Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

- "Pass Through! Pass Through the Gates!"

- Halloween Party

- God’s Sense of Humor

- Advent

- Seasons of Change

- “Our God is not a God of Chaos” 1Corinthians 14:33

- The Christmas Play

- I’ll Be Home For Christmas

- “Seek and You Will Find” Matthew 7:7

- “The Light Shines in the Darkness” John 1:5

- Epiphany

- “Our Mouths Were Filled With Laughter” Psalm 126:2

- A Long Wait for an Apology

- The Serious Consequences of Words

- Socks, Saints, and Sandwiches

- “Forget The Former Things” Isaiah 43:18

- Lent

- “Vengeance is Mine…Says the Lord” Romans 12:21

- Ash Wednesday

- Holy Week

- Karfreitag

- A Night of Easter

- Holding Onto The Traditions of Men

- Come Back

- Stairway to Heaven

- Pentecost

- Experienced Merchandise Sale

- Secrets of the Soda Shop

- Riding the Storm

- Two Sparrows for a Penny--Matthew 8:29

- “Wisdom Brightens A Face, Changing Its Hard Appearance” Ecclesiastes 8:1

- Acknowledgements

- About the Author

- Discussion Questions for Book Groups

The Stories Of

The Lutheran Ladies Circle:

Plucking One String

Book One

Barb Froman Writing As

Kris Knorr

Lutheran Ladies Circle:

Plucking One String

Book One

Kris Knorr

© 2012 Kris Knorr

Morning West Publishing

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or  mechanical means without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or events is entirely coincidental.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society, Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers

ISBN:  978-1-938531-01-9

Reading the Series in Order

Book One: Plucking One String

Book Two: Through the Knothole

Book Three: Thanks for Leaving

Author’s Note:

You’ll find bonus material in the back because that’s the way Lutheran Ladies do it.

Enjoy.

For women everywhere, who are like me, making mistakes and slow in progress—

We’re still ahead of everyone who isn’t trying—

And we’re not alone.

"Pass Through! Pass Through the Gates!"

PASTOR JIM HENLEY yawned and rubbed both hands over his gray-stubbled crew cut. As he had done every morning, he thanked God for the day and reminded Him that he hated getting out of bed. The sixty-five-year-old clergyman arose, took three steps, and dropped on the floor. He was at the Pearly Gates before his body hit the carpet.

“It was a brain aneurysm,” the medical examiner later explained to Henley’s wife.

Vera Henley quietly snorted and looked away. She knew it was due to his life-diet of pecan pies and peanut butter cookies supplied by a well-meaning flock. The celebration for his 25th year at Shaded Valley Lutheran Church had been a buffet of cardiac sin.

“There’s nothing you could’ve done.” The doctor patted Vera’s shoulder. She arched an eyebrow, suspecting that Lorena Ard’s lard-laden chocolate cake had probably squeezed the final globule of fat into his barricaded arteries. Why would any responsible person serve a cake containing two sticks of butter in the frosting, aptly named Devil’s Food? Divided into 24 squares, Lorena’s cake had probably nudged over two dozen people closer to their graves.

Vera nodded at the medical examiner, skeptical of his diagnosis. After all, he’d only known her husband for a short time—after he was already dead.

Steuben’s Funeral Home responded almost immediately to her call. They took a short detour to wash the hearse and polish the chrome. They downloaded The Top Twenty Lutheran Hits for Hard Times and had it soulfully humming through the vehicle’s speakers before they arrived. They’d worked with Mrs. Vera Henley before.

Pastor Jim may have presided over funerals, but it was Vera who coached everyone, including the undertaker, on the details that exiting this world created. Steuben’s understood that Jesus had burst in and carted her husband off to the heavenly feast, but He’d left Vera, not them, with the earthly arrangements. Without a pause, she herded them as efficiently as she’d attacked everyday life.

Her husband had often teased that God had merely created the world; Vera organized it. Years ago, he’d even given her a small, golden trophy of Atlas shouldering the globe. The plaque on it read.

Happy Retirement, Vera

Manager of the Universe

He’d said it was a visual reminder for her to let go. She’d given him a thin smile and thanked him for the “gift.”

*

Months after the funeral, Vera stared at the empty windowsill. Her coffee pot gurgled, scenting the kitchen with its subliminal wake-up message. Jim had set the trophy in that very window, over the kitchen sink. Vera sighed at the memory. She’d bided a two-week viewing period, then removed the golden monstrosity—to a shelf in the laundry room.

The trophy showed up on the windowsill again.

“Did you haul this back here?” she’d asked, one eyebrow raised. Jim had only smiled.

Next, Vera had hidden it under the bed in the spare room. It reappeared on the sill.

No matter where she stashed it, inevitably, the golden award reappeared.

Jim said he actually enjoyed this game of Hide-the-Atlas. During his searches, he found items stuck in cabinets and top-most shelves that had been missing for years. Faded, orange Oklahoma State University pennants, Cowboy statuettes, and tacky college mementos resurfaced in his office after he found them in Vera’s “out-of-sight-out-of-mind” boxes.

When she’d exhausted all of her hiding places, she dropped Mr. Atlas at Bernie’s Been-Around, Come-Around Thrift Store in their town of Stillwater, Oklahoma.

That proved to be an even bigger mistake. When Pastor Jim couldn’t find the trophy, it became a quest. He recruited parishioners to help in the search. During one scavenger hunt, they discovered his college mug collection hibernating behind the sleds in the garage. He hadn’t seen those old friends since he graduated from seminary more than 40 years ago. Delighted, he brought them back into the kitchen drinking-glass rotation.

When Vera found Budweiser, NASCAR, and OSU mugs intermingled with her matched set of blue Pfaltzgraff dishes, she confessed she’d given Mr. Atlas a one-way ride. Jim had smiled, given her a peck on the cheek, and said he guessed she wasn’t ready to give up her “title” yet.

A burp sputtered from the coffee machine, rousing Vera from her memories. She found herself touching her cheek and staring at the empty windowsill. What was the matter with her? The installation ceremony for the new minister was in a few hours. There was much to do.

She noticed the counter. With a sigh and slow shimmy-shake of her white hair, she snapped off the machine and left the kitchen. Two empty mugs sat next to the coffee pot.

*

At the church, Vera scrutinized the young man standing in front of the congregation in white robes and a red stole. Had it really been four months since Jim had been in that very spot, leading worship? She’d missed her volunteer duties because of the persistent demands of end-of-life details and annoying repairs on their house, which seemed to be trying to join Jim in heaven, piece by piece.

People had been kind. They didn’t seem to mind that she hadn’t been there. Of course, without her oversight, they did a half-finished job of tasks. Like the flowers on the altar. At best, they were skimpy-stemmed specimens that looked like they’d been left over from Jim’s funeral. She made a mental note to speak to the chairwoman of the Altar Guild.

And the incoming clergyman’s choice of music merited another frown. She understood why they’d called such a young man. The congregation was fading into a sea of gray-haired folks ready to travel in their RVs and eager to turn over the reins. This new, young pastor was their solution. He’d pump them up like an energy drink, using his super powers to bring ideas, enthusiasm, and more members. Of course, he’d be impervious to the kryptonite of skepticism and self-righteous old cranks.

Vera gave a judgmental sniff. The congregation was used to an older, more mature person to minister to their needs. There’d be trouble brewing before long. With sixty-five years of wise living—twenty-five of those years at this church—she knew how this congregation worked, their personalities, and how to get projects done. Her skills were needed now more than before. She straightened her shoulders, set her chin like a ship’s rudder changing its bearings, and charted a different path. It was time to leave her sorrow and make sure things ran on course.

When the service ended, the crowd filtered downstairs to the Ladies Circle grand-style celebration in the Fellowship Hall. The coffee was bolt-your-eyes-open strong, and the hunks of cake were sized to cover a plate. Vera pursed her lips, auditing the room. The soiree was free of Devil’s Food cake, so there shouldn’t be any funerals next week. And more serving tables should have been used.

Walt, who had been on the Property Committee since the creation of dirt, gave a nod as he passed her. One of his big hands pinched a crystal cup by its beaded handle. The other hand clutched his personal coffee mug stamped with “Git Yer Own” across it.

“Walt, from the looks of things, I need to resume planning our functions. So, before I forget,” Vera began, “we need to pick a date to set up the Halloween booths.” He paused in mid-stride as though translating the words. Without turning to face Vera, he gave a single shake of his head. “Nope. Sorry you didn’t come to last night’s meeting. There’s no Halloween party this year. That’s one less thing I have—”

“The Ladies Circle always hosts that party. I can get you help in setting it up.” Vera knew Walt and his catch-me-if-you-can ways.

“Not this year.” His confidence leaked from the words like a pricked balloon. Age hadn’t shrunken his body, and though he towered over Vera, he shifted his feet and stared at the little teacup full of pink punch in his left hand.

Vera studied him as he began making his escape. She was surprised that he’d get a drink for anyone other than himself. He’d even combed the few hairs he had on his head. “Nope,” he was saying as he took a half-step. “Not gonna happen.”

Vera pasted on a flat smile. “I’ll talk to the Pastor about it.” She could see Walt eyeing the gap between them.

He inched into the crowd. “Some folks want to change things around here.” He jerked his head toward the new pastor. “He says he supports change.” And with that repulse, Walt made his getaway.

Halloween Party

“THAT’S JUST STUPID.”

“No. It’s the way everyone’s been doing it for some time now.”

The voices from the meeting drifted up the stairwell as Nan, the organist, hurried down the steps. She didn’t really want to come to another meeting, but the Ladies Circle was like an X-rated parable—entertaining. The only trick was learning how to duck the barrage of extra volunteer work.

She pattered into the florescent-lit basement and slid into a seat next to a large woman fussing her jacket over her chair-back. A pan of gooey-frosted brownies was being pushed along the table, from person to person. The women of the Ladies Circle met the first Saturday of every month. Chocolate was always in attendance.

“Then why don’t we do what the public schools do?” Hettie, an elementary schoolteacher, paused her argument to lick frosting from her finger after serving herself a brownie. “Call it a Harvest Festival. The kids still wear costumes, glutting themselves on candy. Politically correct parents will be happy. Dentists will be thrilled. Everybody’s chipper.” With a glance across the table at Kay, she plopped a second brownie onto her napkin.

“I talked with Pastor Poe.” Vera orchestrated the meeting with her upheld pencil. “He felt Halloween parties were primitive.” She stabbed her pencil toward Hettie as the teacher started to interrupt. “You may disagree, but that’s not the point. I’m very familiar with the trials and strains of one’s beginning ministry, so we will be supportive in his efforts at this church. There’s no reason for you to start a rebellion his first week here.” She went back to studying her typed agenda. “Now, in new business—”

“Wait a minute.” Hettie waved the brownie spatula like a kid demanding to be called on. “Why can’t we use my suggestion?”

“There is a pagan root to Halloween. So it’s best not to encourage it to grow to a full blown celebration of all things ghoulish and satanic.” Vera cocked her head and gave her authoritative stare which implied, And that’s that.

“Oh fuds buds.” Hettie eye-balled her right back. Vera’s “stare” didn’t faze her. She faced thirty 4th graders every day.

Round-faced Micki nodded, but no one was sure who she was agreeing with. And that’s just how she intended it. In her thirties, she had a deep concern about everything except her own weight. She was busy serving a brownie to their newest member, Allie. She leaned close to the 28-year-old and spoke like a play-by-play announcer, decoding the deeply ingrained traditions of the Ladies Circle.

“You see, we’ve done this party since Martin Luther was an acolyte.” She added a wink and nudged Allie in the ribs in case the new gal thought Luther was some old codger that attended the early service. Allie returned a cautious smile. “Anyway, the Ladies Circle hosts the Halloween open house and invites all the children in the neighborhood. The games and stations are manned by the high schoolers. Everybody wins candy or junky little plastic toys. It’s a nice outreach into the community.”

“Nobody joined the church.” Vera nodded thanks when Micki served her a brownie. “The same kids have been coming for so long, they’ve had kids. We’re probably hosting the 3rd generation of dental decay. And no one has ever said, ‘Wow. Those Lutherans sure give a great Halloween party. Let’s join that church.’” Vera shoved the pan down the line, leaving Micki staring after it with her napkin empty. “We’ve become the place to take your kids if it’s raining.”

“What’s the matter with being a safe place to take your kids?” Hettie said. “That’s a nice way for people to think about church.”

“Oh sure.” Vera closed her eyes and shook her head. Hettie thought she looked like she was in a death rattle when her straight, white hair jerked back and forth. Unfortunately, she always came out of it and delivered her sermon. “Parents just love for their children to receive candy from black-robed servants of Satan and hideous monsters.” Vera paused letting silence frame her words as she turned to stare at Kay. “And some of last year’s costumes were inappropriate. I’m not just talking about the teenagers’ disguises.”

“A biker chick is not inappropriate.” Kay, a short woman, barely 5 feet tall, had big hazel eyes that hinted they were brimming with secrets. Because she was forty, divorced, with two teenage sons, she had advanced experience in arguing. “Give it up, Vera. Jesus would’ve associated with biker chicks. He was that kind of savior.”

“Yeah, but He wouldn’t have taken candy from any.” Hettie smirked.

Nan, the church organist, nibbled her brownie. Feeling no riptides in the banter, she took a step into the conversation. “I think it was your skull and crossbones tattoos that scared the children. I’m surprised you didn’t hand out candy cigarettes to complete your image.”

“Hey, do they still make those?” Kay’s eyes widened with interest. She glanced around the table, noting that the pan had made the circle, so she kept the container in front of her, breaking off small chunks and eating them.

“Oh good grief. I don’t think a Halloween party makes you a pagan any more than going to church on Christmas Eve makes you a Christian,” Hettie said.

“No, of course not.” Nan stepped into the chatter a little deeper. “Lutherans know you have to go to church at least twice a year: Christmas and Easter.”

“Ladies.” Vera scowled them into silence. The group had gotten worse since she’d been gone. She suspected they’d been saving up, waiting for her return. “We’re moving on to new business.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” Hettie squeaked, her fuzzy hair wiggling as she waved her hand. “Let’s have a wiener roast instead. You know, a bonfire, hot apple cider, maybe s’mores.”

There was a bit of silence while everyone considered this new venture. Vera cleared her throat. “Still pagan. In some countries, people have bonfires to drive away evil spirits.”

“Good grief, Vera, what are you, the Halloween police?” Hettie scowled.

“I thought she was the Jell-O police. Correct size of marshmallows. That sort of thing,” Kay said.

Vera gave both of them a withering look.

Micki pointed to her empty napkin then the brownies. Kay pulled the pan closer to her chest, giving her a smiling snarl.

“Isn’t hell a place where ‘the fire never dies’?” Nan said boldly, tickled at her foray into the verbal volley. “Sounds to me like evil enjoys a good fire.”

“Well, duh. No wonder the bonfires don’t work.” Hettie swatted at Micki as the large woman reached for her stockpile of brownies. Peering at her over the rims of her glasses, she admonished, “You know you have to take what you want before it gets to Kay.”

“The chocolate doesn’t make it past Kay.” Micki translated for Allie, and shook her head when the new member offered her own brownie.

