(Hm, who left me this vase of gladiolas? Why are my pink geraniums looking great all of a sudden? Who would go about wreaking this kind of niceness? Should we question the usual suspects?)

Last week the Wings went away for two days of well-earned vacation. Captain Wing asked whether I would water their kitchen garden until they came back. Would I ever! It felt good to have the vanishingly rare chance to finally do something useful for them. What’s more, there was no need to haul water in my one-man bucket brigade, because Captain has installed a super long hose for everyone’s convenience.

That hose did prove super handy. It is though surprisingly heavy to drag around, especially when it is full of running water, so in my clumsy struggle I managed to whap down a couple of Mrs. Wing’s berry bushes. But somehow the bushes seemed to straighten up again and got their water, surviving their weekend with me. The family came home to a nice harvest of berries and vegetables.

On Day One I was struggling with the hose, lifting and moving it coil after coil in big armfuls. It called to mind those folks who subdue Burmese pythons in the Everglades for bounty money. One of the neighbors spotted me. “Are you doing the Wings’ watering for them? Then watch out,” he warned me. “If you do something nice for a Wing, they will never forget. They will do FIVE even nicer things for you.”  

He’s right, of course. It’s been Payback Time ever since. Upon their return, Mrs. W. came running outside with a quart of whole home-toasted walnuts, plus a sizzling platter of the most delicious tender eggplant, sauteed in bacon and snow peas with some kind of flavorful green herb. She also started placing a vase of fresh-cut flowers from her garden patch into my garden patch, refreshed daily. This false advertising leads passersby to think that my garden is much showier than it truly is. In case this were not enough, since the family’s return my pink geraniums have skyrocketed in size and number of blooms. It turns out that they’ve been getting secret doses of Wing Wormfarm Tea, from special red worms fed on the choicest overripe whole fruit. Maybe I can persuade the family to go away more often. But it’s great to have them back.

________

Sunday morning, bus stop. A friendly young man and I exchange smiles. “What is the GOOD WORD?” he hails me in greeting.

“Everything,” I greet him back. “Every one of these words is a good word.” I hand him my Greek-English prayer book.

“Ooooooooh my gosh,” he says, looking it over and shaking his head. “But, you know what? Ought to study the Hebrew first. That is the true Bible.”

“Hebrew is good,” I agree, while wondering: Is there a Hebrew Orthodox Christian Church out there?

“People come along, translate to Spanish for me, English for you,” he adds. “But in any language, people are gonna argue: Does it say this, or Does it mean that. Best way to read the Bible? It’s with your open heart, and with the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen!” I agree to agree, as the bus arrives and our journeys begin — one to a Spanish-speaking church several towns over, one to a Greek church one transfer away.

“Mine has the best TAMALES,” he assures me.

_______

At church that day, a wee little girl all in purest lacy white joins the Communion line holding up a tall yard-long lighted white candle with white ribbons. She walks hand in hand with her mother, who also holds a tall white lighted candle. The little girl is nearly borne aloft with the joy and seriousness of that walk to the altar. If this were a Catholic church, one might think that this was her first Holy Communion. But in Orthodoxy, Eucharist is administered even to babies. Is this child newly baptized? Whatever the reason, she and her family are forging a beautiful life memory in their procession toward the front of the church. They stop right at my pew waiting for the line to move.

The Orthodox show no fear of open flames. They will happily hold lighted candles even in a packed crowd, even while jostling around up and down steps while processing midnight streets on Easter Eve. But for me, the sight of a thrilled small child steadying a yard-long candle in one hand does not inspire peace of mind. A sudden instinct, one that perhaps only Gavin de Becker would understand, prompted me to drop my prayer book and crouch down to the level of the little girl. Just then, as she glanced up at her mother with an exchange of smiles, the usher ahead of her signaled to the pew ahead of mine, and took a sudden step back. My arm shot out to the seat of his pants and gave him a hard shove. Naturally the good man turned quickly to investigate. In a glance he summed up my motives, and offered me his thanks. The line went on in peace.