doing the Reading

February 24

            They know today Mom is going to do the Reading, so the kids don’t dilly-dally as they get dressed.  Though Abigail unwisely tried to button her blouse herself, ending up short on top.  Ethel, the collection envelope in her teeth, kneels down to redo it.  It takes some time; there are twelve buttons.

            “You’ve got some syrup on your butt, Honey,” Mark says.  She goes back to the kitchen to clean it off.  It happened when Rebecca bumped into her bringing her plate to the sink.

            She is aware that the gritty kitchen floor (no time to clean it now) makes her soles look disgusting, but is not worried.  After the kids are piled into the back seat of the Olds, she vigorously rubs her feet on the snow before sliding in in front next to Mark.  She’s visibly nervous.  “You’ll be fine, Hon,” Mark says as they turn onto Main Street.  Like she sometimes does, she leans back against the door and stretches her leg out across the bench seat, her foot resting on Mark’s thigh.  He massages her cold toes reassuringly with one hand.  Then she switches feet.

            A quiet, unspoken border is being crossed.  They’re not like the Catholics, preparing for a big council in Rome, but men are now in outer space and times are changing.  The bishop has decided to allow women to do the Reading, and at Redeemer Church Ethel got picked to be the first.  She is shy about it but greatly honored.

            They sit in their usual pew, to the right, a little bit towards the front.  The congregation knows what’s happening today and there are about 120 people, a little more than usual.  The great moment arrives as Deacon George nods to her.  She stands up and faces Mark, giving him a full frontal view for his inspection.  Her fear is that there is some kind of smudge she can’t see, or something stuck in her pubic hair.  He gives a low-key thumbs-up and she turns to go up the aisle.

            The soft whispers of the congregation’s only bare soles are heard on the cold polished floor.  She waits by the side.  Pastor Richardson, in his old scratchy voice: “And now for the reading.”  Another nod from Deacon George and, for the first time, a woman ascends to the lectern.

            The Deacon has told her, “Most people tighten up, Ethel.  Speak slow and loud.”  She clears her throat and looks down at the big Lectionary.  The verses are at the bottom of the page and her breasts are in the way, so she steps back a little.  The gritty carpet under her feet is distracting and everyone can see her toes squirm.

            “A -- reading from the Book of Genesis.  ‘The Lord said, “Where are you?” And Adam said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.”  The Lord said, “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?”  Adam said, “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate.”  Then the Lord said to the woman, “What is this that you have done?” The woman said, “The serpent tricked me, and I ate.”’  This is a reading from the Book of Genesis.”

            She exhales, her breasts heaving.  There is a little sweat there, and on her forehead.  As often happens, physical signs of nervousness don’t emerge until after the task is over.  She steps off the lectern, a little clumsily, almost falling off it.  There is an awkward slap of bare feet onto the floor.  As she walks back to her family they smile at her; she gives a modest smile back.  And so for the first time here, a woman has delivered the Word of God.

            The pastor’s sermon is on the hazards of temptation.  He wisely does not emphasize Eve’s role in the Fall, and of course does not mention nakedness.  Afterwards at the tea, he congratulates Ethel, and he’s not the only one.  “I thought I was going to die!” she whispers to Tammy Fordyce as they make another urn of coffee.