Free The Color of Ordinary Time by Virginia Voelker Page A

aware of a figure standing in the doorway, watching me. “Hi, Mrs. Clack. How is Charlene these days?” I asked without really looking up. Mrs. Clack was always ready to talk about Charlene.
    “I’m not sure how Charlene is,” said a male voice.
    I looked up quickly then and saw the figure was in fact a man, perhaps in his late twenties, in a black clerical shirt and black pants.
    “I’m sorry. You must be Pastor Brett,” I said.
    “I am. And you must be Keziah Taylor.” He stepped forward with a jerk, and shook my hand. “I was expecting someone, well older.”
    I chuckled a little. “It’s the name. I guess it sounds like someone much older. Lots of people tell me that.”
    He seemed relived that he had not said the wrong thing, and I understood what John had meant when he called the young pastor “earnest.” He seemed afraid to give offense, but at the same time unable to filter his words. Interesting.
    “Mrs. Clack told me you’d be up here working this morning. I understand that you had to be out of town this last weekend on a family emergency. Is everything alright with your father?”
    “What did Mrs. Clack tell you about my father?” I countered.
    He flustered a bit, and blushed faintly. I didn’t know if it was because he’d been gossiped to, or because he’d listened, or maybe because he just wasn’t used to being questioned by people. “She’s told me he can be difficult,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
    “It’s okay. Somebody would have told you about Walton Taylor eventually. Or, worse yet — you would have met him unprepared. He is fine. I bailed him out, and now he’s difficult, but fine.”
    “Good,” he said, then fell silent. I moved to the wardrobe, rehung the altar antependium, and drew out the one for the lectern. As I spread it on the table for inspection, he stepped forward and ran a finger over the edge of the fabric nearest to him. “You do beautiful work. Not a common talent anymore.”
    I thought about explaining that knowing how to sew had once been necessity for me. I thought about explaining that learning to embroider had been a sin for me. Dory had taught me, when it became clear Ivy had no interest.
Embroidery was vain.
This work joined two things I enjoyed doing, but was also the point where my two lives came together. But I didn’t explain. Instead I said, “Thank you.”
    “Can I ask? I don’t want to be nosey. But while all of the paraments are beautiful, I noticed the green set are more elaborate than the rest. I wonder if there is a reason for that.”
    “Well they are the set you have to look at the most,” I said, as I looked down at the antependium in front of me. The purple was the most austere of the sets. Simple gold crosses embroidered in the center of each piece. At the time I made them, I considered making them more elaborate. Instead, the thought of penance had led me to simplicity. Plus — you can’t really go wrong with crosses in a church.
    “True,” he said.
    “Craftsman’s choice. I like the green set best.”
    He seemed pleasantly surprised at that answer. “You have a favorite time of the church year?”
    “Sort of. I like green. And I like what the Catholics call this time of year. The ‘Weeks after Pentecost’ lacks poetry.”
    “Ordinary Time?”
    “Exactly. Like that part of the year is for getting up and doing your work, and going about your life. Nothing special. Nothing stressful, or exciting. Routine and peacefulness. Ordinary time.”
    He gave me a lopsided half grin. “I suppose it matters not at all to you that we study the miracles of Jesus during this time of year. Hardly ordinary”
    “If you are the Son of God, isn’t doing miracles your job?” I asked lightly.
    “Maybe,” he said.
    I chuckled. From the sanctuary, the heavy tread of Mrs. Clack hurried toward the banner room. She arrived breathless and flushed.
    “Come quick, Pastor! Charlene has brought some cupcakes for the bake