Back in the days when I was an Anglican minister and a suburban vicar, there was a woman who decided to use the parish address as her own. Back in those days too, posted mail arrived every day, and so she would visit daily. She had a string of six names on these letters, though I only remember the first two: Genghis Khan.

Genghis and I would frequently sit outside and have a cuppa in the sun. She always began our conversations with an explanatory refrain that she was a giant trapped in a woman’s body. I would talk about the trees we could see and the flowers in the garden next door. She liked gardens. From time to time she would wander into where the Girl Guides grew vegetables, and would borrow the clothes from the scarecrow and adorn herself.

Genghis, as you might expect, was known to the local mental health practitioners but their presence, like hers, was benign. I had no idea of her medical diagnosis or medication, or whether there was any. She just wanted people to accept her. Which, I suppose, is what we all want.

No one at the church seemed to mind calling her Genghis or finding a new boa or old felt hat for the scarecrow. Though sometimes Genghis disappeared for days or even weeks on end, and we’d worry a little. One time I remember Genghis ‘lost it.’ That is, lost control of herself in a way that she later found embarrassing. There was at this church a Sunday 8 a.m. service. Some 40 parishioners would attend. It was a quiet meditative communion, where the minister led in a prescribed style of both words and form that had changed little I suspect since 1856, when the church was founded. The parishioners tended to be older, all sitting in the same place each week, and acknowledging one another with a nod or smile as they silently departed. There was a warm sense of camaraderie.

Maybe Genghis occasionally attended. I can’t remember. What I do remember is the time when she came forward during the service, approached the side table where little decanters (cruets) of wine and water were, and whilst I continued to intone the ‘Shakespearean’ liturgy, uncorked the wine decanter and, holding it above her head, guzzled it. Like I suppose a giant would. At times like these a minister weighs the various options. Does one stop the service, focusing all the attention on the aberrant behaviour, and trying to diffuse any anger or pain that gave rise to it? Or does one mindfully carry on, keeping by voice and actions a peaceful caring tone, while others in the congregation gently intervene and help? Most ministers prefer the latter. But it relies on others to act and support. On that day two people came forward and carefully helped Genghis, standing beside her, dissipating any tension. They helped her too with the wine mess (guzzling tends to splash). Their presence and actions channeled the feelings of that congregation. It was an occasion of grace.

Thinking back now, it was a great compliment paid to the parish that Genghis trusted us to be her address. To be her home.

(Image: Stockcake)

Glynn‍

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