I stayed behind after the service.
Everyone had filed out of the Southern Alameda County Buddhist Church.
I was sitting near the back, looking up at the wooden ceiling, which curved overhead like the hull of an overturned boat.
It was quiet.
I felt strangely at home.
We'd come for a family service with our younger daughter's first basketball team, followed by a meal that the families were helping serve.
I'd been inside many Buddhist temples in Sri Lanka as a child. But this church reminded me of something else.
The altar at the front, the arrangement of the room, even the rhythm of the service brought back the Anglican churches I grew up in.
In Kenya, we went to Children's Church. Kids from all over, many of us from expat families.
Later, in Maryland, we attended Sunday services.
Getting out of bed, dressing for church, and giving up a perfectly good Sunday morning seemed a little unreasonable.
But I liked Sunday school.
Joseph and his coat of many colors. The prodigal son. The loaves and fishes. Water into wine.
That last one has aged rather well.
I remember the stories, but also the refreshments afterward.
The other children, the adults standing around talking, the familiar faces.
I don't remember much of the sermons.
I remember wanting to stay.
For the past six or seven years, our weekends revolved around basketball.
Practices, tournaments, and long drives across California.
We were never entirely sure we'd have enough girls to play. There were always one or two we knew probably wouldn't show up.
I miss some of that now.
The occasional sip of someone's special bourbon in the parking lot after a game.
I especially miss the dinners.
We'd find ourselves around tables in restaurants up and down California.
The girls laughing, sharing food. Parents talking over wine and drinks.
Sometimes about basketball, but more often about everything else going on in our lives.
Our older daughter is moving on, and our younger daughter is beginning her own years of basketball.
Another group of families.
The same church.
Another set of Sunday mornings.
A few days before our visit, I'd opened a bottle of William Saintot's 2018 Champagne.
The Saintot family has been growing grapes in Avenay-Val-d'Or for five generations.
This wine is mostly Pinot Noir, fermented and aged largely in older oak, with almost no dosage.
I wasn't entirely convinced when I first opened it.
Apple cider, a little sherry, ripe fruit, some bitterness. Quite oxidative, though pleasantly so.
I kept wishing for a little more roundness and finish.
I put the stopper back in and returned it to the fridge.
The following day, I was still undecided.
By the third day, I was enjoying it considerably more.
The fruit had become more expressive. Ripe apple, a little spice, herbs, and something faintly waxy.
The acidity was enough to carry it, and the bitterness seemed to fit.
It wasn't suddenly a great Champagne.
But I was glad I'd come back to it.
William Saintot Millésime 2018 Premier Cru Extra Brut · 80% Pinot Noir, 20% Chardonnay · 0.65 g/L dosage · Approximately 4,000 bottles produced.
My mother's cousin, Father Neil, is a priest in Sri Lanka.
On his visits, he would say grace before meals.
Our older daughter occasionally did the same at dinners with her Catholic school basketball team. She wasn't always entirely comfortable being asked.
Our youngest loves joining a toast when we're out for dinner, raising her glass with everyone else.
Back at the church, I sat a little longer beneath that wooden ceiling.
No one was asking me to stay.
Until the next bottle,
Manj
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