There are a spectrum of groups I have belonged to. Mothers of special needs kids. Quilters. La Leche League. Democrats. Homeschooled families. Faculty. The extended clan of Roses. The pastoral staff. Our current marriage group. Mentors. Wives of ministers. 

 

The last one is on my mind, since we had an event recently. Although we have an email group, opportunities when we can eat scones with clotted cream in the same room are fairly scarce. Every year or two. Because our time together is spread far apart, it lends itself to reflection.

 

I recall an afternoon tea back in the eighties, when I was invited to give a brief talk about how our society was faring. The venue was Glencairn, which added some grandeur to the occasion. I was in my late twenties, and the unspoken directive influenced my words. 

 

"Tell us the good parts."

 

I felt some invisible pressure to impress the ladies with the doings of our northern Florida congregation. While they sipped Earl Gray in bone china cups, I spun a story about the new babies, and work parties, and Sunday School. I carefully avoided those aspects that were troubling. The infighting. The complaints. The conflict about the carpet. 

 

I felt a sense of relief when I was done. I was more susceptible to comparisons in those days. You know, the contest where there are only losers and no winners. None of the wives were likely to come visit, but I had managed to give them a sunny picture to enjoy. They could soothe themselves with the assurance that all was well. Even if it wasn't.

 

Later that year the bishop flew in to tamp down the fiestiness, and what I was most struck with was his unflappability. Here he was, zooming into the hornet's nest that was my life, and yet it was as if he did not see it as out of the ordinary. People get mad. No news there. 

 

I suppose I am approaching the age he was when he came. And there are times when I too attain that sense of stability. Yes, things are messy. Yes, people say harsh things. But when I elect to omit those details in my interactions, it is not because I am trying to jam the skeletons back in the closet. It is because I am looking over their slouched shoulders to the beauty beyond. Knowing that all is well. Which it was all along.