“Do you think it would be okay,” Micki said, “if we had the Halloween party and everyone dressed as a character from the Bible? It would be a positive outreach with outstanding role models. I’ve always admired Esther. She was obedient and generous.”

The silence lasted about five seconds while everyone tried this in their imaginations.

“What’s the difference between how one Bible character looked from another?” Nan said. “We’d all be running around in bathrobes with scarves over our heads. It’d look like the Christmas play.”

“There are sheep in the Christmas play,” corrected Hettie.

“I could be a camel,” offered Allie, “or an animal off Noah’s yacht.”

“And Mary, Jesus’ mother, looked different. She always wore blue,” Hettie said.

Nan wound herself up and jumped into the gush of jabber. “I’ve always thought that was crazy. I know all the paintings have her in a blue dress, but no woman, except Little Orphan Annie, had a wardrobe in only one color.”

“It’s symbolic, like a halo.” Vera sighed as though she were explaining art literacy to a wall.

“I’m dressing as a harlot,” Kay announced. “I’ve still got some skull and crossbones tattoo-stickers left.”

“Then you’ll look like everyone else in bathrobes.” Vera rolled her eyes. “Just don’t wear a scarf. A harlot advertised by leaving her head uncovered and showing off her beautifully braided hair.” The room stilled as heads turned toward Vera. “What?” she asked.

“Harlot-dress-code Police,” whispered Kay, popping a brownie chunk into her mouth.

“How about if we…” started Allie. Eyes switched to the new member. “Instead of celebrating Halloween, we could invite the neighborhood for pumpkin pie around Thanksgiving? Maybe some special music? We could…uh…” She withered into silence, feeling eyes on her.

No one said a word. Cars could be heard passing by outside. The muted chords of someone practicing the piano in another room drifted into the silence.

“So moved,” Kay said.

“Second,” Hettie called. “All in favor?” Ayes sounded before her words faded out. “Oh sorry, Vera, did you want to call the vote?”

The white-haired woman stared around the room. Indeed, the ladies pushed the edges of their usual skylarking. And did she hear a tone of disrespect in their taunts? That needed to change. “Nan.” Vera pointed her pencil. “We’ll be looking forward to the special music you come up with. Maybe handbells and the choir?”

The organist slouched back into her chair silently flogging herself. It was her own fault. This happened every time she opened her mouth at these meetings. She always left with more work.

“Okay. New Business—” Vera began.

“I'm wondering,” Kay said, “in order to adjust my Biker-Chick Code of Ethics, did we ever figure out whether a Halloween party was right or wrong?”

“Anything that motivates you to dress as a harlot can’t be good,” Hettie said.

“So, if I were inspired to be a saint instead of a sinner, we could have a party?”

Micki leaned toward Kay, rapping on the table to draw her full attention. “I think if we were trying to be saints, we’d give kids: schools, health, safety, and hope instead of luring them to God with candy.”

Kay smiled and pushed the pan of brownies toward her.

Vera’s mouth tightened. She couldn’t even get to the first item on her agenda. This had to end.

God’s Sense of Humor

“IS EVERYTHING READY for the Autumnal Feast?” Lorena paced the narthex.

The old property manager watched her tug at her jacket. It was hard to hide thirty extra pounds, even if she tried to squeeze it under a coordinated suit. He was wary of her perfect blonde hairdo and manicured hands. To him they screamed, “I can think of a lot of chores for you to do!” He nodded and began inching away, relying on The Rules to save him.

The 60+year-old volunteer custodian was at least a foot taller than most women, but felt like a sullen teenager when he had to deal with them, which was often. The church widows kept poking into his life. After cancer had claimed his wife, he’d discovered he could take care of himself middlin’ well. His chosen uniform, a flannel shirt and carpenter jeans—usually the same pair for a week—saved laundry chores. He didn’t need much. Mostly, he enjoyed the silence.

Everything Walt knew about women, he’d learned on the Property Committee. He’d discovered that you had to be careful around these ladies. Rule Number #1: Complain about everything. If you didn’t gripe that all tasks were a royal pain, they’d have you repainting the Sunday school rooms and re-caulking toilets just because there was a wedding, or a sing along, or Betty Lou had a whim for the color ecru.

“Oh, Walt!” A perfect, toothy-smile appeared on Lorena’s fifty-trying-to-be forty-face. “Could you change the marquee?”

He stood round-shouldered and solemn-faced, looking at her. Rule #2: Never give ’em too much information.

“Please?” she urged. “I’d like for it to read:

Take an Autumn Walk with God

Nov 25    7 PM”

He recognized the sticky tone in her honeyed voice and gruffed, “I’ve already got a literary work posted. Nobel prize stuff:

Thanksgiving service.

7 PM”

He shuffled toward his tool pantry. Rule #3: Try to get away as quickly as possible.

Lorena followed, crowding him into a retreat inside his closet of ladders, wrenches, and extension cords. “It needs to look more special,” she said. “The other Lutherans are coming to celebrate.”

“Huh?” Walt mumbled, rubbing the back of his bald head. Stillwater’s other Lutheran church was full of Missouri Synod belief which differed from Evangelical Lutheran doctrine. Most members couldn’t name the differences, but they knew they were big sticking points because the two groups rarely worshiped together. “I thought we were only doing this for the neighborhood.”

“Yes, it started out that way but grew. Now I have to decorate for everyone. Could you change the marquee?”

He squinted one eye at her. “Vera’s in charge. You’re not even on the committee.”

“Brynn and I are the Sanctuary Arts Team. We’re willing to help if we don’t have to go to meetings, and we don’t need Vera’s permission for everything. C’mon, Walt, The Episcopals and Methodists are coming too.”

“Oh that’s different.” His big hand held out the box of plastic letters. “You’d better change it.”

“We need to dress up for the Autumnal Feast. Just like you do when company visits your house.”

“Wouldn’t know about that.” He shook the box back and forth, rattling the letters at her. She turned and began rearranging the harvest display.

Hettie caught the end of their conversation as she lugged a bucket of flowers to the Fellowship Hall. “It’s a Thanksgiving service, Lorena. ‘Autumnal’ is a scary word. It sounds like something requiring a stomach sedative and a bed rest.” She winked at Walt as he made his getaway. “And Vera spent a lot of time on that fall arrangement; what’re you doing to it?”

“It needs a dash of color right here, that’s all.”

*

“Lorena’s up there redoing the Thanksgiving display.” Hettie thudded the flower bucket onto the counter.

“What could she do to it? Rearrange the nuts?” Brynn shrugged. Her long, dark braid swung back and forth as she pulled vases from the box on the floor.

“Look, you know how Vera is hung up with boundaries?” Hettie said then waved the thought away as an understatement. “She’s getting worse. At the last Ladies Circle, she was actually glowering at us. She needs to take a break.”

Brynn shoved the box back into the closet with her foot. “She’s casting around for her position—her identity—since her husband’s gone. Nudging her out might make it worse.”

“All right, Miss Social Worker, you’d better see if you can get Lorena to stop messing with Vera’s display, or we’ll feel the repercussions of more lost identity.”

“You’re a teacher; treat it like you would in your classroom—redirect her.”

Hettie went to the stairway and yelled, “Lorena, we desperately need you down here. Help us set up tables.” The two women grinned at each other when the full-figured blonde appeared in a few minutes.

“You know how I like to put the finishing touches on things,” Lorena said. “Vera’s display needed a splish of color. I added a little wow.”

Hettie rolled her eyes. “Please, could you let Vera be in charge? We volunteered to do the kitchen work.”

“What would Jesus do since she’s not here?” Lorena sing-songed as she ducked into the kitchen.

“I think He’d zap her,” Hettie mumbled.

“Hettie!” Brynn grinned. “Jesus never zapped anybody.”

“Couldn’t you just see her at the last supper? ‘None of these plates match. We only have one cup for the wine? Who made this bread?’”

Lorena stuck her head out the kitchen door, eyeballing Hettie into silence. “Where are the pies?”

“People will bring them when they come.” Brynn floated a round, orange table cloth onto a table. Hettie followed her, centering a vase stuffed with sunflowers and sweet-smelling eucalyptus on the tabletop. “Come help us.”

“We need to slice and plate the pies before the service.” Lorena patted her lips, studying the kitchen. “I’ll make the coffee so it’s not so strong that the lame get up and dance after a sip. I’m afraid you two are going to have to skip church and stay down here and cut pies.”

“I know what Jesus would do in this situation,” Hettie sing-songed.

“What?” Lorena yelled over the sound of water pouring into the 20-cup coffee urn.

“This is like the Bible story where whiny Martha bellyaches about preparing supper. And Jesus tells her that it’s more important to trot upstairs and be fed from His word, than to stay downstairs and cut pies.” There was no reply from the kitchen.

The first dessert arrived before Vera did. “Doesn’t that seem weird?” Lorena said, tugging her jacket over the strained waistband of her pants. “She’s been queen bee-ing every function as long as I’ve been here. Either she’s ill or the world is spinning backward.” With a grin, she took over, stationing herself at the kitchen door. She greeted pie bearers with compliments and gracious smiles, sliding their pastries across the counter. Apple crisps, cherry almond tarts, blueberry cheesecakes, and even chocolate custard doodled with caramel paraded into the pass-through window so Brynn and Hettie could slice them.

The deep aroma of coffee wafted around the room. Hettie had finished whipping the cream in a chilled bowl when the muted sounds of the hand bells traveled through the walls and floorboards.

“Oh, it’s the prelude,” Lorena exclaimed and disappeared up the stairs. In a minute she came hurrying back down. “I met Vera in the narthex with her pie. It’s still warm,” she said, rushing it to the pass-through.

Her quick release dropped the dish on its side. The contents catapulted onto the counter with a juicy plop.

Lorena froze. The chimes of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” rang out. All three women edged toward the pie as though it were a corpse.

“Vera’s Secret-Pumpkin-Delight.” Lorena grimaced.

“We just won’t serve it.” Hettie shrugged.

“No, no, no. You can’t throw it out.” Lorena grabbed Hettie’s arm. “Can you imagine what would happen if word got around that we ask people to bring desserts then serve some and throw others out? Oh no! We’d never get anyone to trust us with their baked goods again. We’d have to drive that pie five miles away in order to hide it a garbage can where no member would find it. Maybe a porn shop’s trash can.”

The pie had fallen upside down on the counter with the plate landing on top of it. Half of the orange custard was in the broken crust, half out. “We’ll confess,” Hettie said, “that you massacred her pie.”

“This took all afternoon for her to make. That’s why she was late. You should’ve seen her face when she gave it to me. You’d have thought she’d just given birth.”

Brynn rolled her eyes.

“Well, we’ll do what Jesus would’ve done.” Hettie gave Lorena a dry stare as she pulled a pancake turner out of a drawer. “We’ll serve ourselves this mess.” She scooped up pieces and splatted it into the pie dish.

*

It was fortunate the organ and congregation began the first stanza of “Now Thank We All Our God” at the exact moment the ladies came upstairs into the narthex; otherwise, the congregation and guests would have heard Lorena squealing, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Who did this?”

A faint smile curled across Brynn’s mouth. “It was Roger,” she said. “He called earlier and said he was bringing a pumpkin.”

The elephantine specimen was three feet tall. It had taken several grown men and a wagon to lug it into the church. Rather than have it huddle in the corner, Roger had dumped the contents of the big cornucopia and wiggled the butt end of the pumpkin into it, like a baby’s sock on a basketball.

“What does he think this is? The county fair? I can’t believe all those people saw this and think this is how we decorate for them.” Lorena’s acid stare burned into the display.

“Let Vera know it was fine when you changed her hard work—before Roger changed it.” Hettie winked as she stepped into the sanctuary.

*

With the ending notes of the service, Vera judged the event as a joyful accident. Somehow it had all come together while she was at home with her unfaithful water pipes, which had begun breaking at every opportunity in order to have a tryst with the plumber.

She hadn’t had time to twist any ears over wrecking her display, but it could wait. For now, the pews had been full. Children were home from college. Many of the “other” Lutherans had attended. Even the Episcopalians and Methodists had a good showing. Perhaps this neighborhood outreach was more successful than a Halloween party. Even Walt seemed full of rare friendliness as she watched him usher a herd of unfamiliar faces down the stairs toward the pie social. She waved. He replied with a chin tuck.

Walt had treated the occasion as “spiffy” by wearing a pressed, blue shirt. When he arrived at the kitchen counter, his eyebrows shot up as he surveyed the plate he was handed. “What the heck is this?”

“Oh, shut up. It’s your piece of pie.” Lorena’s earlier hospitality had evaporated. She plopped whipped cream on top of it, scanning the crowd for Vera.

“It looks like it’s already been eaten and spit back out,” he said.

“Just help us out. We had an accident. We gave you a really big piece.” She gobbed more whipped cream on top.

“I already helped you. I changed the marquee like you asked.” He nodded.

Lorena patted his arm. “See, Walt, look at all the new people your sign brought to our service tonight.”

“You’re right.” He winked. “It pays to advertise.”

Behind him, Roger got the same treatment on an even bigger ball of pie. Lorena put so much whipped cream on his goo-and-crust combo, it appeared he was carrying a plate of foam.

“I don’t know if I can eat that much,” he said, eyeing his serving.

“Oh, I know you like big things.” Lorena scowled. “Anyone who’d bring that King-Kong pumpkin to church must’ve worked up an appetite.”

“I wanted to give my biggest and best to God.” Roger offered an innocent smile. Brynn, manning the dishwasher, gave him a thumbs-up.

For most of the evening, tension bounced around the kitchen as they waited for Vera’s discovery of the pie-wreckage. Lorena cut out early, saying a hurried good-bye after everyone was served, leaving Brynn and Hettie to clean up and lock the doors.

“I told Vera we’d served all of her Pumpkin Delight.” Hettie dug through her purse for her keys. “It was weird; she didn’t say a word. I think she’s sick.”

“The church she knows is fading away. Some confusing new creature is taking its place.” Brynn paused next to her car. “Hymns have morphed to Christian rock. Sermons are available anytime on podcasts, not just Sundays. You can stay at home and go to a meeting via streaming video. It’s frightening. She’s losing the history that molded her faith. The same foreboding happened to my Norwegian parents when they no longer could find a church service in the old tongue.”

Hettie unlocked her cars doors. “Someday Vera’ll go off like an asteroid hitting a nuclear plant. No telling what’ll happen to this place.”

“Until then, we’ve got God’s sense of humor and Walt’s bald-faced honesty.” Brynn pointed to the church marquee.

FREE PIE

Walk-ins Welcome

7 PM

Advent

“LADIES, I TRIED to avert this disaster, but it seems my knowledge of our history isn’t useful or needed.” Vera sniffed as she tapped her pencil against the agenda and scanned the women. The conversations around the table at the Ladies Circle faded or paused. The meeting should have started ten minutes ago, but the chocolate hadn’t arrived yet.

