The Pew He Thought Was His

Edwin Pike had never actually bought the pew.

This is worth stating plainly because, to watch him arrive each Sunday, you might have assumed there had been paperwork.

He came through the front door of Grace Fellowship at 9:43 every week, hung his hat on the same hook in the foyer, nodded to the same three people in the same order and made his way to the third pew from the front on the left-hand side. Not the front pew, because Edwin believed front pews were for ministers, visiting missionaries and people with an unhealthy appetite for attention. Not the back pew either, because that was where latecomers and uncertain men lurked. No, the third pew from the front on the left was, in Edwin's mind, the sensible Christian's pew. Close enough to hear properly, far enough back to avoid accidental participation.

He had sat there for nineteen years.

He had sat there through pastoral changes, carpet changes, songbook changes and one deeply regrettable season involving a projector screen and interpretive hand motions. The pew had held him through widowhood, influenza, a burst appendix and the entire Book of Jeremiah preached over twelve slow but memorable weeks.

So although Edwin had never bought the pew, it would be fair to say he had developed feelings.

Which was why, on the first Sunday in May, when he turned the corner of the aisle and saw a family already sitting there, something inside him tightened like a jam jar lid.

There were five of them.

A man in a clean shirt that looked as though he had ironed it under protest. A young woman with apologetic eyes and a baby on her knee. A little girl in two mismatched socks. A boy of about eight holding a toy car. And, spread among them like evidence after a small explosion, a water bottle, two colouring books, a nappy bag and one shoe with flashing lights.

They were in Edwin's pew.

He stopped mid-step.

The family looked up.

The father smiled with the uncertain optimism of a man who had no idea he had just parked in someone's invisible driveway.

"Morning," he said.

Edwin did not trust himself to say much.

"Morning."

He stood there one second too long, long enough for the mother's smile to begin folding in on itself. The little girl stared at him as if he might be a church gargoyle come to life.

"Can I help you?" the father asked, still cheerful.

Now, there are moments in life when a man may either take the lower road of silent resentment or the higher road of graciousness. Edwin, being a Christian man, knew this very well. He also knew that the higher road was often annoyingly uphill.

"No," he said, with a tightness that suggested yes. "No. Not at all."

Then, because dignity demanded movement, he stepped into the adjacent pew and sat down one row back, a geographical exile of approximately fourteen inches.

The service began.

Ordinarily Edwin liked the opening hymn. That morning he sang with the injured restraint of a man determined not to enjoy himself. The family in front of him fumbled through the first song with the distracted courage of people trying to worship and manage small children at the same time. The boy dropped his toy car. The little girl sang one line a full bar behind everyone else. The baby, who had thus far remained mysteriously content, let out a yell during the final verse that sounded like a protest against organised religion.

Heads turned. The mother went scarlet.

Edwin stared at the back of the father's collar and reminded himself that love is patient.

It was, he reflected, easier to admire that verse in embroidery than to practise it behind a shrieking infant.

By the time they reached the pastoral prayer, the little girl had lost interest in church altogether and was trying to balance a crayon on the pew rail. The boy whispered something that made her giggle. The father kept shushing them with the desperate rhythm of a man trying not to unravel in public. The mother bounced the baby and looked one mild inconvenience away from tears.

Edwin noticed all this despite himself.

During the Bible reading the boy dropped his pencil case. During the announcements the girl loudly asked whether heaven had biscuits. During the offering the father realised, with visible horror, that the baby had removed one sock and was now attempting to eat it.

And then, somewhere between the second hymn and the sermon, the mother turned half around and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

Edwin blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Her face had the look of someone who had apologised too often in life.

"For the children. For the noise. For taking your seat. I guessed it might have been your seat. You looked like it might have been your seat."

The honesty of this disarmed him.

He glanced at the pew, then at her, then at the little boy now tracing the grain of the wood with one finger.

"Well," Edwin said, "it has been my general area."

To his annoyance, she laughed.

