Chapter 6

On Sunday morning Cecelia and Darlia get up about 7:30; I wait till 8, for it takes me less time to get ready. Except for special occasions I wear the same clothes to church I wear to work – cowboy shirt, jeans, boots. I usually put on a nicer pair of boots, and I'll make sure that the jeans I wear on Sunday morning aren't too ratty, but I'm congenitally informal. Cecelia has never tried to change me, for which I'm grateful. I am acutely uncomfortable in a suit, and got rid of mine the minute I quit the police department 18 years ago.

Where I'm casual, Cecelia is formal. That morning she wore an off white dress with short sleeves that showed off her biceps. She belted it with a gold chain that hung down two or three links at the ends. It could have looked tacky, but on her it was elegant. She'd used her gold hair clip to pull her hair back, and her narrow face shone with washing. She never uses makeup, but I don't mind – in fact, I prefer it that way. For a jacket she'd chosen her black leather trench coat, the one that reaches to her ankles and, when it's open, swirls around her when she walks.

Darlia had on her purple dress – she insists the color is lilac, and it does match the color of purple lilacs – and her black shoes with the silver buckles. She'd braided just the hair on her temples, and woven purple ribbons into the braids. Her braids lay on her chest, the dark blonde color contrasting with the dress, and the ribbons coiling a little lower. She'd put on her church coat – it's brown and not particularly special, but it keeps her warm and goes with almost anything. Almost anything – it didn't match her dress real well. But once we got inside she wouldn't be wearing it anyway.

When it was time to go I put on my jean jacket, grabbed my good black bullrider hat from the rack, and we all headed out to Cecelia's car. We don't live very far from the church building, and it's almost a straight line; once we get on Menaul we just head east almost to Juan Tabo. We were there in a few minutes, and rather than contribute to the parking problem we pulled into a business parking lot next door, the business being closed on Sunday. The church building was once a bank, and sufficient parking for a bank isn't enough for a church that's had a pretty much steady growth rate for years.

Inside we picked up bulletins, and sat down in our usual pew – the third from the back, in the center section, at the right hand end. I'd been sitting there the day Cecelia came in and sat down beside me, and set up the appointment for after church where – though I didn't know it until it happened – she planned to propose. We've been sitting together in the same spot ever since, and Darlia has been between us most of that time.

Tyrone Jackman, who was the church's sole pastor back then, is almost completely retired now. He's moved the church to adopt a plurality of elders as pastoral leaders, and has withdrawn from most of the preaching. He still has an office in the building, and many people still go to him automatically instead of another elder, but it's clear that before too long he'll step aside entirely and allow the body of elders to become fully functional. He's taken it easy, not trying to push the church any faster than we'll go while refusing to back away from what he believes is the correct course for us to follow. We'll all miss him when he does retire, though I expect he'll remain in the church.

He wasn't preaching that day, but we've all learned not to worry about the man in the pulpit. It's the message that matters; to borrow a phrase from Stephen King and give it another application, it's the tale, not he who tells it. We settled in for good singing and good preaching, and most important, we prepared our minds and hearts to learn.

For years it's been our custom to eat out somewhere after church. Some days we'll eat fancy, and others we'll settle for a hamburger joint. This time Darlia had a hankering for fish, so we went to the Captain D's on Juan Tabo. Fish and fries and coleslaw – though I gave my slaw to Darlia, since I don't care for it. We all ate like pigs, as we always do. As I've gotten older I've put on a bit of weight, though I stay in moderately good shape, but Cecelia doesn't weigh any more now than she did the day we met, and while Darlia's getting heavier all the time, she's also getting taller, and she's in great shape. Cecelia makes sure she doesn't overdo it, but you can't lift weights the way our daughter does and be a tub of lard. But their hard work gives them great appetites, and I, who always thought I ate like a horse, have all I can do to keep up.