The congregation is listening intently as
Laumanu is standing in the pulpit. Barely five and a half feet tall,
she is just able to peek her head over the top of the wooden stand which
cradles her bible. Even though I still only understand a small portion
of what she is saying, what draws me to listen is the manner in which
she speaks - passionately, directly. The trade winds rustle the leaves
of the coconut trees and within the pauses of Laumanu's reading of the
first lesson, I can hear the birds outside as they greet the day.
I look down at my hymnal. I know I
should be following along, but I have no idea where to even begin to
look. Instead I carefully trace the faded gold lettering on top of the
small blue book sitting in my lap. It's then that I feel someone's gaze
directed my way. 3-year-old Mele is smiling at me from across the aisle.
She and I don't have to say anything; with a quick arch of my eyebrows
(a movement that translates to "yes"), she scurries across the walkway
and jumps into my lap. She grabs the hymnal, opens it and starts
pointing to words - grazing her finger from one song to the next
attempting to whisper read though it's still so confusing to the both of
us. She grabs my hand and I squeeze her a little tighter. Resting her
head on my shoulder, she smiles as she plays with the bracelets on my
wrist. Her two-year-old cousin waddles down the pew and starts to play
with my hair - delicately touching the plumeria blossom I found on the
road on the way to church this morning. Mele and her cousin spend the
rest of the hour with me. The final prayer is spoken, the congregation
makes moves to exit, the girls giggle, smile and wave goodbye as they
skip down the road hand in hand.
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