Natural Order by Brian Francis

of stale oatmeal cookies. Where would I be in another five years?
    But to sell my house. The thought of it turns my heart to charcoal. I have lived here for fifty years. I know every crack and corner, every carpet ripple, every smell (Charlie’s workroom, the linen closet, the root cellar). How can I walk away from everything I’ve ever known?
    I stop by St. Paul’s United to drop off my date squares, feeling guilty that I haven’t attended service for most of the summer. But it’s more spiritually depressing than uplifting to sit there among the half-empty pews.
    “The United Church is dying,” Helen said with a slow shake of her head. “Every other religion is going strong as ever. Do you know why? The United religion is too liberal. You have to put the fear of God into people. That’s the only way to get them out of the house on a Sunday morning.”
    Neither Charlie nor I were what you’d call religious people, but when John was old enough, we started taking him to St. Paul’s.
    “He might as well learn one side of the coin,” Charlie said. “He’ll make up his own mind when he’s old enough.”
    I thought the structure of church would be good for my son. I wanted him to understand that Christmas was more than presents, that Easter was more than bunnies and chocolate. I wanted to expose him to things that didn’t have price tags. Maybe I was being a hypocrite, because I never went to church before John was born. I believed in God but I didn’t think about him very much. That’s especially true these days. It’s funny because I always assumed that as you got older, you naturally became more religious. I attributed it to fear; a sort of spiritual insurance. But it doesn’t happen that way. At least, it hasn’t for me. The closer death gets, the less sense God makes.
    John enjoyed church. He’d get up early on Sunday mornings to shine his shoes and pick out a tie. He had quite the collection at a young age, from what I remember. He’d sit between Charlie and me, fidgeting while the hymns were sung and the Scriptures read out loud. Then the minister would call the children to the front of the church and John would be the first one running down the aisle, even though I told him to always walk. After speaking with them about the importance of sharing or forgiveness or respect, the minister would send the children down to Sunday school in the basement. Even to this day, I can still see the happiness on John’s face when he passed by our pew. Sometimes he’d stop and pat my arm, as if reminding me not to worry. He’d only be a few steps away.
    If only I had that same reassurance now.
    When he turned seven, John joined the junior choir. I was so proud, watching him sing at the front of the church. Charlie was, too. I remember the soft smile on his face. There were only three boys amidst the rows of curly-headed girls, but John had one of the best voices. I could always hear its clarity through the cloud of the other children.
    “That boy of yours is quite the charmer,” I remember a woman telling me once. “He’s going to be a heartbreaker one day.”
    I had my fingers crossed that John might become a minister. It seemed like a natural fit for him. He was good with people, especially older women. They doted on him terribly.
    Precious . That’s the word I heard the most. “He’s just the most precious thing.”
    I never left him alone with any of the older women and always made a point to pull him away if the conversation lingered too long or if the compliments became too many. It’s not good to have his ego stroked like that , I thought at the time. Or to be around women so much .
    I’ve been remembering things lately. Small, random memories. I don’t know why. The other day, I thought about the time we hit that dog.
    The three of us were on our way to a winter play day at the United Church Centre. John was in the back. I remember his boots pressing into my seat. I used to scold him about