Kathie Deviny

Father Robert’s personality was not designed for seclusion in a home office or endless online meetings. And his sermons on the church’s Sunday streaming service were dismal. He was a face to face guy with bad eyesight and wasn’t able to adjust his delivery in response to the reactions of what he called his computer congregation.

Christmas 2020 had been especially awful. Grace Church’s lifesize manger display stood alone in the harsh light of the video camera. No one had the energy to add fir boughs. The carols were piped in. And of course everyone missed the sentimental sight of one of the children carrying the plaster baby Jesus up the main aisle.

Bishop Anthony, the denominations’s spiritual leader, had been forced to put his retirement on hold. He’d reluctantly issued a ban on indoor services and signaled that his policy otherwise was ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’. So when individuals or small groups asked Father Robert to visit them at home to receive communion, or to pray with the sick or dying, bless a new baby or new graduate, or counsel an engaged couple, he put on his mask and rushed to their side. He had to draw the line somewhere, and told anyone asking for an animal blessing to wait until St. Francis Day.

After Christmas, he felt it was safe to offer outdoor services in the Memorial Garden, weather permitting and masks mandatory. Lester, the church sexton, placed chairs on the grass at the appropriate distance, which would allow twenty to attend. A few more stand up spaces were available next to the rhodedendrons. Daniel, their musician, played favorite hymns on a keyboard.

Robert had taken the daring step of stating that seating would be first come, first served regardless of membership status. This would allow their unofficial congregation of homeless, nearby residents, university students and hospital workers a chance to participate.

At the early April gathering (mixed clouds and moderate wind), Robert held down his baseball cap and spoke through a microphone to be heard by everyone over the noise from the freeway. The services had become popular, so there were people standing on the other side of the garden fence into the sidewalk.

He let the chatter go on for a few minutes and then whistled through the mic. “I’ll be sending this out via email, text, phone and carrier pigeon later, but you’re the first to know. God willing, we will be opening the church for inside services on Palm Sunday. We’ll be able to hold 100 people, which a quarter of our capacity.”

After the applause and exclamations died down, he continued, “We’re lucky because back when we were the only church in town, the sanctuary was built to hold 400. As most of you know, our average Sunday attendance before the shutdown was – well- much less.”

He started to explain how the seating would be spaced, and that communion would still be given on long trays with the hosts spaced apart. And, alas, no wine, except for him. Before he could get in another word, the questions started.

“Why can’t you just put the host in our hand? Don’t worry, we’ll sanitize ahead.”

“That tray makes it look like you’re handing out hors d’oevres.”

“After I pick up the host, when do I put it in my mouth and how do I do that wearing a mask?

“Why can’t we have wine, too?”

“What’s the point, Father?”

He should have known that their frustration would come out this way, but was still disappointed.

“What’s the point? Uh, to get together again as a community? To worship in our sacred space? To hear Daniel play our magnificant organ?”

He looked beyond the chair sitters to those standing behind the fence. “What do the rest of you think?”

The people he thought of as the Friends of Grace Church piped up, most with a version of ‘we love sitting in the back pews and looking up at the ceiling and the windows. And listening to the music. And you let us brings our dogs, as long as they behave themselves. And if we want to come up to the front and have communion, you let us. And we hope that there will be a coffee hour and cookies afterward’.

Lester, who had been on the streets before his employment at the church, stood next to Father Robert and pronounced, “And it’s not just us lowlifes that want to get back in the church. Don’t you remember the guy in a suit and tie in the back pew who cried evey time the organ played? We’ll, he’s big-time attorney, maybe even a judge. Do we want to keep him out, too? And what about the university students up the hill who come for Reflection Time or whatever they call it. And-“

Robert called out, “The Lord Be With You!” the standard way of bringing the congregation to attention. They answered, “And also with you.”

“Now it’s time to continue the service. I hope to see most – or some of you back in church on Palm Sunday.”

Dr Lucy’s Covid Adventure

Instead of formal sermons, Father Robert had asked a few of the outdoor church attendees if they would talk about their experiences during Covid lockdown. This was Dr. Lucy’s second time. Everyone had loved her idea to keep tabs on the residents of her retirement community, by having each two apartments knock on the wall of the other to say they were OK. She’d also arranged for socially-distanced walking sessions up and down the hallways. Rev. Katherine stood up and told how she and Louette stood outside the facility most days, waving and barking, which was a huge treat for the specially trained guide dog.

