It was Sunday. At one time in her life she would have been heading to church. Like her father she considered herself an Anglican. Unlike her father she did not attend church more than a couple of times a year. Midnight service on Christmas Eve, and sometimes Easter Sunday. Yes, she was one of those Christians.
In her forties returning to church had been important to her. She had returned because an aboriginal friend of hers had told her she had bad medicine attached to her and needed a spiritual practice.
She had started to attend the church and had connected with the priest. She had joined the choir, been trained to administer communion and had led some of the Alpha classes introducing people to the Anglican faith.
Then the priest had left, and although she tried to connect with the new priest it had fallen flat. It was during the upheaval in the church around the blessing of same sex marriages and the resolution around the residential schools that she had stopped going to church. She understood the politics and appreciated them, but she never felt that a sermon was the place to proselytize. She could have been wrong of course. There were some that thought that is all that the priest should do in their sermons.
When she had started going out every Sunday morning her husband had joked that he was worried she was meeting up with some guy.
With tears in her eyes she had told him ‘I think the man I am meeting at church is my father’.
It was the truth.
But now her Sundays were yoga and swimming. This 'church' seemed to work for her.