“What disaster?” asked Hettie as she carried a coffee pot from the kitchen. She locked eyes with the older woman as she sat with a heavy plop. She shouldn’t enjoy the way Vera’s mouth turned down when challenged, but the dynamics were one of the interesting things about these meetings. She felt a bit guilty about poking Vera’s sore spots, but in the past when Vera’s husband, the pastor, was alive, there hadn’t been any chance of influencing a discussion. Now, after a bit of nudging, a few fractures were appearing in Vera’s decisions. Unheard of.

“This is what happens when a church calls someone right out of seminary.” Vera didn’t bother to hide the I-told-you-so in her voice. She’d voted against calling Poe Muldoon for their pastorate. He was a sincere minister, but Shaded Valley Lutheran needed a leader whose theology had been seasoned by cranky parishioners and pushy liberals. “These untested pastors get many of their ideas from internet forums and sensitivity groups.” She shook her head.

Nan had seated herself at the corner of the table, far away from Vera. Her latest defensive weapon rested in her lap: a wad of yarn and a pair of needles. Busy hands would keep her mouth shut. No one paid attention to a woman knitting and minding her own business. She could watch the action without becoming collateral damage.

“This year, the pastor and the Worship Committee have decided that Advent has become overshadowed and overlooked.” Vera straightened her already erect spine a bit more, lifted her chin, and paused, letting the silence build. With warning in her voice, she announced, “We can’t decorate or put up a Christmas tree until Advent is over.”

Kay ruined the dramatic moment by shooshing across the floor, still in her bedroom slippers. She slid a plate of chocolate-oatmeal cookies in front of Micki, sat down, and laid her head on her folded arms on the table. Her face had crease lines from the pillow that had been piled under her nose until a few minutes before this Saturday morning meeting.

“Why’d you even bother coming?” curly-haired Micki asked.

“Cookie K.P,” she mumbled, shooing a hand at the plate of treats being passed around.

Nan bit her lip. Her heart changed to a samba-beat of worry. Her knitting needles clicked a quick tempo as they birthed a mitten. As church organist, she planned for events. She understood what Vera was trying to tell them. With a grip on her needles, she pulled her lips tight against her teeth. She wasn’t going to say a word. Nope. Let someone else get picked for more work.

“As I was saying,” Vera raised her voice, “if we wait the entire four weeks for Advent before allowing Christmas into the sanctuary, we’ll be doing four weeks of decorating in four days.”

Silence descended upon the table, as though someone had taken the Lord’s name in vain.

“Now, wait just a minute.” Hettie scowled. “I teach. I can’t decorate 24 windows in four days.” Her plump cheeks and curly-clown hair ruined her attempt to glare. Nan let out the breath she’d been holding and gave Hettie an encouraging nod.

“Psshaw.” Kay propped an elbow on the table, leaning her cheek against her knuckles. “I do everything a few days before Christmas. As matter of fact, last year I did all my shopping on Christmas Eve. There were great sales.”

“Yeah, we know how you decorate,” Hettie said flatly.

Kay simply raised both eyebrows twice and smiled.

“Advent has always been the Cinderella step-child to Christmas,” Hettie said. “What spiritual experience are we supposed to get out of this besides inconvenience?”

Nan nodded like a bobble-head doll. Surely non-verbal support didn’t count as volunteering for anything, but to be sure, she didn’t look at Vera.

“I had a long discussion with both the pastor and the head of the Worship Committee,” Vera said. “They felt Christmas would be more meaningful if we waited. I can understand where they’re coming from.” Vera’s voice was calm and slow. She even added a sympathetic smile. Now that others were indignant, she didn’t have to be. She could urge support of the silly idea and smile graciously when it failed. She was flexible that way. “Everyone starts Christmas as soon as Wal-Mart has sold enough Halloween masks to make room for tree ornaments. So we are going to wait on Christmas. That’s what ‘Advent’ means: waiting.”

Hettie rubbed her forehead, gazing upward. “No…I’m pretty sure it means coming. It’s been about a hundred years since I was in Confirmation classes, but my two functioning brain cells remember that.”

“Wasn’t Moses in your Confirmation class?” Kay asked.

“Why, yes.” Hettie gave Kay a measured look. “That’s why the word is so clear to me. We saw Moses coming down from Mt. Sinai carrying our Catechism book. We didn’t have all those creeds and policies to memorize like there are now days—just ten commandments. Unfortunately, we had too much idle time. Started dancing. Making golden calves and whatnot.”

“That’s exactly the point.” Vera tapped the table with her pencil. “Advent is about what you do while you’re waiting.”

“I hate waiting.” Hettie scrunched her face up, making her glasses slide down her nose.

Micki’s eyes widened with concern. “Oh Vera…have you told the Sanctuary Arts Team? Lorena’s eyes will spin in her head when she hears this.”

Nan lay her knitting in her lap. She loved the passion of these meetings. It was the stuff You Tube videos were made of. “You need to light a fire under her, Vera,” she said. “That Team still hasn’t removed the Thanksgiving display.”

“Don’t worry about it, Nan. That’s my job. In the meantime,” Vera pointed her pencil, “you need to organize the children’s Christmas play.”

Nan winced.

*

“Roger, this is Vera calling. I wanted to thank you for bringing in one of your prize pumpkins for the fall display.”

Always start off with a compliment. She’d learned the sandwich method of criticism at the first church Jim had been called to serve. The pianist had played every hymn to the tempo of Streets of Laredo, the western song of 1924. Slow and loopy. Jim had asked the musician to pick up the beat, but the same swoopy melody came through, as though she could only read four notes before pausing to decipher four more.

Vera had also talked to the woman—just to make her husband’s words clearer. She’d carefully wrapped her hidden criticism with compliments. Strangely, the good parts were the only thing the pianist chose to hear. Afterward when anyone complained, the musician claimed, “The pastor’s wife likes my playing.” Since then, Vera had learned to sharpen her words.

“Thanks,” Roger said. “I was pleased to do it. I saved the biggest pumpkin I had for the church. It weighed 100 pounds. The kids carved a bunch of ’em for Halloween. Our littlest guy was able to crawl inside after they hollowed ’em out. He sat outside all night, jumping from the pumpkin and scaring Trick-or-Treaters away from the door. He was pretty slimy by bedtime.”

“Oh my. Well, visitors certainly noticed your big pumpkin here. But in the future, Roger, I’d appreciate it if you’d simply give it to me, rather than tearing apart my display. I spent quite a bit of time creating the arrangement.”

“I’ll grow a bigger one for you next year. It’ll be huge.”

Vera paused, replaying his words. Men liked to miss the point of a conversation. She mentally recast her message, amping up the disapproval, but Roger was talking again.

“And I’m guessing that it’ll make at least 30 pies.”

“Wait. What are you saying? I called to ask you to come get it.”

“No. Keep it. You women are always begging for pies for this or that affair.”

“Roger, I made pumpkin pies from scratch once, and that experience was enough to last a lifetime. They tasted exactly like the canned filling you buy at the grocery store. It was so much work, I vowed I’d gladly pay Mr. Libbey or Mr. Dole to do it for me.”

“It was a gift, Vera. My gift to God. I gave my biggest and my best. I sure haven’t had anybody call and ask me to come get the gift I threw in the collection plate. Keep it. God’ll use it.” He hung up.

Vera stared at the receiver in her hand. Since Jim had died, she was trying to be bendable. Truly she was, but other people weren’t. Life had been a lot easier when she hit them between the eyes with the bare-naked truth.

Seasons of Change

LORENA HEAVED THE green totes from the spare bedroom closet and dragged them in a predetermined order into her living room. She opened the top of the first carton to reveal red ceramic dinner plates dotted with white snowflakes. She’d used these every Christmas for the last twenty years. It was comforting to have traditions. Why did people feel they had to change things?

Tapping the plate against her palm, she gazed at the unadorned, artificial tree in the front room. She wished it would break or fall apart, so she could get one of those new ones that had lights she’d never have to remove.

She scanned the itemized labels on each tote. Popping the top on the “Lights” box, she pulled out three strings of miniature twinklers, each neatly wound around a cardboard frame. One string had a note attached to it: “Flashes quickly-Start with this one.” She began weaving it through the fake branches.

It always made her think about Ralph, her ex. Every year of their marriage, she’d nagged him for several weeks to accompany her to the tree lot. After they’d hauled the perfect tree home, he’d lay under it, cussing, batting the lower branches, and turning the screws in the base as she directed him.

“A little to the left. No! That’s too much. Now back right. No! Back left.” Inevitably he’d give up, flogging the project with unholy words, and Lorena ended up turning the tree so its tilt wasn’t noticeable from the entryway.

After one evergreen bout, she pleaded with him to help put on the lights, a job she hated because she was too short to reach the top branches. It took him approximately three minutes to stuff the strings around the tree. He hadn’t exactly thrown them on, but green cords looped in the air from the branches, and most of the lights were bunched in the middle.

I didn’t say a word, not a word. She had smiled sweetly, thanked him for helping, then redid them the next day before he came home from work. It was only years later, she suspected that he’d done such a shoddy job so she’d never ask him to do it again. And darn if it hadn’t worked.

Lorena moved her step-stool methodically around her man-made tree, placing lights deep between the limbs and then connecting string #2, “Slow Flasher.” She hung a crocheted lace angel at the end of string #3, so she’d know exactly where the end was when it was time to disassemble.

As she placed the boxes of matched ornaments on the coffee table, she admired their color scheme and polished look. Ralph always wanted a “grade-school-tree” with a motley collection of ornaments, big multi-colored light bulbs—the kind people used in the 50s—and lots and lots of tinfoil icicles dangling from every branch.

He never wanted to decorate the tree, but he always had opinions about how it should look. Lorena frowned, thinking of the one year she’d told him that if he wanted icicles on the tree, he’d have to do it himself, and she left the package on the kitchen counter. The next morning she saw the foil strands wadded in one spot like a metallic bird’s nest. Ralph had said that he didn’t have time to separate and hang each little thread over every limb. He’d grabbed them out of the package and thrown them from the doorway.

“It was the most fun I ever had decorating a tree,” he laughed.

But I fixed it. Who could stand looking at such a mess? And I never bought icicles again. He could just do without.

Since the divorce, she had the tree she’d always wanted: petite purple hearts, lace ribbons, fine filigree gold balls, and pearl garland. She plugged in the evergreen-scented air freshener that was packed with the decorations. As she sorted through the rest of the tote, she saw the cardboard shoe box. She plopped heavily into her mauve Mission chair and stared. Every year she had to deal with that box.

Santa, the reindeer, and something that could be elves or cookies stared back at her from the box’s cardboard sides: crayon drawings her son had done years ago. The lid’s corners were broken, and the top slid off when she picked it up.

A green globe with “Cozumel, Mexico” painted in fiery colors lay in the center of the collection. Ho! Ralph did not want to go on that trip.

He’d grumped, “I didn’t leave anything in Mexico, so I don’t have a reason to go back.”

They hadn’t been married long at that point, and back then, she’d had more determination to fight for what she wanted. “Because I’m in the early stages of pregnancy, this might be the last trip I get to take for a while, so we’re going,” she’d demanded. They’d had a good time too. It took Ralph several days and a bucket of margaritas to stop grousing, but by the week’s end, he’d agreed that it was good to get away.

She lifted the tiny model of Cinderella’s castle. She didn’t know who’d been more excited about going to Disneyland: herself or their son. Even Ralph had enjoyed the trip although he’d complained about traffic, smog, and too many people.

There was a tiny pair of lederhosen. Ralph had fun on that trip. Probably because it was his idea. He’d heard about a town in northern Washington called Leavenworth which had fallen on hard times, so the city fathers rebuilt the whole place into a German village. It was one of the few times Ralph had voluntarily pried himself from work. “Because,” he said, “this will be a lot cheaper than going to Germany.” He strolled through the streets eating sausages and drinking beer. He even danced the polka with her. It was only the second time in her life Lorena could remember him dancing.

Memories flashed in front of her as she handled the remaining trinkets in the box. How could someone live with you for twenty years, and then one day come home and announce that he was moving to the high desert of eastern Oregon?

She’d thought he was setting her up for a joke, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He had decided to sell their house, buy a trailer, and park it on 40 dusty acres. He was tired of neighbors, tired of traffic, and tired of people. If Lorena wanted to come with him, she could. If not, then she’d have to find someplace else to live.

She’d tried to find the reason for this seemingly sudden decision, tried to talk to him, even pleaded, but he wouldn’t be swayed. When it dawned on her that he’d made this choice about their future without even considering her opinion, she realized her status in their marriage. He hadn’t suddenly changed; she had been blind to it all along. She’d been so busy working, child-rearing, and making their home special that she had accommodated Ralph at his every uncooperative turn.

Being single at fifty, she moved home, to Oklahoma, where she’d been born. She hadn’t made it in time to be with her father, but her mother was still there. She’d bought a house and planted what she wanted in the yard. She’d painted every wall a different color, and changed it whenever she liked. Best of all, she didn’t have to get permission from anyone.

The last she’d heard, Ralph was barbecuing out on his acreage, pleased that he didn’t have to pay for water or electricity and could sit in a lawn chair and shoot coyotes and gophers. She hoped that he was bored out of his mind. Her life was full. Well, Sunday afternoons were lonely. Vera had told her she couldn’t start stringing garland around the church. That’s why she was decorating the tree today, to kill a Sunday afternoon.

She blinked. Multi-colored Christmas lights had switched on at the house across the street. When had night fallen? How long had she been sitting there? The tiny leather lederhosen still lay in her palm. Carefully, she put them in the box and replaced the lid. An unconscious sigh escaped as she worked the carton to the bottom of the storage tub. Maybe next year she’d be ready to get rid of these ornaments.

The house was silent. Every room was dark. She should turn on a light. She should put on some Christmas music.

She sat, staring at the silhouette of the tree and wondering who would see it if she bothered to decorate.

“Our God is not a God of Chaos” 1Corinthians 14:33

“COULD YOU USE some help?” Allie, the newest member of the Ladies Circle, shrugged off her coat as Micki wired evergreen branches onto a circular candelabrum.

“Always.” Sweet-faced Micki beamed her ever-accepting smile. “This is a sticky job, though.”

“Better than sticky kids. They were driving me crazy. I had to escape.”

“How old are they?” Micki picked up two branches of greenery.

“Johnny’s five. Bette’s three.”

“Mine’s a teenager, and she’s still driving me nuts. Here, hold the branches and I’ll wire them on the wreath.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to decorate until after Advent.”

“This isn’t a decoration. It’s a calendar.”

“Looks Christmasey to me.” Allie shook her head. “I feel like the new kid in school. I go to those meetings and sense deep history between all of you. I’d like to know some of the women better, but I don’t want to nose into their lives. I don’t even ask questions at the meeting. Half the time, I don’t know what the Ladies Circle is discussing.”

“I’m sorry.” Micki’s face crumpled into the sympathetic pout she used when someone dropped their ice cream cone. “I’ll try to help you more. The women are a pretty easy bunch to get to know. Volunteer to work on a project with someone. After a bit, you’ll learn everyone’s story, probably more than you want to know.” Micki’s pudgy fingers pulled on the wire. “Would you hand me another branch? Get some of that cedar.” She pointed at blue-green needles. “When you’re born into a Lutheran family, it becomes part of you, like having a quirky aunt who speaks Esperanto. You just pick it up. What don’t you understand?” Micki didn’t say anything when Allie chose a skinny fir twig and held it in place.

