I haven’t been to many church services in recent years, but the last two times I was playing an instrument. Last night I took Miyagi, my alto sax, along and joined some former colleagues for a lovely service.
The highlight for me was listening to a dozen Iranians singing a hymn in their native language. They were just singing, there was no artifice, no false American accents, no posturing. Just singing. It was real.
As the reverend held the service, little kids in PJs and coats ran about the front, and that too was a wonderful thing.
I saw J’s mother there, which was weird, she’s about as religious as me, but then I realised she might be involved with the Iranians. There was no reunion, no setting aside of past differences; there was no forgiveness. I don’t converse with thieves. I blanked her. She blanked me too. I think that was the proper thing for both of us to do.
That aside, the evening was just wonderful. Returning to a place that I hold dear in my memories was like stepping through a looking-glass.