Lochlan is prodding me to get up, it's time to go.

He took my coffee when I nodded off and just held it. I take a huge gulp but it's barely warm and I make a face. He tells me that Duncan is making french toast, that we'll have some brunch and then have a nap if I like.

Nothing else to do today? 

Nothing that can't wait, he says. We should have stayed in bed.

Then Sam would have been all alone. And besides, it was the first time he's ever had the church warm in time. Someone had to be there to appreciate that.