Today, dressed in her trench coat and sensible boots, Lucy began.

“Last week I had a severe case of cabin fever and decided to drive to Portland to visit my niece, but couldn’t find anyone to watch my kitties. I turned to the internet and looked up hotels advertising as pet friendly. There were only three, and the first two weren’t helpful.”

She paused, waiting for the congregation to ask an unspoken “Why?”

After I mentioned that my pets were cats, they told me that cats weren’t included on their pet list. Apparently, barking dogs who peed on the rug were more acceptable than quiet kitties who peed in a box.”

She paused again, until the laughter ended.

“The third hotel was near the airport. I explained right away that my pets were cats, and they told me, as they do nowdays, that it was ‘no problem’. So I packed myself and the cats and drove down.

“I checked in with a polite young man who helped me load my suitcase, cat carrier, litter box, and scratching post and directed me to the elevator.”

She paused again. “Now, this is where things got interesting.

“I always have a struggle finding my room and figuring out how the lock works. I’d almost worked it out when I saw two women approaching down the hall. Both were using walkers and both wore what looked like sundresses. One was tall and wide and the second was small and had a severe limp. Both offered a full-smile greeting and admired the cats.”

‘Who were they?, was the silent question, which she didn’t answer at that point.

“Stella and Luna, my cats, approved of our room, especially the wide windowsill, which let them keep an eye out for birds and bugs. Later, when I took the elevator down to wait for my niece, the lobby was deserted, and didn’t have any seats, so I decided to wait outside.

“A man entering the hotel opened the door and ushered me out with a flourish. He wore a baseball cap and a long grey ponytail, and reeked of cigarette smoke. His tiny leashed dog looked up at me. The man asked me at length about my plans for the evening. I have to admit I was relieved when Lisa drove up.

One of the congregation called out, “And then what happened?”

“Well, I had a lovely evening, and in the morning I went to the lobby to pick up breakfast, a Covid protocol. I was suprised to see about ten guests sitting at some tables Most had their heads down. This is an old-fashioned word, but they seemed morose. The staff handed me my boxed order of oatmeal and coffee, accompanied by milk, raisins and brown sugar.”

Lucy noticed that her audience was growing impatient for the punchline, and it was starting to sprinkle. “Here’s what happened.

“Checking out, I mentioned that the staff might want to throw away the empty beer case in the elevator lobby, and also the pile of bread scraps in front of the door across the hall from my room. The receptionists, this time two young women in casual dress, were— It was then I realized. The hotel was serving a dual purpose, sheltering homeless persons vulnerable to Covid, and also paying customers with pets.

“I told them not to worry, that i’d had a pleasant stay. The relief on their faces touched me.”

“You didn’t know? They didn’t tell you?” asked the congregation.

“That’s right. When I got home I went online and found that hotels were being used for homeless housing, but nothing about mixed housing with paying guests. As I said, I had a pleasant stay, so I don’t feel duped. What do you all think?”

Stacy Chase had been a marketing genius before her baby was born, and was eager to re-enter the fray.

“Wow!” she shouted. “They put together two groups with a common interest: keeping their pets with them.”

“It’s an example of Intersectionality,” added a sociology student from the University.

“What’s that?” everybody asked.

Father Robert answered, “That would take longer than we have to explain. We’ll have a study session later for anyone who’s interested. Thank you Dr. Lucy.”

Late Spring, 2021: It was time for the first indoor service at Grace Church, Seattle since the Covid shutdown. The price of admission was a mask worn correctly over the nose and under the chin. The stay at homes still had the choice to watch via social media

Fr. Robert told Lester to block off every other pew and equip them with hand sanitizer. He assumed that his sexton would use the rose-colored braided ropes used normally to reserve family pews for weddings, baptisms and funerals. Lester, however, worried that it would be too easy to squeeze over and under them, and decided to use duct tape instead. And as a money saving measure, he installed a huge sanitizer dispenser at the entry doors.

