Thirty-Seven, Catharsis

Thirty-Seven

Catharsis

10 June 1824

The Reverend and Mrs. Terry stopped by again this afternoon.  I am not certain if they make the rounds of the neighborhood quite often, or if they just check on their own parishioners.  Perhaps they were just out, enjoying the countryside, and thought, oh, let us go see the Williams family.  But I doubt it.  I think that they know a lost lamb when one is in their flock.

They came by our home with the offer of green beans from their garden.  They have not come by often enough to know that we, too, have green beans.  But ours have not been cooked in bacon fat so deliciously as the ones they brought, and they were a welcome treat.

Mother and Father were about when I invited the Terrys within the home.   There was a little awkward moment with the five of us standing in the front hallway.  I invited the Terrys to come sit in the parlor; Father took his leave, coughing, and Mother hesitantly, but ultimately, followed him out of the room, and thence upstairs.  I was left alone with the Terrys.

William Terry is perhaps only a few years older than am I, certainly not older than 30.  His wife is of uncertain age; I can only guess on the basis that her children are eight years old and younger.  We have, however, a large chasm of experience in family life such as it should be lived, or as I imagine how it should be lived if one had a choice.  The Terrys seem to me to be happy .  Perhaps not deliriously so, but in a settled way.  But then to me, where all I have known is quiet acceptance at best, and violent argument and strife at worst, a settled contentment does pass as quite happy.

My perception of the Terrys' contentment only serves to bring upon me profound sadness.  It is difficult to rejoice in their good state of affairs when my own seems so dire in comparison.

Reverend Terry spoke first, saying that he was quite happy to have seen me at services on Sunday.  He very much enjoyed my singing, he said, adding that it was pleasant to hear someone sing completely in tune.  At this admission, he stopped, and then chuckled at himself, knowing that he was perhaps offering a critique of his little flock at the same time.

He went on to say, though, that he, or rather "we" (he said, with a nod toward his wife who was nudging him a little) were continuing to be concerned that there is something troubling me, and that the offer of general prayer for a situation of an unspecified nature was perhaps inadequate.

He said that his was a listening ear, and that his wife's was even more so, even though hers is not of the ministerial profession.  Whereupon Mrs. Terry spoke. 

She first said that despite the differences in our marital status and the small difference in age, she felt that we were contemporaries, and to please call her Sarah.  She said that she felt that she finally had a sister in the wilderness, one who understands music and literature, and that she felt as though she were back home in Charleston.  She said that sometimes she was desirous of educated, adult conversation, such as that which is not always--and here a nod to her husband--spiritual in nature.

"Sarah" said that she did not quite know how to approach me, except, perhaps, in the lending of a book.  But she said that she sensed a yearning in me, one that went beyond intellectual curiosity, or spiritual quest, but that she was at a loss to understand exactly what it is that I might be wanting.  She quite kindly, and in a softly compassionate yet deliberate way, said that she wanted me to know that she cared about me, that many of the parishioners cared about me.

I was touched by her mentioning of specifics, but then cautious again when she said that many of the parishioners cared, too.  At that point, I felt that what she was saying had become contrived, and did not ring true.  I went from looking at her directly with a longing in my face, to staring down at my hands.  She noticed this, and continued.

Sarah said that I should feel free to talk to her and to William, or either.  Her use of his Christian name brought home her point that I should think of them as friends as much if not more than as pastor, pastor's wife, and parishioner.

Sarah reached for my hand at this point, and then also William's, and he reached for my other hand, so that we formed a little circle.  Sarah then smiled at me in such a way that I felt truly taken in, and truly worthy of a friendship.  William then offered a prayer that was simple and short, and so kind, that I began crying.  I found myself leaning toward Sarah, sobbing into her shoulder, and I, for the first time in the life that I remember, began feeling as though someone truly cared.