SAXTONS RIVER — In the middle of my village's quarter-mile-long Main Street stands an imitation Catholic church - imitation, in my eyes, because its street-facing colored windows are plastic, and, to me, a secular Jew with a passion for architecture, the word “Catholic” has always meant buildings of impressive stability reaching upward toward a heaven whose light shines through their tributary windows.
Narrow-minded and irreverent, perhaps, but I have known many Catholics in the course of my 75 years, and most of them picked and chose their symbols and loyalties from among the rich reservoirs of Catholic culture in ritual, theology, mythology, music, and art, so why shouldn't I?
Contrary-wise, this church's light seems to shine from the basement upward. The formal sanctuary seems nearly abandoned, offering Mass monthly. It is also used for weddings and, more commonly, funerals, the congregation being an aging one.
Most days, there is no attendance whatsoever except in the large, well-lit basement where, three days a week, female members of the congregation hold court over mounds of donated goods, mostly wearables, in a secondhand outlet called “Worn Again.”
There, Alma, the chief matron, is haloed by an aura of good works, as well as by other congregational volunteers, family members or friends, and an occasional boyfriend of a daughter.
Foolish enough to spend half their week sorting through other people's used objects, these regularly attending women exude a tender compassion that proves them familiar with the frailties of the flesh. They raise money, in very small denominations, for charity. It is possible to acquire a new wardrobe for less than $5.
Unofficially, but perhaps even more valuable, is the service they perform as the only place in town.
During the day, anyone who wanders in, regardless of intent to purchase, is warmly welcomed and invited to ramble through the spacious, fluorescent-lit premises.
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I would often walk to the church and Worn Again from my home a mile and a half away, mostly to provide Ray, my Alzheimer's partner, with some camaraderie, leaving him to chat with the matron and her cohorts up front while I would make a desultory perusal of the tables and racks for anywhere from 15 to 45 minutes, depending on the weather and my mood.
Ray would always leave smiling, feeling that he'd been among friends, and I, too, would be rewarded with a new piece of clothing or some domestic supply.
When he began to wander off to town on his own - usually when I was distracted by my summer garden - they would call me if he happened to drop in. As the home of one volunteer faced Main Street, on days when the store was closed, Pauline would also call if she noticed his passing by.
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Ray has since moved on to the next stage of caregiving, but I have been surprised to find that the church still holds an allure for me, though I am more likely to be dropping off remnants of his no-longer-needed clothing or outgrown items from my grandchildren than making a purchase.
Though I am unlikely to linger, I always leave with a satisfying feeling I have been engaged in a meaningful human transaction.
And so I add, to the above list of Catholic virtues, the blessings bestowed by elderly female adherents, whose ticket to heaven is validated by their transferring of used goods, performed with good cheer and an utter disregard for material gain.
Not an imitation after all.