Hope's Imperfection

Chapter 1: Church

I detest church pews. The number of times I have been obliged to sit amongst tall wooden benches, pretending to listen to a sermon, eulogy or the sacred union of two people in holy matrimony, is inhumane. I have a large extended family.

My earliest and most painful memories involve me sitting amongst aunts and uncles, counting the minutes between the service and the moment when we would be released for Sunday school. The words “hell”, “fury”, “communion”, and “confession” came from the front of the church but had no impact. I sat scheming, dreaming of ways to tease and confound the churchgoers in front of me. Eventually as I became restless and my body began to squirm, my elbows or knees would plunge into one of the relatives sitting beside me, who would become instantly disengaged with whatever message was being delivered and look towards me. I would await the stern call of my name, “Philip”, as a result. But the consequence never came; all I received was a smile from a kind aunt, a great uncle, or some other relative whose name I could scarcely remember. Their tolerance annoyed me.

“Philip can you find a place for this bouquet?” my mother asked politely as she advanced to hug one of my father’s many cousins who came streaming through the church doors. I did what any 18 year-old boy would - I immediately passed it along to my younger sister, Olivia; she’d know what to do.

We had gathered for my grandfather’s funeral, James Leslie Stanhope, my father’s father whose passing seemed to bring together every prominent socialite in Virginia and Maryland. 

Weddings and funerals were perfect vehicles for my mother’s talents. Frances Stanhope, a classic southern woman for whom hospitality in itself is a religion. Frances grew up in Montgomery, Alabama, and married a great man. My father courted her on visits to Alabama from Annapolis, Maryland, where he was stationed at the naval academy.

With my mother lurching towards an oncoming mob and my sister absorbed in finding a resting place for a bouquet of carnations, I was left exposed and within mere seconds my quiet was disturbed by a familiar face that I could not name.

“A good start by the Orioles this year, do you think they’ll make the playoffs this year?” The question came from behind me from a middle aged man but it was too obvious that the query was meant for me. I couldn’t avoid making a response.

“The Red Sox are too strong,” I replied.

It was a conversation stopping reply, the kind I am best at, and by the time I delivered it I spotted Olivia returning from placing the flowers on a bench. As usual she had found the perfect spot. I moved towards my sister leaving the fledgling baseball discussion behind, before it could grow.

Olivia could talk for days about our heritage, but I am unlikely to remember the names of my extended family. I take little stock in faces. People in my family assume that I am quiet because I am shy, in deep thought or forlorn but it’s not true. I stay quiet because I have not committed their names to memory. Nor do I remember their professions, where they live, or their favorite hobbies. It is not ill will; it is extreme disinterest. I take no pride in my aloof nature; it is not a source of wisdom or even a spoiled product from my life of privilege. I really just do not have an interest in the people in my life or, for that matter, anyone in particular.

My mother finished embracing and welcoming my father’s relatives and was now returning to Olivia and I.