Church

Sundays are effortless days. We rest and relish in people on these days. Today is no exception. We accompany my in –laws to my mother-in- law’s home church in Intercourse where she grew up. The day is clear and the town of Intercourse is one of ceaseless farmlands.

The church is a Beachy Mennonite Church; the women on one side, the men on the other. I have wondered how this arrangement works itself out. Are the men sitting comfortably with no distractions on their side while the disgruntled-worn out women are caring for crying babies on the other side? Not at all, the scene is endearing. Little girls are sitting on their daddies' laps and I see a small infant sleeping soundly on one man’s shoulder.

There was a pervasive persistent peacefulness in the church. The hymns are sung using shape notes in four part harmony. The bishop asks the congregation to kneel. In a flash I am faced by kneelers in the row in front. This is orchestrated better than synchronized swimming. This is community and the fellowship meal in the basement nails that point home.