I cancelled church today.
There are few things I detest more than calling off the sacred meeting. Of course, the writing was already on the meteorological wall when I blew out my candle last night; the shrill winter storm warning from the NWS, those TV weather-goblins with their grim prognostications of humanity’s frigid, imminent end… Nevertheless, I awoke at 5:30 a.m. and set out to assess the road conditions in the hope that we might somehow be spared a silent Sunday in the church house.
I stepped off the parsonage porch and surveyed the pre-dawn landscape which, truth be told, more closely resembled the ice planet Hoth than scenic Rozetta Township. In lieu of a tauntaun, I drove my van slower than a snail with hip dysplasia. What I experienced would have been sufficient proof for anyone except a preacher in denial. I believe I lost more traction than I held during that brief jaunt, and looking through the windshield was like staring at the screen of a Philco Seventeener after the National Anthem sign-off.
Still, I resisted. One would think that the occasional cancelled worship assembly would feel like schoolboy’s snow day to me, but it doesn’t. There is no joy for the Lord’s Superintendent of Schools when that call must be made. The hours that follow feel heavy and strange, like wearing an acrylic pullover that’s three sizes too small. Even into the late afternoon I’m pursued by a vague, gnawing conviction that I’ve done something evil or neglected something crucial.
In a last-ditch attempt to salvage the morning, I sent out a group text to the Demons Deacons, hoping they would want to brave the snow and go for it, but alas, they felt that the most prudent course of action was to cancel services for today. Reluctantly I returned to Echo Base and notified the congregation.
Hey, schools make up their snow days, don’t they? I wonder if I could convince the flock to meet twice next week.
Now there’s an idea.