“Why can you put this wreath-calendar-thingy behind this fence? I thought we couldn’t decorate.”

“First, girlfriend, you’ll be thrilled to learn that every part of the church has a name.” Micki’s high-pitched little-girl voice sounded strange coming from her rather round body, She appeared even more volleyball-like when she stood next to her fence-post husband. Her dark, flowing curls and eternal smile gave her a Shirley Temple nuance. If you were lost and scanned the crowd looking for someone who’d help you, you’d choose Micki every time—and a lot of people did.

She smiled her patient-look. “This is the chancel; the area surrounding the table. Did you know the altar represents a table?” Allie shook her head. “Well, some early churches—Roman Catholics—” she emphasized the words, giving Allie a measured look to let her know Lutherans didn’t start the practice but accepted the symbolism, “used the lid of martyrs’ tombs as their communion table. That’s why most altars—tables—look like tombs. That ‘other’ Lutheran church in town, St. John’s, is all modern. Their altar looks like the pod they buried Spock in.”

Allie stared at the granite block altar, trying to remember Star Trek movies. Her long discussions with her husband about joining a church hadn’t included this weird stuff. They simply wanted to raise their children with some kind of religious affiliation. They’d “test driven” ten churches in town, dissecting them afterward, during Sunday brunches. They’d decided to attend adult instruction classes at Shaded Valley to learn what the church believed. Strangely, they’d both liked the antiquity and symbols in the Lutheran church. They’d found the same old, solid symbols in cathedrals, but they’d discovered the Roman Catholics had more rules.

The tipping point came at the annual Camp-Out/Eat-Out. “A church that incorporates beer and barbeque into their meetings is the place for me,” Fred had declared. So they became Lutherans.

“Are you confused by my profound religious analysis?” Micki asked.

Allie shook away her thoughts. “What?”

“The altar’s symbolic.”

“I can understand that.”

“And I already told you this is the chancel,” Micki continued. “You can tell it’s special because it’s usually separated in most churches by a railing, or screen. In Jesus’ time, they used a thick, heavy curtain to keep the holy men from the sinners. I often wondered if they had little peep holes in it. You know, so they could sneak a peek and see who was doing penance. It’s hard to resist looking out from behind a curtain. Well, it is for me.”

“So why isn’t there a curtain, here—with holes, of course?”

“You’ve probably heard that the curtain in the temple ripped apart when Jesus died?” Micki said.

Allie frowned.

“Well, it means that now, we sinner-saints have direct access to God. We don’t need any holier-than-thou person to go behind the curtain and ask forgiveness for us or to kill livestock and offer it for our sins.”

“Oh, yeah…animal sacrifice,” Allie said. “I’d like to learn more about that.”

“Why? Do you have some animals that need killing?”

Allie gave her a disbelieving stare.

“I told you; we don’t do that anymore.” Micki grinned. “I’m not making this stuff up. Do you want me to continue?”

“Is there more violence?”

“I’ll try to keep it PG. Now, that part is the nave.” Micki pointed toward the pews with her elbow because her fingers were grabbing the wreath. “And outside the doors, that’s called the narthex. The terms come from old words meaning ‘ship.’ Most Lutheran churches are designed like an ark, only upside down. Lie in one of those pews and look up. You’ll think you’re in the belly of a big boat carrying you to safety. I don’t know about that modernistic St. John’s though. They must’ve designed it from a Klingon Warship.”

“Do you often lie in pews?” Allie asked.

“I’ve spent a fair amount of time prone in a pew. You should try it. Go on. Try out the front row.” She added a few more sprigs of blue cedar to the wreath for color and scent then clipped the wire.

Allie lay in the pew, her hands crossed over her chest, staring upward. “The ceiling looks like a wash basin to me.”

“Good grief, dear. Are you ill?” Vera asked, leaning over Allie.

“Uh…no.” She quickly stood up. “I didn’t hear anyone come in. Micki said she lay in pews a lot. So I thought—”

“I’m sure she did,” Vera said dryly, “when she was four years old.”

“Yep. That was about the time they made me give it up.” Micki shot Allie a whimsical grin, “I was supposed to sit up and pretend to listen after that.”

“Here are your Advent candles.” Vera released a heavy box into Allie’s hands. “Please put them in the right order,” she called over her shoulder as she left.

“How embarrassing,” Allie mumbled. “She thinks I’m an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t give it too much concern. At one time or another, Vera thinks everyone is short a brain cell or two.”

“Why do people let her run everything?”

Micki sighed, staring at the door. “Gospel truth?” She turned her stare on Allie. “We’re lazy. As the pastor’s wife, she made sure things got done, and we let her. Now people are getting tired of it. New members want to try new things. Now that her husband is gone, there’s an uprising for change. For me, it’s easier to live with Vera’s attitude than take over her duties.”

“She’s seems pretty inflexible. An order to the candles? That’s a bit much,” Allie said.

“Oh, that’s not Vera. There’s an order to everything here. A progression through seasons and worship. Everything you see in this sanctuary has a purpose. All of this is supposed to help you be still. Help you restore the order meant to be in your life.”

“My life is not in order. It’s full of screaming children and dirty laundry.”

“That’s why people come to a sanctuary. Seeking peace. Looking for answers. They come here, or a cemetery.”

“I’ve done that. I’ve gone to a graveyard. It was quiet. Eternal.” Allie lightly stroked the candles.

“Well, I prefer the sanctuary. Less heat and bugs,” Micki said. “Hand me the purple candle with a crown on it.”

“Would the roof fall in if you used the wrong candle?”

“It would’ve been noticed in ancient days. That’s why this isn’t a Christmas decoration; it’s a time keeper. Only the priests could read in the early church, and the peasants didn’t have iphones. Lighting a candle on each of the four Sundays of Advent told the story of Christ’s birth and prepped the peons. If some poor soul was going to receive an extra crust of bread for the holidays, all he had to do was look at the candles and see how long he had to wait.” Micki stuck it into a holder on the wreath and wiggled it, checking its stability.

The Prophet’s Candle is first; it foretells a King is coming. Second Week, the Bethlehem Candle. Third Week, the Shepherd’s Candle. No, it’s the pink one with a little sheep on it.”

“Why?”

“Joy. The shepherds were the first men to visit Jesus. It’s a Sunday to rejoice. There’s a story with every candle. You’ll hear them. Now give me the last purple one, representing the angels’ announcement. When this last Advent candle was lit in those dark, old cathedrals, the peasants knew the wait for the coming King was almost over.”

“Sounds apocalyptic,” said Allie.

“It was, but traditions change. Look at Martin Luther; he translated the Bible into German, rewrote hymns using beer drinking songs and got kicked out of the Roman Catholic Church. Things change.”

“When do we light this?” Allie waggled a long white candle.

Micki took it and fitted the slender taper into the uppermost ring of the candelabra. Shrill screams came from the narthex.

“No! I don’t want to! I DON’T WANT TO!” pulsed into louder and louder yells accompanied with something beating the floor.

Micki and Allie gave each other a startled look and headed toward the door.

The Christmas Play

WHEN THE SANCTUARY door opened, high-pitched shouting bounced off the walls.

Nan, the church organist, poked her head through the doorway. “Hey Micki, are you gals done? We need to set up in here.” Behind her, one of Kay’s teenage sons twisted right and left, trying to hold onto a screaming, stomping four-year-old boy.

“Is that kiddo all right?” Micki asked.

“Yeah.” Nan glanced at the tantrum. “His mom volunteered him to be in the Christmas play. Say, do you think you could help us?” she said as children filed in and sat in pews. “We kind of have our hands full here.”

*

Nan had decided to do The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, a multi-generational play about a rowdy group of unchurched kids who accidentally deliver the true meaning of Christmas. She looked at the actors in front of her.

“All right, all right, listen up.” The five-and six-year-olds had dropped to the floor and were belly-crawling under pews, something they never got to do when sitting with parents. Several teenagers had been lured to the practice by the promise of pizza. Kevin, sixteen and Marcus, fourteen—Kay’s sons—were plugged into their ipods, waiting for the pizza to be served. Three girls had their heads close together, whispering. The adult actors stood at the back of sanctuary, chatting.

“Kevin. Marcus. Get those kids out from under the pews,” Nan ordered, but the boys sat with their eyes closed, listening to their music. She walked over to the teens. The girls stopped chatting as she pulled an ear-bud out of Kevin’s ear.

“What?” he said with a surprised look. “I’m not doin’ nothin’.”

“Would you and Marcus please get those kids out from under the pews?” She returned to the front of the sanctuary to make announcements. “Now, practices will be…”

Kevin yanked both ear buds from his younger brother’s head.

Marcus whipped a knuckle into his brother’s arm. “What, Jerk Face?”

Nan ignored them. “Look at home for costume materials…”

“We gotta get the rug-rats from under the pews.” Kevin pointed downward. The little ones had wormed all the way to the back of the church, giggling and laughing. The brothers looked at each other then dove for the carpet.

Nan continued, “I expect you to have your lines memorized by—”

“EEEEEEEEEEE!” high pitched squeals came from the last row.

“Gotcha!” More squeals were interrupted with lots of thumping on the underside of the pews.

“All right. That’s enough!” yelled Nan, striding to the back of the church. “You all sound like a herd of pigs. Come out of there.”

Marcus made a snorting sound. The five- and six-year-olds began snorting, too. Kevin’s long legs stuck out in the aisle; Nan nudged them—not too gently—with her foot.

“Stop it. Stop it now. Get out here, all of you.” Slowly they arose, one by one, and filed to their seats. “Because you love playing with the children, you both can sit with them and keep things under control,” Nan said.

With the reading of each scene, Nan had to stop and find the actors or quiet the set. Kevin and Marcus traded punches with the little kids when it wasn’t their scene. Mary, mother of Jesus, played by Micki’s teenage girl, was outside on her cell phone when it was time for her part. When Nan discovered the adults had gone to the Fellowship Hall for coffee, she threw a manuscript at a pew, telling everyone to go home.

What had she been thinking? Vera had told her to organize the pageant which meant she could’ve delegated this job to the Sunday school teachers. It was that empty-nest-syndrome. Right after her youngest had left for college, she’d felt the void and decided to direct this pageant of slackers and rebels. She looked at Ray, her husband, as he restored the sanctuary to a normal order after the rehearsal. He had wisely taken up golf to fill his empty-nest time.

In the following weeks, adults came to help, but rehearsals birthed new dramas. Mother Mary had a meltdown when her sparkling neck warmer was deemed an inappropriate head piece. She had talked her mother into buying it for the program, denying that she wanted it because everyone at the high school had one.

The dinner-scene rehearsal should have been easy because only five members of the cast were on-stage. Disappointed with plastic steaks and doll-food props, Nan bought a baked chicken with vegetables at Bob’s Box Mart, so the actors could get used to working with real food. She stuck the plate in a warm oven—it would be dinner for Ray and her after rehearsal tonight. Unfortunately, when Kevin grabbed the hot plate, he yelled a word that made the little kids open their mouths and stare.

Pizza seemed to make the youth forget bad rehearsals, but it did nothing to improve their memories for their parts. The shepherds were helpful, using their staffs to prod anyone who missed their cue. Foreseeing disaster, a couple of adults dropped out of the play using timeworn excuses: “My job has become too demanding,” “My dog needs surgery.”

“You’ve got to help me,” Nan begged Hettie, Kay, and Micki. “The little-girl-angels wave and the little-boy-angels stare when it’s time for them to sing. The teenagers only know half their lines, and they say those at the wrong time. Now, two actors have dropped out. It’s going to be a debacle. I’ll have to change churches after this play or move out of state. Help me.”

“I wish I could. You know how I like to put on a show,” Hettie said, “but I don’t think my brain could remember all those lines.”

“I’m begging you.” Nan grabbed her. “Please? You can read the lines. You don’t have to memorize a thing.” Her voice was thin and her eyes shiny with delayed-tears.

“I get nervous in front of adults.” Hettie gave a self-conscious giggle. “I can talk to kids all day, but adults.….”

“Please, just read the lines? You don’t even have to look at anyone.”

Hettie shrugged and rolled her eyes, “Oh, all right. Maybe little note cards could be hidden in the scenery, and I could use them to jog my memory, so I wouldn’t get nervous.”

“Yes. Yes. You could do that. Oh, thank you, Hettie. Thank you!” Nan looked at Kay.

“I don’t want a speaking part.” Kay frowned and shook her head. “Actually, I don’t want any part at all, but I feel sorry for you, and if you’re drummed out of this church because of this disastrous Christmas pageant, which will make people lose faith and become agnostics, then I suppose I must help for the sake of all Christendom.” She drew a big breath, “But I’m actually doing it just for myself since that would mean Mrs. Benjamin would take over your job as organist—and you know she plays so slow, that I have time to do crossword puzzles during the hymns. In frustration, I’d have to find you in whatever honky tonk you’re playing in. So, it’ll simply be a lot easier for all of us if I help.” Then added, “I just don’t want a speaking part.”

“Like we would ever give you a speaking part,” Hettie said.

Kay gave the teacher a you-wish-you-were-me-stare. “I provoke insight. My comments force you to explore.” She smiled at Nan, raising her eyebrows twice. “Not that I want a speaking part.”

“I need for you to be the Head Angel.” Nan interrupted before Hettie and Kay escalated their banter. “Your boys are riding herd on the little ones. I need you to ride herd on…all of them. Do you think you could get those kids to sing instead of just mumble a tune?”

“Done,” said Kay.

“Micki,” Nan lay her hand on the large woman’s shoulder, “just continue what you’ve been doing.”

“Wait a minute,” Kay shook her head. “All I’ve seen her do is sit outside the door and gab with everybody who walks through the narthex. I want her job.”

“Let’s get some coffee.” Micki smiled, took Kay’s arm, and began walking toward the door. “I distract folks who come to observe. That way Nan can work out the problems before people watch and start critiquing her.”

“I can distract people,” said Kay. “I’ve worked diversion into an art form.”

“Distract,” Hettie said as she followed, “not drive them away. After you finish with them, they need counseling. Micki channels folks to other activities until the program is a little more presentable.”

“Who would evaluate a kid’s play?” Kay asked. “It’s not supposed to be perfect. Remember that, Nan.” Kay called over her shoulder as Micki walked them out the door. “Strive for imperfection. It can always be achieved.”

*

They rehearsed for three Sundays. Ray spent the week before the play gluing Hettie’s speaking parts to dishes and various props. To the audience, it would appear that Hettie spent a lot of time admiring her plates or reading the family Bible while she spoke.

Very quickly, everyone of Kay’s little five-and six-year old angels knew the words to “Away in a Manger.” Some grinned and waved, some looked frightened, but they all sang. Loud and off-key.

“How did you get them to do it?” Nan cocked her head and blinked at the kids.

“The boys did it. I don’t know how,” Kay shrugged, “but the kids learned it in a jiffy after spending a little time with Kevin and Marcus.”

