It's amazing how much communion is like last call

For anyone who still reads this, I must apologize for neglecting you. It’s not that I don’t like writing, I just don’t like you.

My father is an Anglican minister. And yes, he does read this blog. Now many people are often surprised that I am a preacher’s son. But it’s cool; I even have my own theme song.

[“The only boy who could ever …”]

Think of the Anglican Church as “Catholic Light” – All the religion, half the guilt. Don’t fret; I’m not preparing you for a religious rant. I’ll save that for another day.

I recently spent my Christmas holidays in Vancouver where my immediate family lives. We had spent a great Christmas Eve day together relaxing, cooking, eating, laughing and drinking. – Admittedly not in that order. The plan originally wasn’t to go to the Christmas Eve service, but as the time neared, we changed our minds. Now we were faced with a dilemma: In the house of a minister, the biggest obstacle between us and attending service was finding someone sober enough to drive. So, my dad (a.k.a. “The Rev”) went to wake my mom up and we set out.

It’s pretty safe to say we were on what I like to call “Wex” time. Also known as Simon time, more commonly “late”.

We made it to the church well before the service was to start, but all the seats were already taken. It has been a long time since my father has had a formal congregation, over the past decade he has had a post at one hospital or another. For some time he was a Chaplin, but is now a director of spiritual affairs. – Which, for the record I’m sure would be a great business card to pick up those bible thumpin’ broads.

Now if I recall the busiest days in my father’s church, running out of seats wouldn’t be a huge problem. This would just mean some people might be sitting on the floor, others might be standing, but everyone would be welcome.

Much to everyone’s surprise, everyone was greeted by “Volunteer Thomas” who turned us away. He tried to explain that the building was only zoned for a certain amount of people and that if the fire marshal came by, they would be issued a ticket. May I remind you that it’s Christmas Eve, and any non-essential emergency staff, I’m sure would not be issuing tickets. So, confronted by this news, my little sister, who I’m often reminded, isn’t so little anymore, piped up. It so happened she noticed that “Volunteer Thomas” had a nametag that read “Welcome, My name is Thomas [Volunteer]. She promptly called him on it.

“It’s funny that it says Welcome”, she said whilst pointing at his lapel, “when we clearly aren’t.

This prompted “Volunteer Thomas”, to get what I can most closely relate to “bitchy”. Red-faced and obviously flustered, he explained the “situation”. At which point my dad piped in. This, I immediately noticed, is like going to a busy club with the owner’s best friend. Hehe, this is great, “I know a guy”. My father was obviously frustrated, not just that we couldn’t get in, but more so that others were being turned away from the church on what is probably the only night this year they’re going to show up. So after my father’s appeal much to his dismay “volunteer Thomas” decided to let us, and only us in. We just had to go around back and wait for the door to open. As we waited outside, I couldn’t stop laughing thinking of getting in the back door of clubs and bars. I was also noticing that my buzz was quickly disappearing and I promptly started worrying that we might miss communion.

I wonder if “Volunteer Thomas made it this past Easter without an embolism. On that note I wish you a very belated Merry Christmas.