For Love of Self: Book 2 of Blessed Be
Chapter 2, in which Spencer does his best to console a grieving child
“A naked wood sprite. A secret no one will talk about. This is not what I expected.”
For Love of Self is the second novel in my Blessed Be series. Here on Substack, you can choose to follow along as each chapter is read aloud by The Reverend Reid D. Farrell, Jr., whose face is on the book’s cover.
The first three chapters will be available without charge. Beginning with Chapter Four, paid subscribers to Robin Reardon Writes will be able to continue listening and reading.
If you aren’t already subscribed, you can do it right now; no waiting! And if you’re a paid subscriber, or if you change your free subscription to paid, you won’t miss a single chapter.
For Love of Self is available in ebook format on my website, and you’ll find both ebook and print formats wherever online books are sold.
Although each book in the Blessed Be series can be read on its own, reading all three will take you along with Spencer Hill as he solves a deep mystery and learns about compassion and love.
Each chapter of Book One, For Love of God, is available now on Substack.
For Love of Self / Robin Reardon / © 2023
CHAPTER TWO
Vanessa met me at the church at eight-thirty, two hours ahead of the Sunday service. I’d been given a thorough tour before, but I appreciated the refresher she gave me, especially considering my anxious state. We also went over the order of the service, including the point at which she would introduce me to the congregation.
Her steady voice and confident demeanor went some distance toward calming my jitters, though I was glad that she would open the service, and that I would be seated off to the side until it was time for the sermon.
It was a cool day in early September, the blue sky decorated with little white fluffs that do nothing to interfere with what warmth the sun still offers at summer’s end. Donald had a word for it: apricity, meaning the feel of warm sun coming through cool air. Donald had been full of eccentric words and phrases I’d never heard of.
Correction: Maybe Donald still is full of those things. It’s not like he’s dead.
As people gathered in the sanctuary, Violet Verette sat at the upright piano off to the side of the altar and played music that I recognized as one of the pieces from Book 1 of Claude Debussy’s piano preludes, “La fille aux cheveux de lin,” also known as “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.” It’s a fairly well-known piece, sweet and gentle and not even three minutes long. I had played it at some point in my years of piano study. A trained pianist myself, I could have done a better job, but that wasn’t my role, and I appreciated the effort. I did notice that the piano was a little out of tune, and its tone generally was not great in this space. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been great anywhere else, either. The church’s budget was not large.
Violet was just rounding in on the final notes when something stabbed at my chest. Debussy’s Book 1 collection also contained another piece I had worked on: “La Danse de Puck.” Puck’s Dance.
I stopped breathing.
Puck. I had known a Puck. I had loved being in the company of a Puck. I had loved Puck’s humor, his face, his laugh, his mouth, his cock, his….
My breath restarted with a sharp spasm of my chest.
Doing my best to attend as Vanessa addressed what had been her congregation, the images in my mind were of a different place. New York City. A different time. Nineteen eighty-three, three years ago. In my mind’s eye, I saw Donald in the role of Puck, as I’d seen him act for the first time, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. His playful carnality had caused me to become uncomfortable in my slacks. And I saw Donald, his face intense and then amused and then intense again as he described how much the work of an actor has in common with that of a minister. I saw him laugh with abandon at the delight a small child took in his banter. And I saw his fingers as they caressed my nakedness, teasing tender flesh until I lay helpless, both wanting and not wanting to progress to the passion that would meld our bodies together in the agonizing ecstasy of a union that seemed both physical and spiritual.
Puck. Donald would always be Puck to me.
I closed my eyes briefly, took a few deep breaths, and turned my mind back to where I was, here, now.
For the first hymn of the service, Vanessa had chosen “Morning Has Broken,” a favorite old chestnut, and something that might serve to make people at least a little comfortable with the change in ministers. After all, Vanessa had led them for a long time.
The order of the UU service included a time for people to express whatever joys or sorrows they had recently experienced. I had come to love this time, for it provided me with opportunities to gauge the spiritual perspective of the parishioners. Five different people spoke, and I paid close attention as they asked for spiritual support from the membership. One child spoke, a little girl maybe ten years old whose dog was sick. I guessed that her request—that we all send healing thoughts to the ailing Troy—had been suggested to her by her parents, though of course I couldn’t be sure. I made a mental note to find her after the service.
Following the offertory was a short talk by one of the lay ministers. Of course it was Loraine Fuller this Sunday, to welcome the new, gay minister. She acquitted herself well, I thought, with only one reference to sexual orientation. I decided she showed a keen introspection.
And then it was time for the sermon. Vanessa took the pulpit for what would probably be her last time.
“In the short time I have known Spencer Hill,” she opened, “I’ve formed a definite opinion of him.” She turned and gave me a grin, and there was a quiet chuckle from the congregation. “Despite his few years, he has come through fires that many face but that few survive with the same spiritual determination of this young man. I believe his mind is keen, his heart is open, and his love is sincere. I do not believe we could have found a better new minister.”