A grin spread across Nan’s face just before voices—loud voices—drifted from the narthex. She turned to see who Micki was running interference against.

Vera pushed through the doors. “I need to talk to you about the Christmas pageant. Now.”

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

BEFORE VERA HAD gone to the church that afternoon, she’d tried to finish Christmas cards. Actually, she’d been making half-hearted attempts for a couple of weeks. What could she tell people? Jim’s dead and everything’s sliding to the thin end of the wedge. Three envelopes lay in the completed pile. She sat at the kitchen table, grabbed a card, and began writing quickly, hoping she wouldn’t get stalled this time.

Dear Aunt Ula,

Things have been hectic. The demands of the season continue as usual this time of year.

Things weren’t usual. They were screwier than the Elvis impersonator she’d once heard give a sermon. She’d expected to make some alterations after Jim had died, but she’d never thought life would parachute out of order. Like the Halloween party. No one had asked her. She had to hear about the cancellation from Walt. Walt, of all people. His main function was to complain about how much work other people made for him. It was a tragedy. After all those years, she deserved more respect.

Everyone seems especially supportive.

And that had changed too. Oh, people asked if she needed anything. They invited her to dinner, some dropped by, others brought food. But there were little signs of disrespect creeping in. No one had included her in planning the Thanksgiving worship service. They hadn’t even told her when the meeting was to be held. She’d had to sleuth it out, show up, and organize it. Even then her hard work was ruined by a leaky pipes and a giant pumpkin.

You’ll have to visit, so you can meet the new pastor, Poe Muldoon, and his wife. They’ve dropped by the house several times to see if I need anything. He’s working very hard, but he graduated from Berkley, so he has some different ideas that are new to this congregation.

Like using girls as acolytes, which had always been a job for boys. He even chanted the liturgy. Jim had tried it, but he really didn’t have a singing voice. Besides, it had seemed too Roman Catholic to him. Pastor Poe didn’t seem interested in the insights she tried to share with him about the congregation. It wasn’t advice. Jim, bless his dear soul, had admonished her never to give advice. She only tried to provide insights and history.

His wife works full time as a physical therapist, so we don’t get to see too much of her.

What was happening with ministers’ wives nowadays? When Shaded Valley Lutheran called Jim, they actually got two people for the salary of one. She worked almost as hard as her husband. Of course, she was behind the scenes and perhaps not many people noticed, but that was as it should be.

We are not decorating the church until Advent is over. It’s a lot of pressure, but the ladies of the church all support each other and we’ll get through it.

It would be nice to sit with some of the other women, but not in the “Women’s Pew.” No one called it that, but everyone knew that’s what it was. A row of ladies: widowed, divorced, or husband doesn’t attend. It would be comforting to whisper a word to a seatmate. Worshiping together was probably better than the vacant feeling Vera had sitting by herself among families, but she wasn’t about to sit in that row. She wasn’t one of them. The ringing phone jarred her thoughts.

“Pastor and Vera Henley’s residen—” she stopped herself.

“Yeah, uh, I didn’t know Pastor Henley still lived there. Let me talk to him.”

“Oh Sean! I was writing to Aunt Ula and answered without thinking. Old habits are hard to unlearn, dear.”

“Because I live a hundred miles away, Mom, I can tell you this now. When you and Dad were out of the house, I answered the phone with ‘Yeah?’”

“Sean, you didn’t.”

“And you should’ve heard how Pete answered. A few times people hung up because they thought they had the wrong number.”

“Pete would never do that.”

“Mom, why do you think my big bro is doing missionary work in Sierra Leone? He feels guilty about denying all those parishioners a chat with their pastor.”

“Then why aren’t you doing mission work too, instead of designing buildings?

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Well…you should. How are Cindy and the girls?”

“Great. We’re expecting you and crazy Aunt Ula here on Christmas Eve. Do you want us to come get you?”

“Oh, Sean, you know I can’t come on Christmas Eve.”

“Sure you can. Dad is vacationing in heaven. He’s got Christmas off. You can relax and take off too.”

“I…don’t think so…this new pastor…things aren’t quite under control. I don’t see how…”

“The world will turn without you. At least for one night. I’ll come get you.”

“If you’re coming, then you all might as well celebrate Christmas Eve at our house, like we’ve always done.”

“Mom, we want to have Christmas in our own home for a change.”

“I see. Well, I’ll let you know what I can arrange. I’ll have to call you back.” She hung up with the phrase “for a change” echoing through her mind.

For a change? There had been enough change. Now she wouldn’t even get to spend Christmas in her own home?

What was God thinking? What good had come out of Jim leaving his work before he’d finished? Now things were slipping. Let’s have different music “for a change.” Let’s use a more contemporary liturgy “for a change.” Let’s not decorate for Christmas until Advent is over “for a change.

This was the work of Pastor Poe Muldoon. When Jim was alive, she’d never have needed Walt to tell her what was happening. Pastor Muldoon needed to show her more consideration, and he needed to respect how Jim had done things.

Not decorate until Advent was over? Did he have any idea how many people he inconvenienced by such an impulsive decision? Well, she’d shown honor for his position, but as soon as the last service was over today, she’d have the ‘troops’ there to decorate. This free fall into worshipping with the flavor of the day would screech to a stop.

“Seek and You Will Find” Matthew 7:7

“I NEED TO talk to you about the Christmas pageant. Now.”

Nan turned toward the voice. Vera pushed through the sanctuary doors, her lips stretched in a grim line, her eyes bearing down on her target.

“Could you wait until practice is over?” Nan rubbed the heels of her hands against her temples. There was no need to publicly point out what she already knew. This production was worse than the time Bob Windgett had a few drinks before doing the dramatic reading of “Journey of an Apostle.” The tankard of Rum Scorpions had calmed Bob’s performance anxiety so well, he went off script, interacting with the audience and accusing several people of being “too Roman to be Lutheran.” Nan pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the throbbing in her head. Vera could at least tell her this was a debacle in the bathroom, where plenty of tissues would be available for the subsequent sobbing.

A burst of laughter shot from the chancel area. The teenagers were rehearsing Mary and Joseph having a tug-of-war over baby Jesus. Kevin, Kay’s son who played Joseph, looked up, whipped the doll behind his back, stood up straight, and smiled. The other youth gravitated to a corner.

“I haven’t been to any of your practices.” Vera watched the teens clump together and whisper, and then she scrutinized Micki. “Micki’s been taking up a great deal of my time. Not that I mind but—”

“My fault. My fault entirely.” Micki nodded, placing a hand on her chest.

Vera moved her gaze to the organist. “You need to end this.”

“You’re probably right.” Nan continued pinching her nose.

“You’ve had four weeks. We only have the next four days. This Advent-waiting exercise has been a hardship, but we’ve done it. We’ve put everything off until today. Advent has ended, and we’re taking over the sanctuary.

“What?” Nan stared at Vera, waiting to be dressed down.

“It has to be done. Everyone is coming. Now.”

Nan caught the movement of Hettie waving her arms in the parking lot. The schoolteacher was directing her husband on how to unload an SUV of red poinsettias into a wheel barrow. A large Fraser fir staggered toward the door; Walt and Roger’s strained faces peeked through the branches. Lorena and Brynn were piling ribbons and greenery into the arms of a conscripted Pastor Poe.

“I…” As Christmas marched through the door, Nan’s slow thoughts hinted that this was not about the play. This was about getting the blazes out of the way so the next tradition could settle into place. The play was still a fiasco, but fortunately, she’d never been accused of being “too Roman.” As a matter of fact, she thought the Creator of the Universe whipped out His most surprising miracles within the fuzz of chaos. “Oh! I see.” She turned to the waiting actors; with her hands in the air and a grin on her face, she exclaimed, “That’s a wrap. No more rehearsals. We’re all done!”

Christmas Eve

Parents helped their children out of their autos, trying to minimize the damage car doors and siblings could do to angels’ wings.

“Look at the church!” a kid in the parking lot yelled.

Large fir wreaths with golden bows adorned both doors. The windows held garlands of greenery plaited with diaphanous ribbons which glittered when they caught the light. An occasional snowflake drifted from the sky.

Cedar and pine scents met them as they entered. The narthex twinkled with tiny white lights tucked throughout flower arrangements, baskets of pine cones, and garlands of holly.

The live Christmas tree stood next to the sanctuary doors, ornamented with Chrismons, symbols representing God: interlocking circles for the Trinity, a Chi Rho symbol—Jesus’ initials in Greek, a gilded fish, a Tau cross, and white butterflies—representing new creations in Christ. Underneath the tree sat Roger’s giant pumpkin, lovingly decorated to resemble a mouse.

After Thanksgiving, the pumpkin had lived in the kindergarteners’ Sunday school class. The five-year-olds quickly discovered it was big enough to ride and adorned it with paper eyes and a nose. They made ears and a tail, too, but those were repeatedly knocked off until the teacher glued soft felt pieces in their place. When they asked Roger what the pumpkin/mouse’s name was, he exclaimed, “Jehovah Jirah. Herbrew for ‘God provides.’”

The children called the pumpkin Jehovah until the teacher explained that she didn’t think it was appropriate to use God’s name on a gourd, even if it was humongous. So they dubbed him Jerod because that’s what it sounded like Roger had said.

On decorating day, after the ladies had finished, Roger returned to the church and put the pumpkin under the tree, because “It was a gift.” He left the mousy add-ons and attached a note that said, “I need a home for Christmas. I’ll feed many.”

*

As Allie’s family entered the church, they found Lorena touching up the decorations and directing traffic. “Angels downstairs, Holy family in the sacristy.” She pointed.

“I don’t wanna wear these.” Johnny yanked at his cardboard wings.

“Maybe you’ll find some you like better downstairs,” Lorena said to him; then to his mom she added, “There’re extras of everything down there. You can make a halo.”

“I’m not wearing a halo.” Johnny puckered his face.

It appeared as though Bernie’s Been-Around, Come-Around Thrift Store had exploded in the Fellowship Hall. Adults dug under piles of costumes. Kids jiggled in various states of animal metamorphoses. Shepherds tripped and fell over each other in their parents’ long robes.

A Wiseman, who was actually a woman, frantically tossed clothes, looking for her box of myrrh. “Did one of you cows run off with it? It’s not funny. I spent all afternoon gluing on sequins.”

While Micki tied towels over Shepherds’ heads, the sheep poked each other with staffs and made snorting sounds.

Kay, in a corner surrounded by little angels, fixed a broken cardboard wing. She wore red-and-white-striped stockings, a white ballerina tutu, real feathered wings, and a flashing halo.

“I don’t think angels have halos like that,” Hettie said, herding a tyke who had been trying on camel humps.

“Look. Look what it does.” Kay pushed a tiny button on her headpiece. It started to pulse and change colors. “It has five patterns. You covet it, don’t you?”

“Well, don’t turn it on around Vera; she’s in a foul mood. She’s been snapping at everyone all week.”

Lorena maneuvered through dancing angels and donkeys, carrying the 20-cup coffee urn.

“Are we having coffee upstairs after the service?” Hettie asked.

“We can’t have it down here.” She stepped over a gold-foil crown. “We’ll have cookies, too.”

“That’s good. Jerod would be upset if you were serving pies made from some of his brethren.” Kay tugged at the strap of her wings.

“That pumpkin. I don’t know why they don’t give it Confirmation classes and let it join the church. It attends every special event we have here.”

A loud crash brought adults from all corners of the room. The angels and shepherds were brandishing canes at the sheep and camels who balanced on their hands and kicked with both legs.

“Marcus. Marcus! Gather those angels over here,” Kay said.

“Come on, rug rats.” He began pushing them toward the corner.

“What happened to this room?” Vera demanded, surveying the chaos from the stairway. She began searching under piles of clothing and costumes asking, “Have you seen my pen? It’s a wooden one.” She didn’t get much help because everyone had her own problems.

“It’ll turn up, Vera, when we put things away.” Hettie was tying a fleece cape over a sheep’s back.

“I need to find it. Jim gave it to me. It’s made from an olive tree. He brought it from his Jerusalem trip.” She moved around the room, lifting the heaps at first then tossing them as she became more frustrated. Nearing the angels she said, “I don’t believe that flashing halo is appropriate. It’s distracting.”

“I didn’t wear the whole Victoria Secret costume, now that would be distracting,” Kay said. “Just the wings.”

“The halo.” Vera pointed. “You will need to turn that off.”

Two angels were shimmying their shoulders back and forth, beating their wings into each other.

“Marcus, take the angels for a hike.”

“Mom, I’m a shepherd, not an angel herder. I’m all dressed. I’m minding my own business. Why am I being punished?”

“Take them on a hike, sweetie. Take some other shepherds with you. Wear off a little of this energy.” She pointed to the wiggling, bouncing, bumping bodies in front of her.

“Okay! Come on, rug rats.”

“Stop calling them rug rats,” Vera commanded.

“Come on, midgets. Follow me,” he said as he took off.

Kay stared at Vera. “Why don’t you go somewhere private, and yell at God for a while, Vera.”

“What?”

“Your tail’s in a twist about something. Now you’re taking it out on the kids. Go yell at God about it.”

“I have never yelled at God.”

“Then your God is too small.”

“Kay, you open your mouth and utter all sorts of obscenities. Could you just be helpful for once?” Vera’s clipped words accompanied the invisible darts shooting from her eyes. The noise in the room had dropped significantly.

“Why don’t you ask God where your pen is?” Kay said quietly.

Vera looked at her. There was no spite or malice in Kay’s voice; it sounded like merely a suggestion.

“I would never presume to bother God about a pen.”

“Then your God is too small,” Kay repeated. Their eyes locked. The room grew quiet. Kay’s face showed no emotion. Vera’s lips pulled into a tight line, her eyes narrowed.

“What did you say to me?”

“Kay, not now.” Micki hurried toward them, carrying sheep ears on a headband. “Vera, I’ll help you look.” Kay snapped her hand toward Micki, five fingers splayed into a barrier sign.

“In just a few minutes we’re going to tell everyone, in our own inept words, about God coming as a tiny little baby to provide a way we can get home again. God, who orchestrated this plan, this universe, and worlds we don’t even know about yet, knows where your pen is. Ask Him. This is the God who loves you enough to notice if you lose a hair out of your head. He voluntarily died for you. You can’t give Him too much to deal with.”

Vera’s lips were pursed. Her jaws clenched. Everyone was silent, watching. Even the sheep had stopped butting each other.

Kay flicked off her halo, smiled, raised her eyebrows twice, then turned and walked away.

Silence hung in the air. Micki said, “Now where is that box of myrrh?” A shepherd hooked his staff around a camel’s leg. They began to wrestle. The sounds of pre-show jitters slowly returned to the room.

“The Light Shines in the Darkness” John 1:5

THE PLAY’S FIRST scene—the meal—went smoothly. Hettie placed an elbow on the table, held her drinking glass to her face, and read her lines. When the script ended, she picked up another glass and began reading again. Sometimes she had to adjust her eyeglasses and look down the tip of her nose to make out the words, but she didn’t stop. Not even when Kevin tripped and sent the roasted chicken sliding to the floor. Hettie kept reading her lines, picked up the bird by the drumsticks, and smacked it back on the platter. She seemed to have no idea what the audience was laughing about.

