Grace - A Mr. Perkins Story
We interrupt our ongoing serial, "The Bishop", for a brand-new Mr. Perkins story!
Grace: A Mr. Perkins Story
Daniel F. Graves
One of the individuals who sought out
Mr.
Perkins in his pastoral capacity at Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners was a
parishioner named Grace Goodham. When she had asked him on Sunday after church
if she might come and seem him during the week, he really had no idea what she
wished to meet about. Grace was the chair of the flower guild, that group of
dedicated ladies who week by week, the season of Lent excepted, adorn the altar
and the chancel with beautiful arrangements and festive appointments according
to the time of year. At Easter there are
lilies, at Christmas, poinsettias, on Palm Sunday there are palms and pussy
willows, at Harvest time there are sheaves and gourds, and at other times, all
manner of colourful fragrant arrangements.
I can scarcely think of any other little parish church in our whole
diocese that is as beautifully and tastefully appointed with flowers than the
parish of Hampton’s Corners. And like
the arrangements she set out every Sunday, Grace was a beautiful person, inside
and out. She brought joy and life into
every room she entered. Everyone loved spending time with her. It felt so good
to be around her and when you were having a bad day, she was the one who would
brighten it. She seems so
self-confident, so kind, so forgiving of others, and so faithful. What was it that compelled her to speak with
our favourite country parson in those lenten days in which our story takes
place?
“Mr. Perkins,” she said, as she
settled into the comfortable chair in his little office, “I don’t know where to
begin, but…I felt like I needed to talk to you because…” she paused.
“Because?” He asked gently.
“Because I feel like such a fraud.”
Mr. Perkins was taken aback, “What do
you mean,” he asked quizzically, “You must be one of the most genuine people I
know.”
“That’s just it, Mr. Perkins, that’s
what people think of me, but all my life I’ve had this feeling that if they
only just knew me, the real me, not only wouldn’t they like me, they would hate
me.”
He could not see how this was
possible, but he wanted to learn more. “Tell me,” he said, “just what do you
think you are hiding?”
“I…I…don’t really know. I mean, I know - at least I know in my head -
that I’m a good person, but I just don’t feel like I’m a good person. I
do my best to try to make a difference, to be a kind person, to do everything I
can to the best of my ability. As you know, I’m something of a perfectionist.
I’m a bit obsessive about it, in fact,” she added.
“Oh really?” He said coyly, knowing
how much of a perfectionist she was. They both gave a little laugh.
“Really,” she said, “And I can live
with that, but when someone criticizes me, I just fall apart. I try so hard, I
really do try to get it right, to be perfect, just like the Bible says, ‘Be ye
perfect as thy Father in Heaven is perfect’, but I mean, how can any of us be
perfect like God? It’s a bit much, don’t
you think? It’s a tall order. And yet, I
so want to be perfect, I strive to be perfect…”.
Mr. Perkins broke in, “and you are
very near perfect, my friend, but none of us are perfect. You are
perfectionist, so what? You have high
standards, but you don’t enforce them nastily on other people like some
perfectionists do - they are standards to which you hold yourself.”
“But I don’t think I can do it
anymore…and I just collapse with self-loathing and disappointment when I think
I have let someone down. When I let someone down, I feel like they see the real
me, the me I keep hidden away, the failure.”
They sat for a moment in silence, then
he said, “Grace, have I ever criticized you?”
“No, but
last week Judy Jumblejump…” Now Judy Jumblejump was the church warden who found
fault with everyone, “Well she snapped at me because she told me I had better
not put out so many lilies this Easter, not everyone can cope with the scent…she
told me that I am…excessive.”
“Judy finds fault with everyone,” he
said, “It’s her way. Don’t judge yourself on what Judy says. As I asked, have I
ever criticized you? Has anyone else in this parish, aside from Judy ever
criticized you?”
“No…but I’m so worried you might, that
you might see me, the real me, especially if I make a mistake and then…”
“And then?” He asked.
“And then you would hate me. I’m
scared you and everyone else would hate me if you really saw me - the real me.”