To make sure of mask compliance, he placed a big pile inside the the baptismal font. These had been sewn and donated by what seemed like half the congregation. The patterns varied wildly, from Easter Bunnies to The Seahawks logo.

Robert stood at the main entry, greeting everyone with a wave, elbow bump, and, when appropriate, a blown kiss. There weren’t as many attendees as he’d hoped, but he was confident that next Sunday would see an increase after the stay-always found out that an anonymous donor had supplied coffee and packaged cookies.

It was a relatively warm day and after the service a socially distanced coffee klatch formed in the Memorial Garden. The main discussion topic was why Father had hurried away from the altar into the sacristy during the offertory hymn. The consensus was that nature had called suddenly.

As Robert expected, a few more attended the next week. During the announcement period, he explained that his dash from the altar had been to wash his hands before distributing communion. The ceremonial finger dipping which was part of the liturgy would be abandoned for who knew how long.

His second announcement reported some of the reasons for the previous week’s disappointing attendance. He and his assistant Rev. Katherine had divided up the parisg directory to find out. After the understandable health concerns, other reasons included lack of transportation, hatred of mask wearing, no indoor social hour, nothing for the kids to do, and no choral music.

He was sad to hear that a number of members had relocated to be closer to family or for work, and felt guilty for not keeping better track. Both he and Katherine also noticed a general fear to venture out after so many months away. Dr. Lucy, one of the lay leaders, confessed that she’d organized a popular online Eucharist-watching party at her retirement home, which allowed people to drink coffee and comment during the service.

“Here’s my action plan,” he told them. “Other than the health and mask issues, the rest of us have some work to do. I have a list of the people needing transportation. We’ve borrowed one of the First Baptist vans and need a volunteer driver and someone to help people in and out.

“To improve the music, Daniel has recruited instrumentalists who are eager to play the harp, guitar and even a trumpet. And starting this week we will sing the doxology through our masks. I think most of you know that one by heart.”

When the time came, Carmen Farro, a mezzo soprano with the Seattle Symphony chorus, came up from from her front row pew and led a chorus of “Praise God From Whom All Blessing Flow-“

The next week saw a ten percent attendance increase, most of whom Dr. Lucy had persuaded away from their cozy zoom gathering. Luckily they lived nearby because multiple trips were necessary. CDC regulations severely limited how many could be transported at one time. They were greeted warmly by the millennial members who helped them to their front pew seats.

It was raining, so the social hour moved inside to to the back of the church. The high ceilings, open doors and and leaky windows made for acceptable airflow, actually a stiff breeze. After an hour, Lester headed their way with a push broom as a reminder that he wanted to close up.

The next Sunday was the St. Francis Day animal blessing, so attendance improved even more. There were a few in person appearances by canine and feline friends, but even more via cell phone photos.

By Fall, the congregation could still fit into every other row, but all the rows held three or four. The parish vestry had agreed to open the restrooms and the sanctuary for a few hours on weekdays to the mostly homeless public, thanks to the volunteers Lester had recruited. Another generous benefactor paid for the steam heat. Daniel scheduled his organ practice during these times to provide soothing entertainment.

In late Fall, Robert announced that the city-funded overnight women’s shelter in basement was turning into a 24 hour operation. A gratifying number of church members offered to help the staff Rev. Catherine brought her guide dog Louette to visit most days. The outdoor area formerly occupied by the food bank was used as a Covid testing site twice a week and parish members were invited to be tested along with the sheltered women and others in the neighborhood.

Now that his office was decently warm, Robert came to the work most days. His next challenge was to make the annual pledge campaign work. He hoped that parishioners knew that Grace Church’s staff and operational costs weren’t funded by ‘The State’ as implied by the popular English mini-series. Would people who had stayed away or only watched on Zoom feel that they could reduce their pledge?

He decided to be honest in the annual appeal letter. Privately, he referred to it as ‘the annual beg’. The letter approved by the vestry mentionned last year’s savings on heat, lights and maintenance. But it also reminded everyone that most staff had been on full salary, except Lester the sexton and Daniel, the musician. Lester, who had fewer onsite activities, kept his onsite housing, a part time salary, and full benefits. Daniel, because he had no choir to lead or concerts to perform, had also been part time. As Robert expected, many members were outraged, and were inclined to pledge more than normal to keep their musician and sexton from starvation.

