A messy welcome

My last memory of Philippe* is of him rushing towards the communion table too soon. Before the pastor had recited the requisite story and familiar prayers and issued the invitation. The rest of us remained in our pews waiting for the signal that we were welcome – Philippe didn’t wait. The congregation sat in silence as our pastor lovingly coached him, in the awkwardness of it all. “Not yet, Philippe. Just wait a minute.”

The moment brings tears to my eyes even now. Philippe, so eager to accept his place at the table. He knew his invitation didn’t need to wait for human calling.

Banquet table

When our church invited the congregation to submit pieces of art based on Jesus’ parables, my seven-year-old daughter was eager, as ever, to participate. She didn’t give it a second thought as she added her name to the list at the ministry fair, signing up for the banquet parable. We spent hours designing the scene and then cutting the felt pieces to create her vision. And the final piece was beautiful – exhibited so proudly in church and even in a magazine article. But I smile with a sigh when I see it, remembering that behind those colourful beggars and festive diners are lots of tears, a frustrated little girl (and her parents!) and a late-night hot glue slog fest to get everything together. Just like life, it was fraught and messy and painful, and yet the end result was more beautiful than we could have imagined.

When Philippe died, he left behind few of the markers of a conventional life. No children, no traditional obituary. But his funeral was well attended, his battles in life honoured and his memories seared in my brain.

‘Do you like Heineken?’

My first memory of Philippe was in a fast-food parking lot in 2016.

He was asking me for money. “I don’t mean to scare you, but just enough to buy a six-pack. Do you like Heineken?” he asked.

And then I started noticing him at church. Usually in the back. On the edges of conversations – we talked occasionally, but he never stayed long to chat. My family moved away from Terrace for six years and when we returned to church, Philippe was still there. One Sunday, when I was sitting in the service by my wheelchair bound mother in-law, he started shouting at us and had to be ushered out. I found out later he was upset because the bench by our library, dedicated to my late father-in-law, had been graffitied. Philippe was trying to show us his concern and support, only in the wrong tone and at the wrong time.

Wide open doors

Although we crossed paths, Philippe often seemed to forget who I was. There is much I never learned about Philippe and his past, but I will always be grateful for Philippe’s legacy to me – brought to life in his awkward church disruptions. The doors are flung open and the table overflows. It is a messy, broken yet beautiful banquet.

We don’t have to wait for a human invitation. Here we are, rushing to the table – where the welcome is always and ever wide.

*Name changed for privacy.