Today was a strange day. A day of last days, of endings that I witnessed.
After a latte and end of semester conversation with our seminary student, I walked down Como Avenue in St. Paul. I went by the group of shops where Micawber’s Bookstore has been for decades. When I lived off Como Avenue in 1984-85, I would stop in now and then. I hoped that one day I would hold a reading at Micawber’s for a book of mine.
My first book came out last month. Soon after that, I read the Micawber’s was closing for good. Today, I walked in the little courtyard where I remember the bookstore being, thinking maybe they were having a sale to dispose of their last inventory. I didn’t see any sign for Micawber’s, and I couldn’t remember which of the little shops it occupied. Then I saw a door with a bumper sticker about supporting your independent bookstore. I peered through the glass of the door—the place looked empty, but there was a light on.
I tried the door and it opened. I walked down the few stairs, calling out “hello”. No answer. In the main space there was a long table with a sign saying “70% off”. I called out again. Still no answer. So I started perusing the books. At one point the phone rang. I hoped the ringing of the phone would bring someone out from the back, but no one came. Who was on the other end of the line? Did they know that no one was there, except for me? How could they know?
I saw the cash register on the counter by the phone. It was open and empty. The computer it was attached to was buzzing along. There was a little sign about writing a note to the owner. I called out again, but no answer. I had picked out three books; the list price totaled $45, with 70% it would be $13.50. I had only a $20 bill in my pocket, and it had become clear that I wasn’t going to be able to pay with a credit card. I found another book for $10, which brought the total to $50; $16.50 with the discount. I went around the table again, found another $10 book I liked, which brought the total to $65, or $19.50 discounted. I left a note with the twenty. As far as I know, it’s the only time I’ve ever tipped a bookstore.
I went back to the car, and that’s when I paid attention to the titles of the five books I had bought. I had picked them because of their authors or subjects, but in the car, I read the titles again:
The War Within
Is Religion Killing Us?
Gasoline
Feeding on Dreams
Brokeback Mountain
Seems appropriate for the last days of a beloved bookstore, doesn’t it?
Earlier that morning, I had listened to a voice mail at the church. A man called to say his grandmother Dorothy, who had been a member of St. Paul’s for over 40 years, was dying. He asked if I could go pray with her, and if we could do the funeral. I talked with the grandson in the morning. He texted me the address of the nursing home. It turned out to be fairly close to the cafĂ© and the bookstore, so I called him and told him I would visit her that afternoon.
When I got to the nursing home and entered Dorothy’s room, there were three generations of her family there, and the chaplain of the nursing home. I introduced myself as the pastor of St. Paul’s, and the chaplain said, “Oh, I know Pr. Wells well.” Oh I see, Dorothy had been a member of the other St. Paul’s, the one on Portland Avenue. That St. Paul’s was founded in the 1870’s by Norwegian immigrants. Our St. Paul’s was founded in the 1880’s by Swedish immigrants.
The family invited me to sit and pray with them and the chaplain. So I did. They asked me to read the 23rd Psalm. They talked about her life. I sat across from Dorothy, whose labored breathing I had seen in many hospital rooms over the last 34 years as a pastor. I prayed for her and her family, thinking that had it been our St. Paul’s instead of theirs, I would have been called on to speak of her life, and the love God had for her. A woman I had only met in her last days.
On the ride back to church, I heard on the radio that Notre Dame was ablaze. I ran a couple of errands, and each time I got back in the car, it sounded worse. On the way to my final meeting, the reporters said that firefighters were not sure if they could save any of the 850 year old church. When I got near our home, they were saying that the firefighters thought they would be able to save the two towers and much of the structure.
I don’t know what to say about that beautiful place. I hope that it is not in its last days; I hope they will be able to restore her. But I think that time may be out for me to visit her again. Luisa and I went there several times in 2013, on our 25th anniversary trip. It was there that I had my confession heard most recently by a priest—perhaps ironic for a Lutheran pastor, but not for the Roman Catholic boy I was, dreaming of the great cathedrals in Europe.
I pray that Notre Dame will be restored. But I have no idea how long that will take; nor do I know how long I will live. I just turned 66, and even if I live to be 100, I am therefore in the last third of my days.
It is Holy Week, when the suffering and love of humanity and of the whole world become ever more poignant. It is a time when we are more attuned to loss, and also more attuned to hope, I pray.
The “other” St. Paul’s is much more conservative than “our” St. Paul’s. Given its location in the current theology of the United States, I imagine that at least some of the members have a vision of the “last days” as a great big battle, where Jesus comes back to slay all the people who don’t believe in him. You can find those images in the Bible, of course, especially in Revelation. For some reason, many of the Christians who live in the richest nation on earth have latched on to the apocalyptic language—a language not of those in power and plenty, but those persecuted and hopeless—as some portend of a magical future. (Overlooking, in our last days of empire, that Revelation was written against the terribly cruel political, economic and spiritual oppression of the Roman Empire.)
I don’t find my hope in a war to end all wars, but in the promises above all promises. It is in Revelation that we see the images of a new earth, a new city, a new garden; where there is no more death and no more weeping. A city where the River of Life flows straight down the city from the home of God; the trees give fruit in all seasons, and the leaves of the trees are healing for all peoples of all time.
That’s the prayer I have for Dorothy tonight. That is where both St. Paul’s hope together: that there is another life arriving—and is already here, Jesus reminds—another life promised for Dorothy, for lovers of old bookstores, for people who see their earthly joys go up in flame.
Be beauty. Be justice. Be unafraid of loss, for these last days are not the last.
Patrick
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