Not loudly. Just enough to make him sound as fussy as he probably was.

"I'm really sorry," she said again. "We nearly turned around in the car park. We haven't been to church in years. The children have never really done this before."

Edwin looked at them more properly then.

The father's shirt collar was indeed slightly crooked. The little girl's hair had been tied up with one pink ribbon and one yellow. The boy had the cautious, over-bright face of a child trying to be brave in unfamiliar territory. And the mother looked not careless, but tired. Bone-tired. The kind of tired that lived behind the eyes.

Something in Edwin softened and then, because grace is rarely content with mere sentiment, it required action.

He leaned forward a little.

"The crayons roll if you put them on the hymnbook," he said quietly to the boy. "Flat surface."

The boy blinked, then obeyed at once.

"And," Edwin added, addressing the girl with grave seriousness, "heaven will certainly have better biscuits than these."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

She nodded as if this settled several important theological questions.

The mother smiled, this time without apology.

The sermon that morning was on the words of the Lord Jesus: Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them.

Edwin would later reflect that Providence occasionally had a sense of humour sharper than most men could manage.

The minister preached warmly and plainly. About the kingdom receiving the small and the weak. About the way grown people liked order and dignity and sensible boundaries while Christ kept making room for interruptions wrapped in dust and noise and need.

Halfway through, Edwin looked down the pew in front of him.

The boy had fallen against his father's arm, listening harder than Edwin would have expected. The little girl was now colouring a camel blue. The mother held the sleeping baby against her shoulder with the kind of relief usually reserved for ceasefires.

The minister said, "A church that has no room for children, newcomers, awkwardness and inconvenience may have plenty of polish but not much resemblance to the kingdom of God."

Edwin shifted in his seat.

The pew beneath him suddenly felt less like property and more like a test he had nearly failed.

After the final hymn people gathered, as they always did, around the urn and biscuit tins at the back. Edwin usually liked to leave before conversation grew too disorderly, but that morning he found himself waiting while the family attempted the impossible task of gathering children, shoes, crayons, a nappy bag, a toy car and what remained of their self-respect.

The father turned to him.

"Sorry again about your seat."

Edwin cleared his throat.

"It is not my seat."

The man smiled, kindly enough not to mention the obvious.

"We're the Harrisons," he said. "I'm Luke. This is Anna."

Edwin nodded. "Edwin Pike."

The little girl piped up. "Mum, this is the biscuit man."

Anna looked startled. Luke laughed. Edwin, against years of habit, almost did the same.

Then the boy held up his toy car.

"Do you know anything about these?" he asked.

"Toy cars?"

"No. Real cars. Dad says ours makes a bad sound."

Edwin had been a mechanic for thirty-six years before retirement. He considered the question, the father's embarrassed face and the Lord's irritating commitment to providential timing.

"What sort of sound?"

The next twenty minutes were spent in the car park with Luke Harrison lifting the bonnet of a very tired people-mover while Edwin listened, frowned, tapped one hose, tightened one clamp and announced that the noise was ugly but not terminal. The children stood nearby eating church biscuits. Anna looked more relieved than the problem warranted.

When it was done, Luke said, "Thank you. Really."

Edwin shrugged in the direction of humility.

"It is only a hose."

But of course it was not only a hose.

The following Sunday, Edwin came in at 9:43 as usual. He hung his hat on the same hook and nodded to the same three people. When he turned the corner towards the left side, the third pew from the front was empty.

He stopped.

He could have taken it back.

No one would have blamed him. In fact, several people might have quietly admired the restoration of proper order.

Instead, Edwin looked one row behind it, to the pew where he had sat the previous week. Then he looked back towards the foyer where a little girl's voice was already asking whether church had better biscuits again.

When the Harrisons appeared at the end of the aisle, slightly late and mildly flustered, Edwin lifted one hand.

"Over here," he said.

And then, with a small inward wince that felt suspiciously like sanctification, he stepped aside and let them into his pew.