I felt a shiver go through me as she concluded, “So, to all of you, I give The Reverend Spencer Hill.”
At the pulpit, I smiled broadly at what I now considered my people, taking in their applause—something that surprised me a little, coming as I did from the Episcopal tradition, which does not encourage applause during a service—and when it died down I took a moment to breathe, noticing with pleasure that the small church was nearly full. My gaze fell on many individuals I had met the previous afternoon.
Using what I knew to be a typical method of address in the UU tradition, I said, “Thank you, Reverend Vanessa. I will do my best to live up to that generous description.”
I gave everyone a chance to take me in visually as I glanced around the sanctuary with as benevolent an expression as I could. This was an act, and yet it was real. The fact that reality is enhanced by a good performance is one of the dichotomies of this life I had chosen. I’d been told many times that my deep, strong voice was an asset to my calling. I brought it to bear as I began my first sermon.
“Many philosophers see the concept of God as something that, as children, we once considered our parents to be. For all we could tell, we knew little or nothing, and they knew everything. They knew about things we had no concept of and performed actions that seemed almost magical to us.
“As we grow older, we’re faced with a choice. As we realize that our parents are people and not gods, do we lose faith in trust and love? Do we lose our hope for beneficence and protection from a source much wiser and more powerful than we’ve learned mere people can be? Or, unwilling or unable to relinquish those things, do we transfer our expectations to an unknowable being—omniscient, omnipotent, perfect in all things—who loves us and takes care of us, even as it demands loyalty and laud?
“The very question ‘Does God exist’ implies that we can talk about God the way we discuss cows, or trees, or ice cream. We can no more prove that God exists than we can prove it doesn’t. Most traditions centered on God consider it to be the uncaused cause. It causes existence. So, to say that God exists is to confuse the source of existence with the things it caused to exist.
“Do I believe in God? No. And yes. No, because I can’t bring myself to pray to God the way I might appeal to a parent. ‘Please help my team win this game.’ ‘Please give me a pony for my birthday.’ Is even the plea to ask God to save my spouse or my child from death caused by accident or disease the same as asking for life to be arranged in a way favorable to me?
“If I am in a traffic accident where everyone dies but me, do I believe that God has intervened on my personal behalf? Did God reach out a hand and save me, alone? And if I believe that, must I also believe God allowed—even intended—for everyone else to die? How can I explain that to the loved ones they leave behind? Do I say, ‘God’s plan was that your beloved should die and I should not?’ Can I say that even to myself?
“And yet, do I feel gratitude that I was spared? Yes. Do I feel God’s presence in my life? Yes. But I don’t see it as a plan. I don’t see it as a succession of decisions made by a being apart from me, or apart from life itself.
“I perceive God as a unifying spirit, or force, the goal of which is to bring us together through love. All kinds of love. Love of a parent. Love of a child. Love of a romantic partner. Love of a friend. Love of a pet. All these kinds of love comprise the love I want to feel when I consider what God is. When we relate to each other with love, we can feel God connecting us with one another. Each aspect of the love I feel is like a window through which divine love comes into my life. And my goal, as a physical being on this beautiful, mysterious, ever-changing and ever-constant earth, is to have as many windows as possible. And please, God, may they all be open.”
Just in time, I remembered to announce the affirmation. Nothing I said about it would be new to these people, and yet they would benefit from hearing it, as I would benefit from saying it.
“And now, as we recite the affirmation, our promise to each other, let the joining of hands represent our connection with one another, and let our speech help us to carry our love out into the world.”
The UU affirmation is a lovely thing. It speaks of love, of truth, of service, of knowledge, and of fellowship. It expresses the intention that all souls grow together and in harmony with the divine. As was customary, I led the congregation in its recitation.
I had chosen the closing hymn, “Gather Us In,” from the UU hymnal, Hymns for the Celebration of Life. The text speaks of the various sources of faith, the various ways different people might perceive it, and the conviction that despite these differences, we are all one, all souls together. Apparently, this was not a hymn familiar to everyone here. Just as Ruth had once told me about UU congregations, the first couple of lines sounded thin as many people took the time to read through the text to make sure they agreed with it before joining in. It was a challenge to chuckle and sing at the same time, but I managed it.
~
Shaking hands with everyone as they left the church, I could tell there were people who weren’t entirely convinced that this new guy was what they’d hoped for, but I believe there were many more who were either pleased or were happy to give me a chance. Loraine, of course, was full of praise, despite the fact that I hadn’t referred to sexual orientation at all.
“That was a wonderful sermon, Reverend,” she said, holding my hand in both of hers. “Very thought-provoking.”
