Many years ago, when I lived on the Gulf Islands, on one damp, grey spring morning, I decided to go to church. They were having a blessing of the animals and everyone was invited to bring their creature to God鈥檚 house. I think it鈥檚 a wonderfully 颅tender idea (bordering on humorous).
In my rubber boots and torn farm 颅raincoat, I traipsed to the little country church in the rain with my five elderly, rather unkempt dogs on rope leashes. 颅Alice-Mary, Ruby, nervous little Sammy and the elderly sisters Lily and Daisy (their label at the SPCA had read: 鈥淥ld Gals 鈥� Must Stay Together鈥�).
I entered the dim, original-wood-arched narthex or entrance behind a little boy with two blue budgies. In the plush-red-carpeted interior, glowing with a softly lit warmth and quiet but bustling activity on the polished pews, were rabbits, hamsters, a sleeping hedgehog in a lovely velvet pouch, and well-groomed little dogs with pretty bows above their brows, all amazingly well-behaved.
As we shuffled up the aisle, past the gleaming fishbowls and little rhinestone-颅collared kittens, I know that the regular church members and volunteers who cleaned the place were whispering: 鈥淗ere comes that farmer Anny Scoones with her bunch of dirty hairy mutts鈥� and I cannot deny that this was the case.
I immediately regretted our decision to attend church, but we made it to an empty pew and the dogs lay around my feet. The room was becoming humid with the crowd; the dogs began panting as the minister began his sermon. Then the dogs began shifting 鈥� getting up, lying down, panting harder 鈥� while the minister, in his crisp white, gold-trimmed robes, continued his pontificating (which I was unable to decipher and had nothing to do with animals).
Ruby suddenly vomited. My blood 颅pressure rose from shame and embarrassment. A definite steamy fug had permeated the dear little wooden church.
Finally, I could bear the stress no longer and neither could the dogs 鈥� Lily, I realized, had sullied the carpet in her anxiety 鈥� so we finally, in hurried steps, without making eye contact, departed. Outside, in the sea-tinged mist, in a grove of old maples just beginning to leaf, we joined a huge old unshorn ram who was standing with the patience of Job with great dried balls of dung dangling from his woollen pelt, also waiting to be blessed.
Pioneer Churches of Vancouver Island and the Salish Sea by Liz Bryan (2020, Heritage House) is a lovely descriptive collection, with photographs, of quaint, heritage parishes within our region. Whether you are religious or not, reading about and visiting these enchanting 颅historical little churches from days gone by will delight you.
Words cannot express their charm 鈥� most sit on mossy bluffs, in bluebell woods or among random daffodils in wildflower 颅meadows, or perhaps under a Garry oak canopy overlooking the sea.
One of my favourites, St. Stephens in Saanich, stands in an ancient apple orchard with a vast view of the lush, rolling pastures in the Mount. Newton Valley. St. Stephens is the oldest church in British Columbia still used as a place of worship.
Many contain original stained glass and other relics, including a hand-embroidered collection pouch at Saint Olaf鈥檚, Quatsino (1898), and an original glass communion set at the First United Church in Ladysmith (1888). Heritage architecture is evident as well 鈥� bell casts remain in several.
Forty-five churches are described in this serene little book, including the old stone 1870 Butter Church in Duncan, one of the better-known examples.
One church of special note is St. Pius Catholic Church in Friendly Cove, which is only accessible by boat. Inside is an 颅abundance of spectacular Indigenous art 鈥� beautiful, profound symbolic totems, 颅carvings and stunning memorials.
What I ponder over, and find so admirable, is how the First Nations, despite our colonialism and all our interference, have, with great wisdom, intuition, patience and skill, adapted not to 鈥済o with the flow鈥� of the colonial way of life, but to go within the flow, by maintaining their own traditions while contributing to and enriching our 颅communities.
This was how the famous Cowichan sweater developed (as mentioned in my 颅previous writing), by this extraordinary 颅ability to adapt. It鈥檚 quite a feat and can be witnessed inside the wonderful, albeit remote St. Pius church.
Despite my past fiasco at the blessing of the animals, I find that to visit one of these little pioneer churches, to sit on the lovingly carved pews, to take in the musty fragrance of old wood, candle wax and furniture 颅polish, and to have a little think, is a blessing in itself.
