Part 6: Chapter 5

Dianne at Church

Sunday, June 28
	Spot Dianne in church today. She sits in the back with her children: Mimi, J.J., and Xavier. Charlie is not there. The boys are in T-shirts and tennis shoes, but Mimi is in a pink lace dress with her hair brushed straight. Dianne has her hair in a high bun and is wearing black dress pants and a white button-up, her usual teacher uniform. She looks like a serious politician. None of them are wearing masks. 
	I do not see them sitting in the back until after the service when people are moseying about keeping their distance yet greeting one another somewhat like people do at funerals. Auntie Bev and Gilbert are sitting towards the back too. The church has put paper placeholders on the seats where no one should sit, but people move these around depending on their family's size. We occupy six seats as Shannon is with us today. She is a big help with the children during the sermon, but I can’t imagine she’s listening very well while she masterfully sketches a truck driving over dangerous spikes, blazing fires, and shark-infested waters. The children are spellbound. Couldn’t tell you what the sermon was about even if you paid me.
	I wave ecstatically when I see Dianne and her family. She mouths an animated hello and then is distracted by a church elder coming up to speak to her. Am suddenly worried. The church has posted signs outside asking everyone to wear a mask and maintain six feet from the other congregants. Church staff even guard the doors next to sanitation stations with Purell and extra masks. Not sure how Dianne and her family slipped past the staff. Maybe they came in late.
	The service is peculiar once again. We get no bulletins to reduce the risk of exchanging cooties. The youth pastor, who’s giving the announcements, tells us about an all-church picnic, but he doesn’t seem very hopeful that it will actually happen. We read scripture out loud, but then we aren’t allowed to join the worship pastor as he sings, “Let the Amen sound from his people again,” which makes me smirk under my mask. This week the worship team also wears masks. Last week they didn’t. Some of the congregants do hand motions or lift their hands. No one sings.
	At one point a disembodied voice belts out, and Steve and I peer around curiously to find the soloist. Later, the worship pastor informs us that she is singing from another room as there’s not enough space on the stage for her to be there and keep six feet away from the other musicians. How very odd this seems.
       If the soloist can be in the other room, doesn’t this mean that all the musicians could be playing from the comfort of their own homes? What is the point of going to church if we can’t see each other’s faces, can’t sing together, can’t embrace or give one another a holy kiss? Actually, you can leave the kiss out even if we’re 100% healthy.