Although I am still, at least in theory, on vacation from my parish duties, dear reader, I found myself wandering back to church the other evening. Not to lead worship, not to sit in a vestry meeting (thanks be to God), but to join in on our monthly Community Dinner.
Now, some might say that if you are on vacation, you ought to stay away from the parish entirely. But really, how could I? The dinner regularly gathers nearly a hundred souls from across Bolton—young and old, well-heeled and struggling, lifelong locals and newcomers — drawn together around folding tables in the church hall for hot dogs, hamburgers, summer salads, and, of course, the high sacrament of Canadian summer cuisine: the ice cream sandwich.
Alice and Owen had come to stay with me overnight, so naturally they were swept along as my guests. I am not sure they were prepared for the profound liturgy of ketchup bottles, the offertory of mustard jars, and the benediction of pickles, but they managed admirably.
Being in the company of two young teens, my table naturally became the “kids’ table.” Elo and little Evi joined us almost as soon as they arrived. Evi, being all of three years old and in her full chatterbox glory, supplied a running commentary on life, supper, and anything else that crossed her mind. Surrounded by this lively company, the five of us laughed our way through burgers, chips, and stories. And honestly, dear reader, I wouldn’t have traded it for the most dignified “adult” table in the hall. Sometimes the kids’ table is exactly where grace chooses to sit down.
As for me, the evening became a kind of homecoming. Mike and his friend had a host of questions about my Camino pilgrimage. Isabel had questions too—though hers were sharper, more pointed, the sort that keep a priest honest. And as I answered, it dawned on me that what makes this dinner so holy is not the menu (though the coleslaw was outstanding), but the unmistakable sense of being at home.
I looked across the hall and saw Gerri, who has been a faithful member of Christ Church for over sixty years. Poor health had forced her to move to live with her son, but friends had gone out of their way to bring her back for dinner. As she left, she held my hand and said, “I’m so glad you did your pilgrimage. I know you wanted that for years. And you know, this place will always be home for me, no matter where I live.”
Then she added something that struck me deeply: “It is good to be home. But it is better to have a spiritual home; a place where your soul can find rest in the middle of all life’s busy-ness.” Down through the years, just as my body has had many homes, so my soul has enjoyed many spiritual homes. I have been truly blessed; many places where upon entry, my soul simply says, “I’m home.”
There, dear reader, in the church basement with the smell of burgers still hanging in the air and the laughter of neighbours ringing in my ears, I realized she was exactly right. My Camino ended in Santiago. But in a very real way, the last step of my journey home was taken here—back in Bolton, in the family of Christ, around a table that felt like home.