A Typical Sunday

It's Mothers' Day.

The girls and I have been scheming for weeks trying to find the right presents for Christine. We've been watching adds on television trying to entice us to buy the perfect present for the perfect woman. My favorite add is from a hardware store. A surprised looking mother, with hands over eyes, expectantly awaiting her gift, enters from camera right. Father is covering her eyes, Mother is smiling trying to pull his hands off while two stereotypical young children, one male one female, stand in the background attempt to look excited. For they are overjoyed to give Mother the best present ever on Mothers' Day:

A hedge trimmer.

The first time we watched that commercial (the hardware store also told us that other perfect gifts would be mulch and a garden hose) we had to rewind it a few times to take in the full scope of the comedy. I almost ran to the first hardware store that I could find to buy something that all mothers need desperately - a new wastebasket, only $5.50 on sale now through Sunday. Very, very good advertising.

It is Sunday, now, and I have found out that Sunday mornings are anything but typical. Atypical, if you will. Not only was I to preach at two different churches this morning, but I was attempting to negotiate the waters of Mothers' day for my wife. Unlike our previous life, we awoke early, the sun filtering through our white, slatted drapes, crossing us with unwelcome sunlight at 6:00. I kissed Christine 'good morning' and then headed off to prepare for what would become a very different morning.

After finishing the final touches on Christine's Mothers' Day card, I filled the time before her arising going over the last points of my sermon. I had never been to Ropeley before. Ropeley Church is, what most would say, out in the Boonies. I went there once, last year, but I was nervous about finding the place again. So, I wanted to leave plenty of time to get there. I thought for sure an hour would be enough. My Global Positioning System (Gladys) told me that it was only seventeen kilometers but what was interesting was, the time they allotted for me to get there was three hours and thirty-four minutes. That should have been an omen for me. Christine got out of bed to see me off; she would meet me at the next service in the town of Laidley in a couple of hours.

So, we started off - we, meaning Gladys and me, joyfully tooled down the road, her silken voice singing to me the directions. We traveled through the town of Blenheim - if you are a frequent purveyor of my blogs, this is where Greta's track meet was - I looked to the right to smile at the grassfield where Greta had run.

And then things got dicey. If I have learned one thing about Australia, road signs are not obligatory. Many times, they point in strange directions. One of the roads I came to, the sign pointed off into the middle of a field. We approached Ropeley Road which, I thought, was a good sign as the church should logically be on a road with the namesake. Gladys did not speak a word of negation so we traveled down the paved road. After a couple of miles, the road split into a 'Y' and both arms of the 'Y' turned into gravel roads. As I knew this church was out in the country it seemed normal that we would travel at some point on gravel. As I followed the right fork, Gladys started to make funny noises, almost as if she were looking at a map herself. I could hear her turning the map upside down and mumbling under her breath, "No, this can't be the right way, can it?" As she was busily rearranging herself, I began to get nervous. I had allowed myself some leeway but that amount of time was gradually being eaten up on this strange road that twisted and turned through some beautiful country. As I was nervously driving, countless kangaroos bounded across the road; a pheasant flew not ten feet in front of the car and the sounds of thousands of birds reverberated inside the car. If I weren't in a hurry, I would have stopped to listen for a while.

It was at that point, as I found my way to a 'T' in the road, that Gladys made another noise, almost like she were throwing up. The roads were so curvy she must have gotten motion sickness. I asked her if she was okay but she said, "I have no idea where we are. Stop at a gas station and ask. I am shutting down. Happy Mothers' Day." I looked around me. I'm not sure there was a gas station within twenty miles and I hadn't seen another car since I left Laidley. So, I did what every good man does - I just kept driving. Sooner or later you run into a paved road with a sign, right?

Not in Australia.

Eventually, after making u-turn after u-turn following random cars on the assumption that they were going to Ropeley Church (hey might have been wondering who the stalker was behind them) I happened upon the little church on the hill. I was only five minutes late (I was expecting much worse) but as the service started, and the time for the readings began, I asked the congregation if there was a reader for the morning. After a brief bit of silence the organist yells from the back, "You made us wait long enough, you do it!"

Touche.

I can recognize sarcasm when I hear it and we had a good laugh afterwards. Fortunately, the good people of Ropeley felt badly for their feeble American pastor and sent an emissary with him. Ross, and his brother Greg, jumped into the truck in front of me and drove me all the way back to Laidley for the next service. I was thankful for their help but I gave Gladys another chance on the way home. No luck. She still couldn't figure out how to navigate the spider-web-like roads of rural Australia.

The next service started well. The people had a full service order printed out for me; all that I needed to do was read from the script. Like a teleprompter. There should be nothing to shake me during the service. I actually thought those words while entering the pulpit. Everything went fine until it came time for communion. We, the pastor and his family, were to come up first. We were to kneel at the altar railing and receive. I took my place after the ushers motioned for us to kneel, but for some reason, the girls were standing back. Josephine looked horrified and exasperatedly I told her to come and kneel. Christine smiled at me and leaned over and whispered, "There's a spider just underneath the railing. Could you kill it?"

This is strange for Christine because she does not carry the curse of arachnophobia like I do. And, from my brief time in Australia, I understand that if something has eight legs in Australia, you back away slowly and hope that you have no exposed skin. Spiders are likely to rip your head off and drink your blood from your carotid artery. I was hoping it was a small spider and later on, Christine told me that she would have killed it, but she was wearing sandals and a dress and she didn't want the blooming thing to scamper across her foot and run up her leg. When she asked me to kill it, I thought to myself, "You can do this. You can do this. It's Mothers' Day. Be a man."

Then I saw it. It was a Huntsmen spider and I can see why it has that moniker. It was big enough to hunt down a man. It's long, hairy legs were as wide as my palm and with horror I looked at her shaking my head. I can't do it. I pleaded with her. If this cup can be taken away from me, but if not, Christine, thy will be done.

Indeed, Christine's will would be done. She gazed down at the hideous beast that she wanted me to crush underneath my foot. I was already kneeling down over this chihuahua sized spider; I jumped up quickly, and with quavering heel I moved to squash the eight legged leviathan.

It's fast. I jumped. Most of the congregation saw what happened and I'm pretty sure there was some laughter going on. But then, I overcame my fear and stood directly on top of it, squishing it. But it felt like I was squishing a tennis ball. I wanted to gag, to retch, to do anything but look under my foot at the spider that was probably eating it's way through the sole of my shoe laughing all the way.

It was dead. Communion continued but I couldn't erase the thought and the feeling of the arachnocide. By the end of communion, the spider had disappeared. It must have had five lives or something. Little did I know that one of the congregation members had picked up the Huntsmen in a paper towel and then put it in one of the communion cups. If I would have found it in the communion cup, the odds are, when I got home, I would be calling Qantas for the first flight out of the Huntsmen filled southern continent.

Quite a typical Sunday.