During the second scene, angels and shepherds fidgeted outside the sanctuary, awaiting their cue. Johnny let out a plaintive squeal, “I don’t wanna do this! I’m not singing!” Marcus bent to Johnny’s eye level, made a menacing face and claw-like hands, whispering, “Sing, or sit with St. Scary.”

Johnny went silent and marched in with the group. He continued his rebellion by standing on the top step rather than his assigned position. Because there wasn’t enough room, he clung to the child on the end as they sang “Away in the Manger.” Tiring of being an anchor, the kid elbowed Johnny in the stomach, knocking him to the floor.

Johnny hopped up like a TV cage fighter and gave his opponent a two-handed shove. They jostled each other off the riser once more before Marcus worked his way between them, defusing the angelic battle.

The Virgin Mary was not wearing blue. The director had forbidden it. She did sneak on with bright lip gloss and her glittering neck warmer. When it came time to give birth, she turned her back to the audience, yanking the doll from under her bathrobe. The soft-bodied doll, filled with water to make it more life-like, had been purposefully overfilled. Each time it was handled, water squirted from its joints. It sprayed like a garden hose during the tug-of-war scene.

“Stop it. Stop it this instant!” Hettie seized the doll—which was actually one of her lines. The Blessed Babe shot a stream of water across her face and chest. The teens froze. Hettie wiped her forehead, trying to compose herself, but each time she looked at the teenagers, she giggled. She hid her face behind her Bible to read her next line, but “My script is all wet!” came out instead.

After the audience and the actors settled down from the laughter, the play continued in the spirit of a group improv. Hettie, reading from the script, cued anyone who missed their lines. When she prompted, “Shepherd Marcus, don’t you want to say something?” there was no answer.

A shepherd kneeling on the floor pointed a finger. Marcus sat against a bale of hay, head thrown back, mouth open—sound asleep.

Vera put an end to the production by turning the lights out. She gave a push start to the acolyte, sending her weaving down the aisle toward the altar. The tall, white Christ candle that had presided over the Advent wreath for weeks was lit. Its tiny glow reached into the blackness of the sanctuary. Gentle chords of “Silent Night” began to play.

“The Light has broken into our darkness. Jesus Christ is born!” announced Pastor Poe as he removed the white candle and carried it into the congregation. The first person in each row lit their small candle, and the flame passed from wick to wick, spreading gradually to the candles in the corners of the sanctuary then out the doors to the overflow of worshippers in the narthex.

When notes of the last stanza stopped resonating, the organ broke into a spirited rendition of “Joy to the World.” Candle light bounced around the sanctuary. Impromptu harmony swelled through voices. Kay’s halo flashed in a strobe pattern.

*

Families and friends exited through the doors, finding Lutheran-brewed coffee and hot spiced cider. Lorena and Brynn had set up a cookie buffet. Johnny and the other little angel continued their elbowing over chocolate chip treats.

“It snowed. It snowed!” someone shouted. A thin layer had blanketed the parking lot. The shepherds and Holy family were already outside, hurling snowballs at each other.

Lorena, behind the cookie table, made sure handfuls of baked goods didn’t disappear into bathrobes.

She signaled with a furtive wave to Kay and Hettie. “Does anybody know the guy in the khaki slacks over there? He’s been here the last couple of Sundays.”

They craned their necks. They could see his partial profile through the crowd. Turtleneck, blue blazer, dark hair with graying temples.

“Go introduce yourself. This is a friendly church,” Kay said.

“No. He’ll think I’m pushy.”

Kay cut through the visiting groups, stuck out her hand, said something, and then pulled the man toward the cookie table.

“Oh crap.” Lorena almost made it into the crowd before Kay grabbed her jacket.

“Lorena, this is Robert Fullerton. He likes coffee and oatmeal cookies. Robert, this is Lorena.” She turned and left.

*

Anyone who could be recruited away from the cookies and snowball fights was downstairs, stuffing wings and sheep’s clothing back into boxes. “I wanted to crawl under a table, Kay.” Lorena carried the empty urns through the melee to the kitchen.

“Well, you wanted to meet him. What’d you find out?” Kay asked.

“Nothing. I apologized for you, explaining you had the social skills of a badger, and then I offered him a cup of coffee. That’s when I noticed he already had a cup. I felt even stupider, so I blurted out that the single folks, old and young, went to the all-night diner after Christmas Eve services. I invited him, but he declined. I don’t even know if he was single. I’m such an idiot.”

“No worries.” Kay raised her eyebrows twice with a big grin. “I’ll help you.”

“Please don’t. Are you coming tonight?”

“No,” Kay stacked boxes. “Gabe, my ex, gets the boys tomorrow, so I want to spend tonight with them, even though they’ll be more interested in their new video games than talking to me.”

Vera appeared in the doorway, but seeing most of the boxes already packed, turned to leave. Hettie jabbed an elbow into Lorena’s ribs, hissing, “What about her?”

Lorena cast a dark glance at Hettie before calling out, “Hey, Vera, what are you doing tonight? You want to go to the Cherokee with us?”

“Uh…no, my family will be here tomorrow.” She quickly retreated up the stairs. Lorena looked to Kay, but she was already ordering kids to carry items to the closets.

Room by room the lights went off in the church as families left. Only the twinkling lights of the Chrismon tree shone on the faces of Walt, Roger, and the few women waiting in the narthex.

“Where’s Jerod?” asked Lorena as she and Kay switched off the stairway lights.

“This was his first and last Christmas.” Roger bowed his head. “Brynn arranged to donate him to a low-income nutrition program that teaches cooking and canning. Jehovah Jirah, God provides.

“They’re slaughtering Jerod? We should launch a rescue mission,” Kay said.

“I hope he falls out of her van and cracks into a million pieces,” Lorena said.

Roger squinted at her. “My! Such Christmas spirit and good will.”

“It’s a gourd the size of a space ship, and I’m tired of that pumpkin attending every event and marring the decorations. I’m surprised he’s not going to the restaurant with us.”

“Well, actually,” Roger looked sheepish, “he is. He’s in the back of my van. Brynn didn’t have room for him tonight.”

“Oh for-cryin-out-loud!” Lorena threw up her hands. “I’m not sitting next to him.”

“Ready? Pastor’s already left. I’m locking up.” Vera unplugged the tree, leaving everyone to make their way out the doors using the dim light from the parking lot, shining through the windows.

The snow crunched underfoot. People didn’t speak as they listened to the quiet world and watched their breath rise in the air. Planning to come back later for their cars, the diners piled into Walt’s van.

“Vera,” Lorena tried once more, “why don’t you come with us? We’ve got plenty of room.”

“No…thanks. I…I have things to do before my family gets here.”

“Leave her be,” Walt mumbled, staring out the windshield, watching ice crystals swirl under the parking lot light while the engine warmed.

“I was just trying…” Lorena closed her mouth and got in the van.

“It’s kind of sad, looking at the church.” Roger rubbed a circle in the window fog for a better view. “Just an hour ago it was bursting with lights, kids, and people singing. Now, it’s locked and every window is black. This surprise snowfall made folks hurry home. Even the streets are dark and deserted.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think Pastor Poe nailed it with that benediction of his: ‘The Light of Love has come. Go forth in joy.’” Walt pointed to a car leaving the parking lot. As it motored cautiously away, multi-colored lights flickered from inside.

Kay’s halo.

Epiphany

THE WEEK AFTER Christmas, teenagers slouched in the overstuffed couches of the church’s High School Room. Late as usual, Phil, their twenty-eight-year-old, part-time youth director, dashed in. “Let’s get started,” he called through the chatter. Short in stature, but wiry in muscle, he sported a T-shirt, shorts, and a dark tan from the previous summer’s soccer season. He shoved a pair of clunky-footed tennis shoes off the coffee table as he strode to the front of the room. “Okay, Pastor Jim once said that an epiphany meant—”

Eyes were watching the big screen TV even though the sound was muted. Taking two long steps, he smacked the “off” button to a chorus of groans.

“Now, if I could have your full attention. Kevin, how about removing your leg from the back of the couch, so you’re in a more upright position? Thanks. Now, because we’re in the season of Epiphany—”

“What’s epiphany?” a blonde youth said as she checked her cell phone.

“I’m glad you asked. Pastor Jim used to define it this way:  Epiphany is when you have a moment that makes you do this…” He held up one finger, signaling wait-for-it, drew a breath, and said, “Aaaaaah! I didn’t know that.”

The kids stared at him with a nobody’s-home look.

“When life makes you gasp, ‘Aaaaah! I didn’t know that,’ you’ve just had an epiphany,” he explained. The room filled with kids practicing their gasps and I-didn’t-know-thats.

“Okay, okay. Now in order to give you many opportunities to have your own epiphanies this year, the youth group is going on a mission trip.”

“Aaaaah! I didn’t know that,” said Marcus.

“That’s not an epiphany. That’s an announcement,” said Phil.

“What’s the difference?” Marcus squinted.

“You’ll find out on this mission trip.”

“Where’re we going?” someone asked.

“Your committee voted on San Francisco. We will be working with inner-city youth, serving in soup kitchens and doing some improvement projects.”

“San Francisco? I thought all the mission projects were in Mexico,” a tall blond teenager said.

“See, you’ve had an epiphany already,” said Marcus.

“Nope, that’s not an epiphany.” Phil pointed at the unenlightened youth. “That’s just correcting misinformation.”

“I still don’t get it,” said Marcus.

“You will. We’ll have fundraisers, so each of you can go. The Lutheran Ladies Circle has graciously offered to help us do the first one. Mrs. Henley is here to tell us about it.”

The kids hadn’t seen Vera slip into the back of the room. She strode to the front, clutching a clipboard and pens, and stared at them until she felt it was quiet enough to begin. “The Ladies Circle wants to support you in raising money for this mission trip, so we propose to work with you in a deli sandwich sale for the Super Bowl.”

Blank faces looked at her.

Vera cleared her throat and continued, “All of us will take orders for custom-made sandwiches from now until a week before the big game. We’ll sell them by the foot, up to three feet. Our ovens can’t bake buns bigger than three feet.”

Kevin snorted.

Vera gave him her dead-pan stare. “We’ll meet on Saturday before the game and assemble them so people can pick up their orders when they come to church on game day. All of us will be working together, ladies and youth. I have sign-up sheets for baking, manning the sales table, and helping shop for supplies. All of us will assemble. Any questions?”

“Didn’t Jesus kick over the tables and whip people who were, uh, you know, selling stuff at church? Isn’t this wrong?” Marcus had kept his hand in the air the whole time he’d asked the question.

“Way to pay attention in Sunday school.” Kevin smacked his brother on the back. Marcus replied by elbowing Kevin in the ribs. Rowdiness broke out as the kids began laughing and talking.

“Okay, okay.” Phil sprang out of his chair and stood bouncing slightly on his toes. “We’ll work out the theology. It’s a great start, and we want to thank Mrs. Henley and the ladies, don’t we?” Vera was squinting toward the back of the room.

“Mrs. Henley?” Phil asked.

She craned her neck forward, trying to peer into the darkened corner. There were four wooden chairs in a semi-circle, facing the wall. From the seats, one could have an eye-level stare into the face of the picture hanging there.

“Mrs. Henley?”

She gasped, “Is that my painting? Why is it in the High School Room?”

*

Vera did not wait until she got home to make the call. She proceeded to the secretary’s office, unlocked it with her personal key, and phoned Walt, the Property Manager. When he didn’t answer, she left a quiet message loaded with meaning, “Walt. I found Saint Peter.”

*

Walt, set in his ways for sixty+ years, only answered the phone if he felt like it, and often he wasn’t in the mood to be disturbed. He hadn’t had much use for chatter before his wife died, ten years ago. She was the one who used the phone. His kids had brought him an answering machine. He’d finally hooked it up and found it surprisingly handy. He could listen to calls and never even get out of his chair.

He used the remote to turn down the TV when the phone rang.

“Walt. I found Saint Peter.” He could imagine Vera’s face. Her mouth tight like two boards epoxy-ed together and eyes like drill bits biting into him. God bless the person who’d invented the answering machine.

Her St. Peter picture was like a squeaky floorboard. It kept coming back, no matter what you did to it. It must have been over fifteen years ago when she’d painted the thing.

The white hair on the old guy looked like it needed a dryer sheet, sticking out in all directions as though he’d been hit by lightning. Maybe he had been, because his overly large fingers curled inward like claws, and his eyebrows, black as night, fuzzed upward in eternal anger. It was the eyes, though, that gave out the jeebies. Walt had never seen a human with black eyes. They cut right through a person—at the neck.

He remembered talking about it with Ruby, his wife. She’d said that Peter sure was a scurrilous bub if that’s what he looked like. Walt agreed, saying that was a face to guard hell, not heaven’s gates.

He’d dutifully hung it in the narthex, as instructed by the Council. After all, it was a gift of art to the church. Walt supposed that he wasn’t much of an art connoisseur because he never heard anyone comment about how menacing it was. The ladies always sat the Christmas tree in front of it. Visitors stared at it. But no one said anything.

When it was time to paint the narthex, the portrait was removed and it never reappeared. Vera seemed pleased when she was told that her masterpiece was making guest appearances in the Sunday school rooms. It was true. If a Sunday school teacher found the painting in her classroom, she’d sneak it into another room because small children cried if they had to stay in a room with a guy who looked as though he’d cut off your hand if it caused you to sin.

When the kids were taught they were both sinner and saint at the same time, their eyes grew big. Imagining the scowling, pirate-faced portrait, they stuttered, “Like Saint Peter?” Walt figured those kids would need therapy to get over their exposure to that painting.

Then one day it had disappeared. Other members of the Property Committee told him it was in storage. He hadn’t spent much time looking for it, but he knew Vera had. He figured it must be in the attic with the organ pipes. It was the one place Vera couldn’t get to.

Now, it was Saint Peter’s second coming.

*

Walt had expected more phone calls from Vera during the next few days but heard nothing. Only Phil, the youth director, seemed concerned about the artwork.

“Hey, Walt.” Phil stopped outside of the propped-open door of the men’s restroom at church. Walt stood inside, on a ladder, replacing a ceiling light. “Pastor Poe said I should check with you to see if the youth could keep St. Peter a while longer. Mrs. Henley said it was an important piece of art that was to be installed in the narthex.”

“Uhh. It’s been missing for a while; where’d you find it?”

“Oh, when we had the all-night-gamer for New Year’s Eve, we unlocked the closet to the belfry. The kids wanted to ring the church bell at midnight.”

“Yeah, I heard that. It was grand. Hadn’t been done in years,” Walt said.

“Lots of people in the neighborhood called the church, thanking us for ringing in the New Year.” Phil shook his head. “Who knew? I figured we’d get complaints. Anyway, the painting was in the rope-pull closet. The kids really like him. He looks like a punk-rocker. They didn’t think anyone would mind if they stuck him in their room.”

“Just Vera…” Walt climbed down the ladder.

“No, she’s okay with it. She seems pretty pleased the kids refer to him as their mascot. Well, mostly the guys. The girls sometimes hang a scarf over it. I didn’t mention that. It might hurt her feelings.”

