not a Mary Sue
Feb. 5th, 2005 01:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wisdomeagleWishful Thinking
On her fiftieth birthday, the congregation she's been serving for two years throws her a surprise party, and she almost has a heart attack. Surprises aren't such a good idea when you're pushing the elderly side of forty-five, she tells them. Her favorite congregates cluster around her, pressing little mementos and some nicely not little checks into her hands. Her face hurts from so much smiling. They sing -- not offkey, but... church-key, their warbling sopranos and the squeaky voices of untrained toddlers. "Happy birthday to youuuu." Sharon brings out a cake, accompanied by scraggly teenagers who have been volunteered to help with the baking. Her name has been written on the cake in pink frosting, and blue sugar flowers are arranged in painstaking detail to form a cross, the symbolism of which she's not quite sure she understands in this context. (In other contexts, in her sanctuary, in her schoolbooks, in her crucifix, she understands perfectly.) Her attention is mostly attracted, though, to the dozens of blazing candles. She fears for the safety of the wooden church.
"Fifty!" announces one of the teenagers.
"And one to grow on," adds Sharon.
"Like I need to be any taller," she says, still a bit dazed by all that fire.
"Go on now," says an older gentleman somewhere by her left elbow. "Blow them out!"
"And make a wish," his wife adds sweetly.
She closes her eyes and prayers immediately spring to life in her mind. She wishes for happiness for former pastors she's loved, for speedy ordinations for her seminary friends, for peaceful relationships for her exes, for graduating seniors and newborn babies and for comfort for the recently bereaved. She feels a bit funny about wasting birthday wishes on things she ought to be praying for anyhow, so she tries her best to think of something else, an appropriately frivolous wish, and she finally decides on wishing for inspiration for her sermon sometime before ten o'clock tonight.
There's no way she can extinguish all the candles with one breath, so she summons two teenage boys to help her.
The candles blown out, someone begins to cheer. The "happy birthdays" echo in her ears, then the chant changes. And many more they should, and the woman next to her gives her a hug. They continue to shout until she raises her hand to shush them, and she wishes, not for the first time, that her best friend were here with her earsplitting whistle.
After struggling through her thank yous, she says a quiet and mercifully brief prayer for all of them, reminds them that God will give them bonus points in heaven if they show up for church tomorrow, and not so subtlety hints that they would be giving her the gift of peace if they left her alone for a little while.
She is relieved when she can finally collapse into her office, and she puts her feet up on her desk with a satisfied sigh. It was thoughtful of them to throw the party. Thoughtful in a very churchy way, she thinks, exhausted.
The phone rings, and she answers it reluctantly, but it's an old friend, the best kind -- no need to be superficially friendly or artfully cheerful when she can be the real thing.
"Happy birthday, darling," her friend says, and she smiles at the endearment.
"Thank you." Her voice is formal; she has never been good at being gracious. "It's kind of you to call."
"Yep." She can almost hear the nodding. "Look, I didn't really have anything else to say. Happy birthday, and many happy returns."
"Many happy returns," she echoes, and she stares at the phone thoughtfully long after the conversation ends.
On her fiftieth birthday, the congregation she's been serving for two years throws her a surprise party, and she almost has a heart attack. Surprises aren't such a good idea when you're pushing the elderly side of forty-five, she tells them. Her favorite congregates cluster around her, pressing little mementos and some nicely not little checks into her hands. Her face hurts from so much smiling. They sing -- not offkey, but... church-key, their warbling sopranos and the squeaky voices of untrained toddlers. "Happy birthday to youuuu." Sharon brings out a cake, accompanied by scraggly teenagers who have been volunteered to help with the baking. Her name has been written on the cake in pink frosting, and blue sugar flowers are arranged in painstaking detail to form a cross, the symbolism of which she's not quite sure she understands in this context. (In other contexts, in her sanctuary, in her schoolbooks, in her crucifix, she understands perfectly.) Her attention is mostly attracted, though, to the dozens of blazing candles. She fears for the safety of the wooden church.
"Fifty!" announces one of the teenagers.
"And one to grow on," adds Sharon.
"Like I need to be any taller," she says, still a bit dazed by all that fire.
"Go on now," says an older gentleman somewhere by her left elbow. "Blow them out!"
"And make a wish," his wife adds sweetly.
She closes her eyes and prayers immediately spring to life in her mind. She wishes for happiness for former pastors she's loved, for speedy ordinations for her seminary friends, for peaceful relationships for her exes, for graduating seniors and newborn babies and for comfort for the recently bereaved. She feels a bit funny about wasting birthday wishes on things she ought to be praying for anyhow, so she tries her best to think of something else, an appropriately frivolous wish, and she finally decides on wishing for inspiration for her sermon sometime before ten o'clock tonight.
There's no way she can extinguish all the candles with one breath, so she summons two teenage boys to help her.
The candles blown out, someone begins to cheer. The "happy birthdays" echo in her ears, then the chant changes. And many more they should, and the woman next to her gives her a hug. They continue to shout until she raises her hand to shush them, and she wishes, not for the first time, that her best friend were here with her earsplitting whistle.
After struggling through her thank yous, she says a quiet and mercifully brief prayer for all of them, reminds them that God will give them bonus points in heaven if they show up for church tomorrow, and not so subtlety hints that they would be giving her the gift of peace if they left her alone for a little while.
She is relieved when she can finally collapse into her office, and she puts her feet up on her desk with a satisfied sigh. It was thoughtful of them to throw the party. Thoughtful in a very churchy way, she thinks, exhausted.
The phone rings, and she answers it reluctantly, but it's an old friend, the best kind -- no need to be superficially friendly or artfully cheerful when she can be the real thing.
"Happy birthday, darling," her friend says, and she smiles at the endearment.
"Thank you." Her voice is formal; she has never been good at being gracious. "It's kind of you to call."
"Yep." She can almost hear the nodding. "Look, I didn't really have anything else to say. Happy birthday, and many happy returns."
"Many happy returns," she echoes, and she stares at the phone thoughtfully long after the conversation ends.