Sunday, February 25, 2018

Timothy's Discovery


I finished the first book of the Mitford series by Jan Karon, "At Home in Mitford," and am continuing the saga with "A Light in the Window." The stories tell of the adventures of Father Timothy, an  Episcopalian priest in the town of Mitford.

Sweet, funny and at times heart-wrenching. This passage captured my attention. Father Timothy had been courting his next door neighbor, Cynthia Coppersmith, a writer and illustrator of children's stories. He had gone on a trip to Ireland and was away for two months. Upon his return, he had tried to meet up with Cynthia, but they hadn't had a chance to get together because of their work schedules. 

In this passage, Father Timothy had just found out that Cynthia has moved to New York City. 

He was struck by the endless number of things he hadn't thought about concerning Cynthia. Why had he never been more curious about her life, about her work? Where had she gone to school, for heaven's sake? And why hadn't he found out why she nearly died in a hospital? He'd even lacked the courtesy to ask lately about her nephew who was as cherished as a son. It seemed a small thing to wonder, but what was his last name? He didn't even know what kind of work he did.

She had asked him to pose for a wise man in "The Mouse in the Manger," yet he'd never inquired about the finished book. Worse, he'd never even read anything she had written. 

He had treated her, he realized, as if she didn't really exist.

That realization was overwhelming to him. He'd believed what his parishioners had told him, that he was caring and nurturing. Yet, it was a lie. He wasn't really either of those things. The truth was, he was unutterably selfish and self-seeking, going his own way, doing his own pious thing. It was disgusting to him.

How had he come this far without seeing himself for what he really was? How had God let him get away with this loathsome deception for so long?

He believed he had never married because he was married to his calling. The truth was, he had a complete lack of the equipment demanded for truly loving. 

Yet underneath all that show of sop and decency was a man utterly fixed on himself, on his own concerns. And underneath some shallow layer of seeming warmth and caring was a cold stratum of granite. 

The very last place he wanted to be day after tomorrow was in the pulpit. It was all a joke, and the joke was on him.

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