“That’s my #2 Rule: Never give ’em too much information. One-word answers if you can.” Walt flipped the switch to test the bulb.

“What’s #1?”

“Complain about everything.”

“Oh! Well, in that case, I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to let you know she said we could enjoy it for a while, but not to get too attached because you were scheduled to reinstall it in the narthex. Pastor Poe—he kind of likes it, too—said to check when you’re going to hang it.”

“Aaah, well, Rule #3 applies here. You and the kids just enjoy your new mascot. The Property Committee’s gonna have to discuss when and where to display that portrait.” Walt patted Phil’s shoulder. “And you know how long it takes some decisions to come out of committee.”

“What’s Rule #3?” the young man asked.

Walt picked up the ladder and started toward the maintenance closet, calling over his shoulder, “Try to get away as quick as possible.”

“Our Mouths Were Filled With Laughter” Psalm 126:2

“LADIES. LADIES. I’D like to get started. We’ve lots to cover today.” Vera tried to speak over the settling-in noises of the January Circle meeting.

“Thank you, thank you!” Kay said as Micki set a plate of her Skillion Dollar Fudge on the table. “Has someone made coffee?”

Vera, who had been conspicuously ignoring Kay since the Christmas Eve incident, spoke over Kay’s last syllable. “We’ll start with new business because we haven’t made it that far into the agenda in past meetings. We will be working with—”

“Am I supposed to mail off that stuff from our Hygiene Drive?” Hettie asked.

“Hettie,” Vera nailed her with a stare, “I’d like to finish with my new business.”

“I agree, Vera,” Nan said, helping herself to the fudge and ignoring the inner voice that told her to shut up. “I just need to understand…when did we have a Hygiene Drive?”

“Oh, you know. Someone,” Hettie looked at Kay, “suggested a mission project, and I was privileged to do it—like always.”

“It was a joke,” protested Kay, waving for the dish to be hurried around the table.

Nan sat forward in her chair. “You’re kidding. When did we do this?”

“Well, it might have gotten a bit overshadowed by Christmas, but I put a box in the narthex to collect goods. I put a poster on it, but someone…” Hettie looked at Vera, “felt a sign that said ‘Hygiene Collection’ was inappropriate for the Christmas visitors. So I stuck a tasteful little ‘Donate” sticky note on it, but it kept falling off.”

“No. No. You needed a big honkin’ sign. One that smacks ’em in the head. ‘Soap for Missions’.” Kay waggled a large hunk of chocolate-walnut fudge in the air, “Marketing, Hettie, marketing.”

“Well, all right, Miss Funny Pants, you can do the next project.” Hettie smirked.

“Ladies.” Vera sent a stern look at the women. “The topic is the youth sandwich fund—Nan?” The church organist had turned away from the table, her head in her hands. “Nan? Are you all right?”

The organist faced them, her mouth scrunched tight, but a giggle squeaked out. “Can you imagine people trying to figure out what to put in a box intermittently marked: Donate and Hygiene?”

“Or who it was for?” Kay said.

“Did you,” Allie, the new member, asked, “collect anything in the nameless box?”

“I got some…” Hettie tried to restrain the laugh percolating up her throat, “feminine hygiene products.” Kay and Nan hooted.

“And some toilet paper,” Hettie tittered. “And…some paper towels. I can’t figure that one out.” Her face turned red as she pressed her fingertips to her lips.

“I gave that!” Micki’s mouth puckered in a slight pout. “I thought we were collecting stuff for the ladies’ restrooms.”

Hettie cleared her throat. “Thank you, Micki. That was nice, and the strangest thing happened to the box.” A giggle leaked between her words. “I found it…I actually didn’t find it.” Her face turned redder and a tear escaped. “Walt found it—” she squeaked, “in the men’s restroom.”

Squeals and yowls followed, except for Vera. She slowly tapped her agenda with her pencil, waiting for a moment of maturity to dawn. With a voice that could chip ice, she skewered anyone who would give her eye contact. “I am so sorry our December mission project became a joke. That is an important month with so many in need.”

“Oh, Vera, the weather’s miserable. We all needed a good laugh before getting down to business,” Kay said. The women were blowing their noses, dabbing their eyes with tissues, and trying to look as serious as Vera’s words.

“Well, Kay,” Vera’s voice carried a sandpaper edge, “since our last mission drive did not meet expectations, I believe you will be doing our next project. I think you have some catching up to do. Can you handle that?”

Kay frowned and studied Vera, deciding if she’d tossed out a put-down or a dare. Two-word replies flitted through her head. Bite me seemed kinder and more humorous than Stick it. Neither had ever gleaned the positive results she’d hoped but were immensely satisfying to say. After a moment of culling her thoughts, she gave Vera a measured look. “I accept your challenge.” She fanned a fudge-laden hand across the room. “I can see posters and newsletters: Socks for Saints and Sinners!”

Hettie broke into another giggle.

“I’m serious,” Kay said, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “Different groups in the church will collect new, unused socks. There’ll be a prize for the group that donates the most. We’ll send the whole shebang to Lutheran Missions.”

“I never meant for this to be a contest,” Vera said.

“I’ll bring socks.” Micki wiped her eyes with her fingertips.

“Fine.” Vera’s voice sounded tired. “Don’t go overboard with it, Kay. Now, as I was saying prior to this laughfest…our fundraiser with the youth—”

“Oh, we’ll just do it the same way we do youth dinners.” Hettie rubbed a tissue under her nose. “I’ll sell tickets with the kids because I like those teenage boogers. You buy the groceries, Vera, because you like watching the money, and everyone will assemble the sandwiches.”

“Well, there is the matter of baking the buns.” Vera consulted her list.

“Buy the buns,” Kay said flatly.

“Hettie and Merle love to bake, and it’ll save money.” Vera gave Kay a “that’s-that” stare.

Hettie’s giggles evaporated. Her teacher eyes narrowed as though she’d discovered someone cutting the lunch line. “That’s true, but I don’t remember volunteering myself or my husband to do the cooking.”

“Well, I like shopping, but I don’t remember saying I would buy all the supplies. This was your plan.”

“You’re right, Vera. You didn’t. We’ll switch. You bake. I’ll shop with the kids.”

“Buy the buns,” Kay droned, remembering that the Ladies’ last baking project had yielded little hamburger buns domed so high it required a reticulating jaw to get a mouth around them. “Homemade buns are goofy. Right?” She looked to Micki for support.

Micki put on a look of seriousness. “If Hettie’s doing the shopping, who’s selling tickets?” A timely change in the subject had always been her best peace tactic. Too late, she realized she’d suggested a new duty. Wide-eyed, she shrunk in her chair and studied the table, hoping she hadn’t volunteered.

Nan suddenly became busy with her knitting. The room fell silent. “Kay?” Hettie stared down the line of women. “And don’t use that adiophora stuff with me. Your kids are part of this group using the fundraising monies.”

“What’s adiophora?” asked Allie.

“It’s…complicated. I’ll tell you later,” Micki said.

“It’s not complicated.” One corner of Kay’s mouth kinked into a frown.

“You can teach Lutheran ‘middle issues’ later,” Vera’s voice tightened so the words snapped out. “Will you help or not?”

Again, Kay looked at her, replies rolling through her head. “Yeah, sure,” she finally said. “I’ll sit in the narthex, hawking socks and sandwiches.”

Allie raised her hand half-way. “I’ll help you.”

“You’re new. I’d hate for you to leave our church so soon,” Vera said. “Working with Kay is like hanging on to run-away horses.”

“I’ll always be running in the right direction.” Kay gave Vera a smile, raising her eyebrows twice and pushing the plate of fudge toward her new partner. “Welcome, Allie-girl.”

Hettie scooted her chair back. “Let’s take a break and make some coffee now that we’ve got Kay’s fingers pried off the chocolate.”

“Ladies.” Vera took a breath. She searched for words she rarely used and found courage was a bigger problem than vocabulary. After the Christmas-ink-pen fiasco, she’d spent hours wondering if her God was too small. She’d concluded that perhaps she constricted His style because she was doing most of His job. She’d decided to include others in the workload. She glanced around the table. “If I’m baking, I’ll need help. Roger and his boys have signed up to assist, but I doubt if they’ve ever made buns either.” More neediness than she’d intended whinged into her request.

The women blinked at her. An awkward silence bounced around the room. “Are you saying you want someone to tell you what to do and how to do it?” Kay said.

Vera straightened; she knew this wasn’t going to be easy. “I’m asking for help, yes.” She pointed a pencil at the quietest person in the room. “Nan?”

Kay patted the organist on the back. “You almost made it out of here without extra work.” Several of the women sealed the appointment by escaping to the kitchen for coffee. Hettie leaned across the table asking Micki, “Did we ever decide what I was supposed to do with that personal hygiene stuff?”

Vera watched the meeting unofficially break up. She’d put herself out there. It hadn’t gone badly. Perhaps Jim had been right when he used to tell her, “Control was the surprising result of letting go.”

Perhaps.

A Long Wait for an Apology

TWO TIMES A year, the Sunday school teachers and youth leaders met over platefuls of pizza and German chocolate cake. Their alleged goal was to exchange curriculum ideas, but their true purpose was to avoid another “Wedding War.” Mumbled stories still haunted leaders about the scheduling catastrophe between a hundred teens arriving for the Battle of the Bands and the confused guests of the Sparker/Hammet wedding. The frenzied bride had secured and defended the sound system, but the teens had commandeered the parking lot. There was a stand-off until the pastor negotiated a solution that included many of the wedding guests rocking out to the bands.

In the past, Vera had come to these meetings in order to relay information to her husband. So no one considered her attendance strange even though Pastor Jim was dead, and she wasn’t a member of the Education committee. It would be the last time they’d overlook her presence.

As the chairman reached the end of the over-long agenda, folks closed their notebooks and began gathering their belongings. Vera’s voice pierced their end-of-meeting-relief, “I have one more thing.”

She took a breath, weighing her thoughts. She’d stuck a test toe into the watery theory of letting go, and discovered there were cold attitudes that needed to be controlled or anarchy would rise, the apocalypse would arrive sooner, and old people could expect to be ignored like derelict hound dogs. Some things could not be allowed to slip. She’d considered doing this privately but this was important. Each educator needed to nip invisible disrespect in the bud.

“Yes?” The chairman rearranged his face in what he hoped was a patient look.

Vera turned to Phil, the youth director. His high cheekbones underlined his dark eyes. He gave her a quick smile. “Well,” Vera continued, “you know how you said that if we had any problems with the youth, we should come directly to you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Two weeks ago, I was talking with Roger—he and his sons volunteered to help bake buns for the youth fundraiser. One of his boys, I don’t know which one, they both look alike to me; well, one of his boys walked up and slid right between us while we were talking. So I grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him out of our way saying, ‘This isn’t about you.’ Unfortunately, a button popped off the front of his shirt when I moved him out of the way.

“I apologized. I told him I was sorry, and I would repair it for him.” And she did feel badly. It had been a gentle tug, but the button had arced like it was shot from a trebuchet. The boy had watched it bounce and roll on the floor while she noted Roger’s estranged wife obviously couldn’t even sew on a button. No wonder Roger had custody of the kids.

Phil sat perfectly still under the white-haired woman’s scrutiny. He noticed she’d been massaging her fingers, first with one hand then the other, while she spoke. He breathed a silent sigh of relief, believing that she simply wanted to clear her conscience. Speak her regret and let it be known she wasn’t in the habit of manhandling kids. He’d be able to catch the last half of Monday night football. He added a go-ahead-nod, but closed his notebook.

“Well,” she continued, “I moved Roger’s boy out of the way, and when I turned to resume our conversation, he made a face like this.” Vera glared and worked her jaw open and closed like the Sesame Street grouch on a tirade. A couple laughs arose at her mime act, but choked into coughs when she added in a cracked voice, “I’m not going to tolerate such disrespect. I’m…just not.” Her gaze dropped to the floor for a moment then yanked back to Phil. “And you saw the whole thing.” Her finger poked the air space between them. “I’ve waited two weeks, and I still haven’t received an apology.”

Silence boomed through the room; its invisible weight slowing time. A few people blinked in confusion. Some gaped as though she’d admitted to waterboarding visitors at Lutheran convocations. Others looked at her sideways, then at the youth director.

Phil’s face was a frozen stare. He didn’t move, feeling as if she’d shoved a cattle prod in his chest. The woman must’ve snapped, her brain cells sparking as they faded. He opened his mouth a couple of times before he found his voice, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you need. It’s unfortunate, and I’ll speak to the kid, if you can figure out which one it was.”

“I want an apology,” she demanded. “I haven’t heard from the child or Roger, and you’ve done nothing about it.”

“What did you want me to do?”

“You saw the whole thing.”

“I was across the room. I saw it, and then you were talking with his dad. I assumed you and Roger had taken care of it.”

“We finished making our cooking plans, but he didn’t apologize and I’m still waiting.”

“How would I know that?” Phil said.

“You said we could come to you if we had problems.” Vera folded her arms across her chest. Since the day it had happened, she’d thought about the kid’s mocking disrespect. But she’d vowed to give her clutch on control a vacation. She’d wait to see what others—Roger, as a parent, and Phil, whose job it was to guide and control kids—would do about the problem. It had turned out like everything else. If she didn’t do it, it didn’t get done.

Phil scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Mrs. Henley, why are you doing this at this meeting? Why are you blasting me in front of all these people?”

“Because I haven’t had an apology yet.” That was the reason that came out of her mouth, but there were parts “b” and “c” which she chose not to embarrass him with in public. He slopped into church in shorts and a ball cap most of the time. The bulk of his inadequate teaching was watching movies or listening to music and then discussing it. He was a nice enough fellow, but needed advice and more years of experience to help 15 adolescents grow up the way they should.

“Look, I’ll talk to him. Why didn’t you mention it immediately?” Phil asked. “You expect me to do something about an incident that happened two weeks ago, but you haven’t let anyone know about it until now?”

Vera straightened her shoulders and took a breath. “I want an apology. This attitude of impertinence is not acceptable from our youth.” She glanced around the room. Faces stared at her. The silence stretched as she waited for someone to agree: the youth could use more manners. Courtesy and respect needed to be part of every grade level’s curriculum.

No one moved. Everyone’s words choked in their throats as though silence had asphyxiated the air from the room.

Vera’s eyes narrowed on the committee chairman, who looked at her as though she had snakes in her hair. Her stare finally roused him to stand and speak. “I think we should support our youth director.” He snatched up his notebook adding, “And…our teachers or anybody who works with kids.” He looked everywhere except Vera’s face. “It’s a hard job. They deserve encouragement. Meeting’s adjourned.”

Vera watched him turn and leave. People hurried from the room, giving each other looks and casting worried glances at her. She pretended not to notice. She’d tried. She’d let go, shared her feelings, expressed her expectations, and people looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. That was what happened when a person asked for help. It wasn’t God that was too small; it was people that were too narrow in their thoughts. She’d had this argument with Jim. If only he were here to see this.

Phil began straightening the room. Vera noted at least he hadn’t run away like the chairman. She approached him as he collapsed metal chairs and put them on the storage rack. Someone needed to help him figure out how to do his job.