Okay, I’ll take that, I thought, so I smiled and thanked her.
After the last person shook my hand and moved on, Abby Chisholm, mother of the little girl with the sick dog, approached me. Her voice low, she said, “Reverend, would you speak to Cheryl about her dog? We don’t think he’ll live, and we can’t seem to convince her to accept the situation.”
“Of course. Should we do that as soon as the crowd leaves?”
She hesitated and then nodded.
~
I found the Chisholms, Abby and Walter and Cheryl, under a large tree in the church’s side yard.
“Do you mind if I remove this robe?” I asked them. “It’s a little warm under here.” They agreed, and I lifted the voluminous, dark red thing over my head. I wore a lightweight suit under it, so I was still in a kind of uniform.
Cheryl sat on the ground, and I sat beside her, knees bent, arms around them, my head tilted sideways in her direction but my eyes on the ground. I wanted her to feel supported, not confronted.
“I’m sending healing thoughts to Troy right now,” I told her, my voice low but steady. I didn’t want my words or my voice to bring the little girl to tears. “And I’m sending thoughts of comfort to you.”
Her eyes were on her small hands where she pulled gently on grass blades. She nodded and sniffled once.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong with him?”
She shook her head. “No one will tell me.”
I glanced up at her parents, a sense of confusion making me scowl slightly. They shrugged their shoulders as if to say they didn’t want to tell her the truth but were sorry they had to avoid it. I had to assume Troy was not long for this world.
“How does he act?”
Her sweet face crumpled and she looked up at me. “He won’t eat. He won’t come to me when I call him. He won’t smile.”
“Is it all right if I give you a hug Cheryl?”
“CC.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Cheryl Chisholm. CC.”
“Is it all right if I give you a hug, CC?”
She nodded and leaned toward me. She cried quietly, her little body shaking slightly in my arms. After maybe a minute she pulled away. “Gramma says everything happens for a reason.” Her eyes shot pain into mine. “What’s the reason?”
Oh, boy. I hated that expression. But how to respond about it to a child? I had to tread lightly. “I think your gramma is counting on a belief that there is someone who has a plan for everything that happens, and that the plan might have some bad things in it but will turn out all right in the end.”
I glanced up at the Chisholms to gauge where they stood on what I considered a flawed outlook. Walter closed his eyes briefly and gave his head a few quick shakes.
CC repeated, “So what’s the reason?”
“I see it a little differently,” I told her. “It seems to me that there is a reason something happens, like if you work hard on your school work you’ll get a good grade. But I don’t think you get good grades because it’s in someone’s plan for that to happen.”
I waited to see if she was following me. I wasn’t sure, but I continued.
“So if Troy is sick, something happened to make him sick. I don’t think anyone had a plan to make him sick.”
She went back to the grass blades.
“What does Troy look like?”
CC perked up a little. “He’s mostly white with a few big brown spots.”
“Short hair or fluffy?”
“Short. But he likes it when I brush him.”
“What’s his favorite treat?”
Her face lifted to mine. “He loves ham! It’s his absolute favorite. When we have sliced ham from the store, there’s always a few slices for him.”
“Do you have any other pets?”
She shook her head and pulled a few more grass blades.
“Have you met Klondike?”
“Troy’s afraid of Klondike.”
I leaned toward her a little. “I’m kind of afraid of Klondike, myself.”
CC giggled.
I wasn’t sure what else I could say that wouldn’t make the girl sadder, and I was willing to go only so far in contradicting her grandmother. Abby had seemed to think I could help CC face the reality of Troy’s imminent demise, perhaps even talk about dogs going to heaven. But that felt wrong.
So I told her, “CC, will you call me tomorrow and every day to tell me how Troy is doing? That will help me send just the right kind of thoughts. Will you do that?”
She nodded. Mrs. Chisholm held out her hand, and CC rose. As I stood I got the sense there was someone behind me, and I turned. Vanessa.
She smiled. “Forgive me for eavesdropping. It wasn’t out of doubt about you. I wanted the Chisholms to know I supported you. And them.”
I tilted my head and smiled. “I appreciate that.”
“And I don’t know what else you might have said to CC. Her folks haven’t told her that Troy’s cancer,” and her voice showed the slightest strain at the mention of her own disease, “is quite bad. I doubt he’ll make it through the week.”
I picked up my discarded robe and walked with Vanessa back toward the church. She stopped at the open double doors. “By the way Spencer, you did a great job providing CC with an alternative viewpoint without criticizing her grandmother.”
“Thanks.” Was I glowing? I couldn’t tell. Somehow, this praise meant more than if Vanessa had complimented my sermon.
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I’m an inveterate observer of human nature, writing novels about all kinds of people, some of whom happen to be gay or transgender or bisexual or intersex—people whose destinies are not determined solely by their sexual orientation or gender identity. Check out my work on my website.