Out of Practice
“Why do you have such a big car?” Helga asks as I slide her walker into the cargo area. Born in Germany, she has a voice that could make an SS officer soil his shorts.
So I can fit your walker and your pillow and your bag in it, I think. “I’m always carrying dogs and equipment,” I say out loud.
Helga harrumphs and totters to the passenger side. Her regular ride to church is ill and I’ve volunteered to pick her up.
“I brought a stool to help you get in,” I offer, placing the step stool next to her.
“I do not need a step stool!” I jump back and have a sudden urge to salute her.
I am beginning to think her regular driver is not ill but cowering in a corner somewhere.
“This is not the direction Carol chooses,” Helga announces as I pull out of her assisted living facility. Serenity now, I think.
“There are several different routes we can take,” I remind her.
Helga stares straight ahead and I find myself turning around to take her preferred route. I’m beginning to feel like Poland in September 1939.
“Ah,” says Pastor as I help Helga out of my too-big car. “It’s the Helga and Susan show.” I resist the temptation to salute him with my middle finger.
I settle Helga and her pillow in her regular pew and tuck away the walker. I start to sit next to her but remember I am reading the Bible passages in the service today. I whisper that I’ll be back in a few moments and make my way to the pulpit.
This is my first-time reading Bible passages in front of the whole church. I have been practicing all week. My hands shake and I’m sweating so much that it’s running down my side and pooling at my waist. I’ve just invented waist pit stains.
I manage to not mangle most of the Old Testament names and return safely to my seat beside Germany’s answer to Genghis Khan.
As I help Helga up from the pew and begin to make our way toward the exit, Mary touches my arm, complimenting me on my reading.
Helga watches Mary walk away. She cocks her head and looks at me. “Perhaps,” she says, “it would have been better if you practiced.”