There were things to be forgiven there. By the time the choir finishes the anthem and joins the end of the line, about half the worshippers have moved to my husband's right. One at a time I bow to people I worship with every week, looking each one in the eye, men and women, children and aged. Each interchange is an intimate moment, and I feel on the wobbly border between embarrassment, laughter and tears. Just to pause and look at each fellow worshipper for a moment, to see the individual there, is itself a startling exercise.
Individuals respond to the ritual in individual ways.
Down the line, as worshippers dip and bend, embrace and move aside, it looks like a dance, a dream-paced country dance laced with dreamy smiles. I come to my daughter Megan, who will be eighteen in a few days. I could think of a million mistakes I had made. A moment later we are in a marshmallowy embrace. Rose is packing away the book table, putting everything in boxes until next week.