Now what made Grace harbour such
secret self-loathing, so expertly hidden under a joyous, loving, kind-hearted
exterior? It’s not easy to say, and
again, this is not psychotherapy, but I expect most of us experience this sort
of imposter syndrome at some time or another in our lives, in which we mistake
the authentic self we project out into the world as an imposter that hides and
protects our true, hidden self. Sometimes we just cannot believe we are actually
good people, that others like us, and that we offer something good to the
world. Mr. Perkins knew this is what was
going on with Grace and so he asked her a question: “Grace, I think I get what
you are talking about. When I was
singing the liturgy on Sunday, what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did I sing it perfectly?”
“Well,” she began tentatively, not
wanting to hurt his feelings, “I think last Sunday you might have got a little
tongue-tied at one moment.”
“Grace, you are too kind. I got more
than tongue-tied! I lost my place,
repeated the words of institution over the bread twice and didn’t consecrate
the wine. I got things all out of order. My pitch went south. Grace, the
liturgy was an absolute mess.”
“Oh, Mr. Perkins, it wasn’t that bad,
I think most people didn’t even notice. You’re too hard on yourself.”
“Maybe I am. I was so embarrassed, though -- ashamed,
actually. Do you know how long I have been a priest? Did you know I learned to
sing the liturgy at Trinity College? I know
the whole thing by heart, I have sung it a thousand times. I have done it
perfectly many times, but last Sunday it was a disaster. I should have been
able to sing it perfectly but didn’t. To be honest, I felt like a complete
failure.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The last thing
you are is a failure, Mr. Perkins.”
“You’re right. I’m not a failure, and
it is ridiculous, and you know why? Because immediately after the
service you approached your parish priest who had just sung a train-wreck of a
liturgy and asked to speak to him, and here you are, being so vulnerable,
sharing your fears about yourself, your anxiety, and your doubt. You placed your trust in me, even though I am
far from perfect.”
She smiled and looked down.
“Grace,” he continued, “I can’t make
you be kinder to yourself, love yourself or forgive yourself. Self-compassion is not an easy thing, but you
are a kind and compassionate person. Would you be so critical of others who
make mistakes? Would you be so critical of me?”
“Of course not.”
“Grace, come with me. I want you to
listen to something.” He led her into
the church where Mary, the church organist was practicing. Grace thought at first that maybe he was taking
her into the church to say some prayers with her, but instead, as they sat quietly
in the back pew, he put his finger to his lips to motion her not to let on they
were there. Mary was hidden behind the console and could not see or hear
them. She was working on a complicated
Bach piece to be played as the postlude on the upcoming Easter Sunday -- just a
few weeks away. The piece was nowhere
near being ready. Mary would play, and
stop, and grunt, and sometimes even swear, and then she would start again, or
pick up and play a measure or a section until she got it. Some passages were easier than others. Some
flowed, and some seemed to defeat her.
In her playing, at times you could hear her longing, and at times you could
sense her rage and anger at Bach and at not being able to get it, or get him, and
when she finally conquered a difficult passage, you could sense her ecstasy,
and how much she was in love with old J.S. Bach.
“I often do this,” he whispered to
Grace with a smile, “I love to hear her practice.”
Mary
continued, sometimes attacking the music, sometimes pulling back, sometimes
taking a break, and yes, sometimes soaring to the heavens. Sometimes it was hell on earth, and sometimes
it was sublime. Sometimes she was caught
up in the clouds, and sometimes she came crashing to the ground.
“Beauty,” he whispered, “is birthed in
the maelstrom and chaos of imperfection.”
And so they sat listening for quite
awhile. They could hear the relationship
Mary had with Bach - the struggle, the connection, the distance, and
reconnection. Mr. Perkins knew Mary would bring the piece to near perfection by
the time it was to be played on Easter, but the truth was, Mary never played
perfectly, even when she was at her best. There were always a few little
mistakes, but on Easter Sunday, mistakes and all, it would be beautiful. It
would be magnificent. A worthy offering.
This moment was
beautiful, too. For him, there was nothing lovelier than sneaking into the
church mid-week and listening to her struggle away. He loved being a silent
witness to her struggle, for the struggle itself was beautiful, and full of
grace.
After some time listening, he turned
Grace. He saw a tear escape from her eye, but he also noticed that the corners
of her mouth were curled heavenward in the holy communion of human imperfection
and heavenly grace.
March 2022
If you would like to see Fr. Dan read this story, click here.
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