A Room Remembered
is a modest room
off the living room
in the two-story Nooksack parsonage,
a half block from the wooden country church
where he preaches every Sunday morning.
Its scents fill the air
and remain with me to this day —
mimeograph ink and paper.
In this room every Saturday my granddad copies bulletins
on an aging mimeograph for the next day’s worship service.
At the tender age of five
I am his able assistant.
We watch as sheets of paper fly rhythmically through the machine
and are caught in a tray on the other side.
Then he and I fold the bulletins,
careful to find the middle of each one,
and I am again swept up
in my imaginings of being him.
I imagine standing before a congregation someday,
with a stain-glassed Jesus holding a lamb tenderly in his arms
on the wall behind the pulpit,
and daring to tell the truth about God’s ways in the world.
I am no mere admirer gazing upon my granddad’s noble calling.
No, I love him with eager childlike devotion –
my heart full of wanting to be like him.
Words (c) 2004 Mark Lloyd Richardson