“Fingers crossed,” he told the staff.

Back in the land of April daffodils, May lilacs, June roses, where Subaru’s outnumber Mercedes and high tire trucks overwhelm all the rest of us.

Where all traffic comes to a halt when a vintage vehicle rolls by.

AND finally, Where the deer and the Geoducks (gooey-ducks-huge clams) play.

On a frosty winter morning next month, my mystery Death on Sacred Ground is going live in paperback and Kindle. Repeat readers will be familiar with the cover art featuring traditional church architecture. The title is in bright red, which pleases me.

I’m looking forward to meeting readers on Zoom and other online venues, also to collaborations with homeless housing providers, environmental groups, and community forums – all featured in the book.

When you sign up on the website, I’ll send you a synopsis, character list and a poorly drawn map of the fictional Grace Church and the Sacred Ground surrounding it.

My third mystery, Death on Sacred Ground, will be published sometime in 2020, so while waiting, I’m tweaking my marketing plan and adding posts like this one to my new website,  www.KathieDeviny.com

Cozy Mysteries and Genre Fiction: I wasn’t familiar with the term genre fiction when Camel Press accepted my manuscript for Death in the Memorial Garden in 2011. I just knew that this Seattle publisher was providing me with the support and feedback (and upfront financing) that a new author craves. 

Camel, which is now an imprint of Epicenter Press, publishes genres besides mystery, including sci-fi, romance, paranormal, young adult, and something called speculative fiction. www.camelpress.com   

Each genre has what I call sub-genres.  In my mystery genre, Death in the Memorial Garden is known as a cozy.

The cozy sub genre in recent years has become associated with themes beyond the traditional village mystery.  I wouldn’t read a cozy focused on quilting or pastry making, but give me a sleuth who likes gardens, libraries or interior design, and I’m hooked.

Another thing about cozies: they attract readers who prefer an amateur sleuth over the private investigator or police detective, preferably a quirky protagonist who avoids excessive blood, gore and kinky sex.  Think of the recent interest in the Grantchester Mysteries, and the enduring appeal of Agatha Christie.  One of my favorite authors is the recently deceased MC Beaton (the Agatha Raisin and Hamish MacBeth series, set in England and Scotland).

 www.cozymystery.com  is the go-to website for my type of reader. The blogger, Janna, writes a post most every day.  She lists the new titles released each month, and also the mysteries adapted for film or tv. She even maintains a list of cozies by sub-genre.  Death in the Memorial Garden is listed under ‘mysteries with little or no profanity’ and also ‘religious mysteries’. These aren’t just for Christians.  On my list is Ruby, the Rabbi’s Wife, by Sharon Kahn.

Janna generously includes worthy mysteries outside the cozy genre.  She recently mourned the death of Ruth Rendell, the esteemed British author of the Inspector Wexford novels, which are technically Police Procedurals. However, she knows that the Inspector has been unfailingly decent over the years, and concerned about social issues, which appeals to cozy-lovers. We also recognize that Rendell elevated her mysteries to the level of literary fiction, a level which we pray to attain.

I’m sticking to Janna’s categories for my books, because as what they call a ‘clergy spouse’, I’ve used my knowledge of places such as Grace Church, an in-city parish  where all sorts of people  meet on somewhat neutral ground.  For example, clients of Seattle’s centrally-based food banks, whether they know it or not, encounter kind-hearted members of the city’s elite handing them a bag of groceries or advising them on housing resources.

City living appeals to people like my character Dr. Lucy, a retired dentist who shepherds less fortunate neighbors to the available clinics. In the upcoming book, formerly homeless Lester escorts low-sighted Reverend Katherine around the neighborhood, including the freeway entrances where he used to panhandle.

I know that these encounters happen mostly during the day. The rich return to their enclaves, Dr. Lucy and Katherine to their condos. Father Robert, Grace Church’s rector, has moved from the barred-window rectory to his new wife’s home near the lake. But the next day they’re back in- you could say- the urban equivalent of an English village.