10 AM Service

 

It was a small town, so when a stranger showed up for the 10 AM service on Sunday it didn’t go unnoticed.   She sat in the back row and never opened a book and never sang along when everyone else sang.  Occasionally various members of the congregation would turn in their seats to look at her, but then quickly turn back.

The minister stepped down from the pulpit, his sermon forgotten, Bible still open in his hand. The wooden floor creaked under his slow steps.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he said, his voice unsteady.

The stranger didn’t move. She looked right at him, expression unreadable, like someone watching a play they’d seen before and were unimpressed by the performance.

From the third row, Mrs. Carmichael whispered just loud enough for those nearby to hear, “That’s her. I swear it’s her. From the papers.”

Whispers sparked like brushfire, flickering across the sanctuary in hushed, urgent bursts. “You mean the missing—?” “She was declared—” “I thought she drowned.”

But the woman said nothing. She just stared at the minister like she was measuring him against some old memory that no longer fit.

The minister cleared his throat, clutching at the end pew like he might fall.

“But you were …”  he finally said.

A gasp ran through the pews, but no one made a sound louder than that. 

Little Billy, sitting against the far wall, let out a large, echoing belch, causing his brother to laugh uncontrollably.   

 The morning sun through the stained glass sent a fragmented glow across the faces.  The organists, not sure what she should do, struck a chord, which seemed to stop the minister in his tracks.  He looked over at Billy and quietly said, "Mysterious ways."