I hate orange, but I love this place

The bus turns on to Gordon Head Road and I realize that I’ve been away from Victoria for so long, I forget whether it’s the second or third stop after the corner. I trust my gut and pull the stop chord after we pass the first stop. I begin to stand and make my way to the front of the bus.1

The big brown building emerges as the bus pulls to the side of the road. I say a polite “thank you” to the bus driver, get off the bus, and walk toward the door of the church. I hear the bus drive away behind me.2

At first glance, Holy Cross Parish looks like an awkward wooden spaceship. The roof slants gradually from the outside towards the centre, but is disrupted by a sudden triangular point protruding from the centre. As I walk along the sidewalk, that triangular centre transforms into a slanted, glass sunroof, running the entire width of the church. It doesn’t look as strange from this angle.3

I am wearing pants and a long-sleeved blouse. I could have worn a skirt if I had thought to shave my legs last night, and the long sleeves are more a formality than a necessity. My feet, wearing a pair of leather sandals, bear testimony to the early September air, as I take advantage of the last few weeks of summer. A light breeze brings with it the salty scent characteristic of an oceanside city, even though Holy Cross isn’t close enough to the ocean for it to be anything more than my imagination.4

I slowly walk toward the bench by the door and look at my cell phone. It’s 2:54. I’m early, as usual. Even though I know that Phil and Mary-Anne won’t be here until closer to 3:15, I prefer to be 20 minutes early than 15 minutes late.5

I put my bag on the bench and step onto the cement block bike rack, out of habit. I pace around briefly before sitting down.6

Sunday afternoon on Gordon Head Road is just as quiet as I remember. Only an occasional car disturbs the silence, and only temporarily. After a few moments, I hear footsteps coming from the parking lot around the corner. A year and a half ago, these footsteps would have likely belonged to Del, but instead, I look up to see a short, dark-haired girl in a blue jacket. I stand as she approaches.7

“Hello...” She says with a slight hint of a question in her greeting.8

“Hi.” I say back. We don’t know each other. I recognize her face from pictures I have seen on Facebook in my absence; she, on the other hand, has no way of knowing who I am.9

“Can I help you?” She asks.10

“I’m here for mass.” I answer. Yes, I’m aware, I’m early.11

“Oh, it’s not ‘til 4:00.”12

“I know. I’m early for choir practice.” I explain. “I’m Kayla. I was in the CSA two years ago.”13

“Oh, okay. I’m Jocelyn.” She says as she makes her way over to the bench. I move my bag to make room.14

We spend a few minutes in generic chit-chat about our majors and bond over not knowing how to define what year we are in. Cars begin to pull in to the parking lot and Jocelyn walks toward the back entrance to meet with Father Dean, while I stand and wait at the front for Phil and Mary-Anne. 15

Once the door is unlocked, I walk through the small welcoming space and into the main part of the church. I smile at the sight of hundreds of bright orange chairs. The orange is so overpowering that even the brown walls seem to have an orangey tint to them, at first glance. 16

I have always hated orange. Maybe it’s because I used to be afraid of fire. Maybe it’s because I have issues with the taste and explosive texture of oranges.17

But walking into this orange room doesn’t scare me, nor does it repulse me. In fact, these padded orange chairs are far more inviting to me than the hard wooden pews and intricate stained glass windows of a grand cathedral. I walk over to the small basin of holy water on the wall and look at the empty church. My eyes land on the choir chairs in the far corner.18

I sigh quietly as I dip my finger in the little pool of holy water and make the sign of the cross.