The Reverend

Charles stood in front of the congregation giving his sermon. This was his favorite part of the service. He loved to look out at everyone in the congregation. The adults would all watch intently, except for the few whose eyes were slightly glazed—they would spend of the rest of the day begging forgiveness whether he told them to or not. The children would sit quietly, their eyes drifting from one spot on the back wall to another, trying desperately to entertain themselves without getting in some sort of trouble. Every now and then a sound would radiate through the silence of the congregation. Heads would not move, but eyes would shift. Movement would be seen rarely, usually a mother or father hitting their son to be quiet as he tried to whisper the name of the young girl in front of him without notice. He would not bother to deny that he did not take his pastoral duties as seriously as many of the other reverends in the Puritan church. This fact did seem to distress a few of the older members of the church, but only a few. The rest seemed somewhat relieved to have a reverend who was not forcing things down their throats every sermon. Being a rather soft spoken man with an even softer heart, Reverend Charles Harris felt no need to truly scold someone unless they had truly done something wrong. Having lived in Hawley Village his entire life, he could contest to the faith, good will and honesty of any man there. Even though born sinners, he has little doubt that every person in the village held a place in God’s city. As he finished his sermon he looked finally at Christina, as he often did, almost as though searching for approval. She sat in the front row alone, staring blankly into the wood before her.

Slowly people stood to leave, moving silently out of the church, waiting until they were down the steps to scold their children for being so noisy. Charles went into the back room to remove his robes while Christina remained in the front pew waiting. She ignored the glances of the other women. If she ever heard her name spoken in conversation, she attributed it to paranoia and convinced herself she was no t hearing it at all. After all, Puritans don’t gossip. Relief flowed through her when the door to the back room finally opened and her husband emerged. She saw his eyes following some of the town’s members as he walked toward her, the smile in his eyes gone. He sat beside her.

“Christina—” he began just above a whisper.

She closed her eyes, bowing her head.

“I need to go see the Lawrence family before we leave for Andrew Blakely’s home. I’ll be home relatively soon.” He stood and left her sitting quietly in the pew, alone once again.