Day 92 Pittsfield back to Lenox and on to Bernardston, Massachusetts

 

Day 92 Pittsfield back to Lenox and on to Bernardston, Massachusetts

 

    After some time in the chapel I arose and got on my bike and continued on to the house of Matt Albert who was preparing dinner for me.  Although the ride from that rural chapel to downtown Pittsfield is only 7 miles, as a child the city existed beyond the horizon of my imagination.  Sidewalks and places of commerce were not part of my childhood experience.

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    Matt is an expert on bike wheels.  It is a testimony to my ignorance that I did not think that there was much to know about bike wheels.  When I described the collapse of my rear wheel in Washington State, he immediately looked on line to examine the specifications of the wheel.  When read the diameter of the spokes and how many where connected to the rim, he concluded “of course it fell apart.  It was cheaply constructed.”  He described with some detail a recent two day course of wheel building at the cost of 2,000 dollars (800 for instruction and 1,200 for the materials), I began to realize that bicycle wheels are, in fact, a work of art which can either be lovingly crafted or carelessly stamped out of an assembly line.  It is hard to believe that one can have a delightful evening discussing the subtle nuance of bike wheels, but Matt has an infectious enthusiasm for the subject.

 

     I woke up on Sunday morning and felt compelled to backtrack 7 miles and attend worship in Lenox that morning.  It was an uphill climb to get to the chapel, but it was strangely invigorating to see the familiar farms and breathe in the familiar smells once again.

 

     When I arrived at the chapel to worship for the first time in over 50 years, I was disappointed to see that someone was already in my pew.  Though I knew it would be inappropriate to point this out, I chose another spot- where once upon a time, the woman with the dead fox around her neck sat.

 

     After a moment of silence, the celebrant rose to offer the liturgical greeting, and it took my breath away.  I remembered my father vested and standing in that spot.  He was in his early 30’s then, and it is hard to believe that he was once so young.  When I last sat in that place, I believed that adults knew how things worked.   Periodically, I would ponder how they knew the answer to life’s question such as: when to get up in the morning and when to go to bed? How do we decide what to wear each day? what do you prepare for dinner?,  when is it permissible to open presents on Christmas morning?, when can we go swimming?, when is it permissible to ignore rules?  How do you know if you’re sick enough to miss school? How long does it take to grow up?

 

     To the extent I thought about it all, I thought that there must a master book of answers to question much like inside the lid of board games.  It is always a source of comfort to know that there is someone close by who appeared to know the rules.

 

     It was unsettling to consider that as my father stood there as a very young man, he was every bit as confused and uncertain as I have been most of my life.  Like me, he made up rules and presented them as if they were commandments carved on tablets.  He would but on the persona of confidence and proclaim, “It is thus!”  I know wonder how he coped with uncertainty and internal conflict.  Adults become experts in hiding such things from children.

 

      The priest preached an excellent sermon Jesus calming of the sea, though his lovely words were eclipsed by the delightful periodic gurgles of a toddler in the back of the church.  I was brought back to a time when my younger sister was brought in the church at that age.  One thing I always enjoyed as a child is watching adults feeling conflicted about whether to smile at delightful interruptions or to stick with doing things “decently and in order”. 

 

      When we went forward for communion, we sang the hymn “Just as I am”.  I have never been particularly fond of that hymn.  The melodramatic minor key has always struck me as emotionally manipulative.  On that morning, however, it reduced me to tears:

 

Just as I am, though tossed about

With many a conflict, many a doubt

Fightings and fears within without

O Lamb of God, I come, I come

 

     After brief conversations with members of the congregation (most of whom had not yet been born when I last attended) I climbed on my bike and, in spite of the rain being forecasted, I began cycling to Bernardston, to visit Bill and Tracy Murray.