Thin, low clouds hang mottled grey over the lake, painting the horizon in expectation of tomorrow's rain. Midday sun burns through the gaps and thin places; where it does, the air is warm. This is the persistent dynamic of north country life, the starkly different climates that exist between sun and shade.
Abel's up from his afternoon nap. Standing on the small deck of the cabin overlooking the water, he shouts in announcement of the passing pontoon boats.
We closed out our arrival yesterday with an evening expedition to Coon Brook Bog, a favorite remote trout pond. Thick with brook trout, it's a place I've known to be volcanic with surface activity at dusk. As this is a family endeavor, including three kids under eight in the small lodge-rented rowboat, the attempt is one born of sheer, stubborn ambition. The quiet, remote beauty of the place at constant risk from the inevitable emotional decay of over-tired children, kept out too late by the willful naïveté of fatherhood.
It went well, altogether. By which I mean absolute chaos was more or less kept at bay for the 35 minutes we spent on the water; the girls coaxed into general cordiality as they shared the small bow seat, and Abel prevented from throwing himself or the oars overboard. Incidentally, a fish was caught, too. A small, dark brookie so common to that pond, and a pure gift of mercy, given the circumstances.
Abel was, inexplicably, at wide-open throttle at 5am the next day. However, the early morning rousting did make the prospect of venturing out to an 11am worship service a fairly easy one.
We found a small, formerly and historically Methodist church to visit, just over the river in Canaan, Vermont. 30-40 people gathered in a century-old sanctuary built to seat 60. Every church here is small, by simple virtue of population if not the struggles of mission and momentum. Apparently, the pastor and his family moved to this area from Baltimore a few years back to take this pastorate. As average attendance had been about a half-dozen at that time, the present gathering represents something approaching exponential growth since then.
The building is small and cluttered, though charming in its age. Mirrored staircases lead left and right up from the entryway to the second floor sanctuary. At the base of the stairs stands a fundraising thermometer for capital improvements; $20,000 for a new roof. Progress seems slow.
The welcome is warm, the preaching is poor; it is Memorial Day weekend and the worship and teaching are, in genre, as much American as anything truly Christian. A warm blanket of American civil religion, scripturally and theologically cringe-worthy while at the same time nostalgically comforting. Such is the tortured legacy and life of the American church.
The shades of the space, the service, and the community were thick with echoes of the small town Methodist church of Becca's childhood. She was moved to tears by the taste of home. An imperfect vessel, conveying a gift of grace; I receive it from the hand of the Lord as such, today.