Keys of the Kingdom
As a child, the Hospital Flower Shop on Bishop Street in Union City, Tennessee, was one of my favorite places on earth. My paternal grandmother - known to her grandchildren as “Mutt” - was the owner and operator of this business, which was situated directly across the street from the county hospital. I never minded the hour-long drive to visit Mutt, because I knew I would get to spend time at the shop.
The enticements of the shop were myriad. The walk-in refrigerator where buckets of carnations and roses and mums were stored was a refreshing summer refuge for grandchildren who had spent the morning climbing the pine trees on the shop’s front lawn.
The floor-to-ceiling shelves were always fascinating to peruse - stocked haphazardly with rolls of ribbons, blocks of floral foam, artificial flowers, packs of floral wire, and assorted containers and vases. If the grandchildren were lucky, we might unearth miniature plastic footballs (for high school homecoming arrangements) or toy plastic telephones (for the infamous “Jesus Called, Janie Answered” funeral sprays).
Upon arrival at the shop, no matter how early we entered through the back door, Mutt would call out, “Go get yourself a Coke, honey!” I always willingly obliged. The Coke machine stationed in the corner near the front window was loaded with 8-ounce glass bottles so cold that your first swallow often included ice chips. We never needed change to activate the machine; the key was always in the lock. Extracting a chilled bottle from one of the slanted rows always fulfilled the advertising jingle “A Coke and a Smile.”
Of all the things I adored about the Hospital Flower Shop, none fascinated me as much as the pegboard on the cinderblock wall near Mutt’s desk. I was mesmerized by the assortment of keys dangling from metal rods jutting out from the pegboard. Each key fit into a lock at a local church, giving my grandmother and her staff easy access to the places where they regularly provided flowers for worship services, weddings, and funerals.
Early each Sunday morning, before Mutt headed to her church to attend Sunday School and worship, she stopped at the shop. After plucking the necessary keys from the pegboard, Mutt loaded the floral arrangements she and her staff had created on Saturday into the back of her station wagon and set off on her Sabbath rounds.
While I often accompanied Mutt when she delivered standing sprays laden with lilies to funeral homes, vases of perky daisies to patients at the hospital, or fragrant bouquets of roses to wedding venues, I never had the chance to be her sidekick on Sunday mornings. How I would have loved to step into those silent sanctuaries!
But not every sanctuary was silent. One Sunday when Mutt turned the key in the lock of the front door of one of Union City’s smaller churches - a place where a step across the threshold deposited you directly into the sanctuary - she heard a voice proclaiming the good news of Jesus in the semi-darkness. Glancing at the pulpit, Mutt realized that the pastor was practicing his sermon while still outfitted in his pajamas. Bowing her head like a penitent sinner preparing to make a public profession of faith, my grandmother walked purposefully down the aisle, quickly positioned the altar flowers on the communion table, and hastily retreated to her car. Meanwhile, the pastor continued to preach, never acknowledging her presence.
Photo by Samantha Lam on Unsplash
I have often wondered why those church keys fascinated me so much as a child. In those days, I had not yet developed the abiding love I now hold for sacred places. I also wasn’t thinking about the keys (as I might now) in terms of a woman’s access or authority in a church.
Perhaps I was simply curious about what mysterious sights might be hidden behind the doors of those churches. I knew enough from assisting my grandmother when she set up candelabras and floral arrangements at weddings that not every church was like the one I attended with my family.
A few years ago while listening to the audiobook of Glennon Doyle’s memoir Untamed, I almost pulled off the road when I heard Doyle quote a paraphrase of Hafiz’s poem “Dropping Keys.” (In the Sufi poet’s original composition, the gender of the key-dropper is male.)
A small woman
Builds cages for everyone
She
Knows.
While the sage,
Who has to duck her head
When the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys all night long
For the
Beautiful
Rowdy
Prisoners.
When I heard those words for the first time, an image of Mutt readily sprang to mind. My grandmother not only possessed keys that granted her access to sacred places in her community, she also dropped keys for others as she loved them lavishly and served them selflessly. She understood that the keys of the kingdom of God are designed to liberate people, not lock them out.
Once upon a time, I was mesmerized by church keys dangling from metal hooks on a pegboard in a flower shop. Once upon a time, I was inspired by my grandmother to become a key-dropper for the kingdom of God.