The Serious Consequences of Words

“DID YOU HEAR about Vera?” Hettie scanned the cozy interior of Bean Me Up Kafé and headed for two empty chairs.

Kay tossed a tip in the jar, picked up her coffee, and followed. “What’d she do now? Is this why you wanted to meet?”

“It’s related. I need to talk to you about the youth fundraiser which Vera blew out of the water with her outburst last night. She really stepped over the line.”

“She’s stomped over the line for years. Why’s this different?” Kay tossed a newspaper off a chair and sat.

“Because she chewed up the youth director for something Roger’s kid did weeks ago.”

“She’s chewed on everyone at one time or another.” Kay waved her away. “What’d the kid do?”

“After she tugged him around by the shirt collar, he disrespected her by making a face.” Hettie showed her teeth in a mock-mad-dog sneer then rolled her eyes. “It was supposed to be behind her back, but she noticed it. She’s mad because Phil saw it and hasn’t made the kid apologize. She ripped him in front of the entire Education Team.”

“I thought everyone knew she had eyes in the back of her head. Why don’t they both apologize and move on?” Kay shrugged. “And why’d she do it at the meeting?”

“She’s either ill or losing her mind. Haven’t you noticed how short-tempered she’s been at the Ladies Circle?”

Kay shook her head. “Like I pay attention at meetings? And she’s always ticked at me. So, no, nothing seems different.”

“Well…you have to admit you deserve it most of the time.” Hettie took a long sip of her coffee, then not looking at Kay, set it carefully on a napkin, smoothing each corner with a fingertip as she spoke. “I think we should talk to her.”

“She does wonderful projects if you overlook her need to control everything at a cellular level. Why don’t we continue ignoring her behavior like everyone’s been doing for years?”

“Because Pastor Jim is gone, there’s no damper on her. Folks are tired of putting up with it, and she’s getting worse. I’m worried for her.” Hettie risked a glance at Kay. “She doesn’t really have any friends who are honest with her.”

“How about Lorena? She’s a perfectionist like Vera. Or Pastor? He gets paid to talk tough love.”

“Lorena would find fault. And Pastor…he’s too young and new for Vera to take him seriously.” Hettie leaned forward. “You don’t put up with her behavior. You’re the only one who’s ever talked to her honestly, like the night of the Christmas Eve pageant.”

“Well, that’s just sad.” Kay took a sip of coffee. “We’re so afraid of offending each other we don’t say anything. I think she’s stuffed her grief so far down her guts it boils out through her mouth. Just give her time and space.”

“Now the youth director is talking about quitting. Roger refuses to be around her or make his kid apologize.” Hettie gave Kay the serious-consequences stare all teachers have perfected. “If Phil leaves, that means you, as a parent, will get to help lead all the youth activities and fundraisers, chaperone the mission trip, and help Vera make buns.”

Kay’s shoulders slumped. “How about this…you talk to her, and I’ll help you buy the stupid buns.”

Socks, Saints, and Sandwiches

THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, Kay sat with her teen-age sons, Marcus and Kevin, at a table in the narthex. They stared out the window, waiting for the 10 a.m. service to end. The gray skies promised rain. Leaves tumbled across the pavement to meet under bushes. Behind the sanctuary doors, rows of people walked to the chancel to receive communion, the somber words of the Agnus Dei accompanying their steps: “Oh Christ, Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world.”

Marcus began doodling faces with sharp-pointed teeth on the fundraising flyers. “So, if Jesus kicked people out of the temple for selling worship stuff, why is it okay for us to sit here selling sandwiches?”

“I think it was their attitude and the way they were doing it,” Kay said. “The sacrificial system was turning worship into a zoo.”

“What did He expect, Mom? If you have a bunch of goats and birds hanging around, waiting to be snuffed, it’s gonna be like Animal Planet.”

“Sweetie, why do we come to church?”

“Beats me.”

“I come for the food,” Kevin said.

“Thirteen years of Sunday school and all you remember are the cookies?” Kay sighed. “It’s all about grace, you lunkheads. Unmerited love. You’ve received about a billion gifts from God this week, none of which you deserved.”

“I deserve some i-pod accessories,” Kevin said.

“Well, why don’t you thank Him for ears to hear that music?” She tugged on Kevin’s earlobe. “You haven’t done a thing to deserve it, but you hear anyway.” He pulled away from her grasp.

“What does Kevin’s ungratefulness have to do with whether it’s right or wrong to sell sandwiches?” Marcus asked.

Kay sighed. “Is this a serious question, or do you just want to argue?”

“Money changers in the temple, Mom?”

“Okay. How would you feel if I destroyed all your video games, then to make up for it I offered you a steak?”

“Just a steak? That’s not enough.”

“I’ll take it,” Kevin said. “All of his games suck. I’ll destroy them for a steak.”

“Okay. Let’s say your brother destroys all your games then calls it even with a steak; no, let’s say two steaks.”

“Well…my fist would have to connect with the side of Kevin’s head once; no, let’s say two times.”

Kay nodded. “Then to make up for that wrong, you’d have to offer him several steaks.”

“Why don’t I just beat the crap out of him and give him a whole cow?” Marcus smacked his fist into his palm a couple of times.

“And that’s what made Jesus flip tables, that do-what-you-want-attitude and buy a bigger, overpriced sin-offering.”

“So the sacrifice system didn’t work.” Marcus continued punching his palm.

“No, it worked. Jesus became the sacrifice.” Kay placed her hand over his fist. “He died for the times you screw up.”

The boys were silent.

“Was it enough?” she asked quietly.

The words of the Nunc Dimmitus filtered through the doors, “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace…”

“Come on, Marcus.” Kay pushed a sock puppet with green button-eyes toward him and slid a brown-eyed puppet onto her hand. “Service is ending. Time to do skits. I’ll do Socks-for-Missions. You’ve got Sandwiches-for-the-Super-Bowl.”

“No, Mom. I’m not standing in front of everybody with a sock puppet.”

“Kevin?” she shook “green-eyes” at him.

“No.”

“Fine. Then I’ll beg for socks by myself.” She worked “green-eyes” onto her other hand, punching a cavity for his mouth. “You announce the sandwich sale for the youth.”

“No.”

“Why are you being such a pill?”

“I don’t want to go on this mission trip.”

“Then just make the announcement.”

“No. It’s not my trip! I’m spending the summer with Dad. He’s gonna open a store at the lake. He’ll be training a new manager and I’ll be working there.”

Kay’s face didn’t change, but her eyes dimmed. Her shoulders dropped slightly.

“I want to buy a car.”

Kay turned away. Her sock-wrapped hands struggled briefly with the sanctuary door before she hurried inside.

Marcus slapped Kevin in the back of the head. “Moron. You didn’t have to tell her that Dad and his newest girlfriend are spending the summer at the lake cabin.”

“I didn’t.” Kevin paid back the slap with a punch.

“You’re such a loser.”

“I don’t want to go on a mission trip.”

“Then tell her that, Snot-Brain. Not the lake stuff.”

“I did tell her. You don’t wanna go either.”

In a few minutes the sanctuary door opened and Kay slipped out. She threw the socks on their table without looking at the boys and walked to the parking lot.

Marcus slapped his brother on the back of the head once more.

*

Kay sat in the car composing herself. Sure, it was a store manager. They’d all been store managers. That’s why it had taken her so long to figure it out. That and because she’d trusted him. And why did it still bother her?

Change was stomping through her life again. It had taken long enough to shoulder a divorce and throw off the fear she’d be living under a bridge with two kids, digging for food in dumpsters—then her job had downsized.

Along with the stress of a new position, middle school had set off a collection of crises. Now, just when life’s bumps had smoothed into a mildly teeth-jarring but expected ride, the boys would rather be with their dad and his “newest hire” at the lake. Unbelievable.

From her usual back-row parking spot, she watched people filter out of church. In the first months of divorce, she’d learned her emotions would betray her anywhere: during a service, in the check-out line at Bob’s BoxMart, or alongside the road, when a flat tire made her blubber until passers-by thought she was hurt. Her body seemed to think a good cry was necessary in order to go on.

She’d learned never to weep in the church restroom. Someone would hear her in a stall and ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Sniffles. Nose-blowing. “I’m all right.”

But the do-gooder wouldn’t go away. There’d be silence. She’d ask again, “You don’t sound okay. Can I help somehow?” Sometimes the would-be-rescuer recruited help.

The new arrival always posed the same question, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Mental admonitions: Get it Together! Get It Together.

Whispers carried through the door as rescuers decided what to do. “We’re not leaving you alone and crying.”

Great.

She remembered the time a wad of tissues, pinched in a well-manicured hand, appeared under the stall door. She could imagine Lorena’s plump figure—bent over, waving tissues, not saying a word. The seams of Lorena’s matched ensemble must’ve been straining like a hammock holding an elephant. The thought made Kay laugh, filling in her pity hole.

People walked through the parking lot. Kay checked the cars on either side of her. Two vehicles away, Allie sat, dabbing her eyes. Must be Crying Day at church. Should she rap on the window? Wave tissues?

Kay searched the glove box, finding only a used napkin from the Dari-Drive. She hadn’t bawled in a long time—so why now? It wasn’t really her ex’s fault.

Change was kicking the slats out from under her again. Why wouldn’t it stop? Like that was ever going to happen. Maybe that’s why she was so irritable. Maybe that’s why she’d enjoyed pushing Vera’s buttons on Christmas Eve.

She watched the lady-who-always-wears-hats get into her Buick. The hats rarely matched her outfits. How did that woman have the confidence—or ignorance—to show off her bad fashion sense?

Kay looked at her own red shirt and cranberry vest, remembering this morning she’d informed her mirror she looked fine. It was church, not the Country Music Awards. Her conscience stung as it usually did when trying to flog her with wisdom. The tatty traits she disliked in others were holstered in her own soul.

“Crap.” Her eyes widened. She’d become Vera. She, too, only allowed pre-approved change, fighting anything that unhinged her comfort. She tried to squelch her inner-goody-two-shoe’s voice. Still…the accusation that she was like Vera—simply fighting change in a different way—crawled through her mind.

The longer she argued with the revelation, the more clearly discernment sank into reality.

She flipped down the visor to check if she had any visible Vera-features. Thankfully, no, but she could understand how Vera felt. Both of them refused to let go of what they were losing. It was an eye-opener, but it didn’t mean she needed to be Vera’s buddy or encourage the woman to spill her guts like Hettie was suggesting. Kay slapped the tiny mirror upward into place and let out a long breath. Wiping her eyes and combing her fingers through her hair, she opened the door, looking for Allie’s car. The spot was vacant.

*

At the final “Thanks be to God,” Pastor Poe had opened the doors to see Kevin and Marcus punching each other. They immediately stopped. Before he could say anything, a parishioner grabbed the pastor’s hand and began pumping it. The pastor gave the boys a questioning look, and then turned his focus to the gaggle of people exiting the sanctuary.

A skinny man wandered over to the sandwich table, “When’s the Super Bowl?”

“Uh…sometime in January, I think.”

“Okay, well, how many people will your three-foot sandwich feed?”

“I don’t know. I could probably eat one all by myself,” Kevin said.

“Yeah, we call him Elephant-Gut,” Marcus said.

“Shut up, Crow-Beak.” Kevin tried to flick Marcus’s nose, but his brother dodged.

“What kinds of meat can I have on my sandwich?”

“Huh?”

“Do I get a choice of meat and cheeses?”

“There’s a flyer.” Marcus pushed a vampire-doodled paper at the parishioner.

The man studied it. “There’re no prices. How much are they?” Kevin shrugged.

Vera leveled a glare at the boys as she stepped next to the gentleman. “Could you be any more unhelpful?” Kevin gave her the sullen stare perfected by high-schoolers.

“I’ve got this.” Hettie patted Vera’s shoulder. She elbowed Kevin with a “Stop-it” nudge and answered questions, providing on-the-job training. Vera gave the boys a dark frown and left, glancing over her shoulder. The boys were busy giving half-answers to another member. Satisfied no one was making faces at her, she walked on.

Back at the table, five-year-old Johnny had grabbed the sock puppets. His dad had paused, with a whining daughter on his hip, and asked, “Can I take a flyer home? We’ll call in our order.” Johnny stuffed his hands in socks and made them eat his sister’s leg. She squealed and kicked.

“Johnny, put them back.” Fred grabbed. “They don’t belong to you.”

“He can have them. I never want to see ’em again,” Marcus said. Johnny grinned, holding the puppets over his head, their sock mouths chomping at the boys.

Kevin leaned forward with bared teeth and claw-like hands. He hissed, “How’d you like to sit with Saint Scary?”

Johnny became quiet, his hands clamped to his sides as he stepped behind his father.

“Forget The Former Things” Isaiah 43:18

“I ESCAPED BEFORE the juice cup disasters,” Allie called out as the February wind followed her through the church doors. Flyers on the bulletin board flapped. Newsletters somersaulted through the air and dropped around the ladder in the middle of the narthex. “Sorry,” she groaned, stooping to pick up papers as the doors wheezed shut.

“Miserable day, huh? Thanks for coming out.” Kay balanced on the ladder, a pair of pink-toed footies in her hand. Fifteen pairs of socks already dangled from the ceiling.

“I’m thrilled to get out of the house. Besides,” Allie hung her coat on the rack, “my husband needs more experience with spills and stickiness.”

“You may be sorry. We’re hanging so many socks Vera will have a new benchmark for overdoing it. Will you give me a break and tape for a while? I’ll string them.”

“O…kay.” They traded places, Allie gingerly climbing the rungs. She blinked several times, took a breath, then stuck a fishing line to the ceiling, a pair of baby booties twisting on the end.

“You all right?”

“Bad morning. Let’s leave it behind.” She held out a hand, waiting for another pair. “You like to mess with Vera, don’t you?”

Kay paused, giving the young woman a studied look. She carried the marks of a weary mom. Dark semi-circles lined her eyes. A frazzled ponytail. Food stains on baggy sweat pants. Kay nodded. “Does that bother you?”

“Well…it seems like someone should say something to her.”

“And you think no one has.”

“I…don’t know. I thought people in a church would have these problems worked out.”

Kay laughed as she held a pair of athletic socks up. “Think of the church as a hospital for sinners. That’s what it is according to Martin Luther. In other words, we all need some reconstruction. Nobody’s close to perfect—even me—if you can believe that.”

Allie’s eyes widened in feigned shock. Kay smiled as she threaded a sock with fishing line. “We try to work together. We mess up. We forgive it or forget it. Most people hate conflict and confrontation.”

“You don’t.”

Kay stared at her. “Do you work with any annoying people or have any quirky relatives?”

“Who doesn’t? My brother’s so cheap; he still has his first communion money.”

“And when you tell him how that irritates you, he changes and lives the way you think he should?”

“Well…no.” Allie shrugged.

“It takes a bucketload of patience and care doesn’t it? You have to pick your battles.” Kay handed her a pair of hunting socks. “I don’t have the energy to argue with Vera. And I sure don’t have the time.”

“I get that,” Allie said. “So that makes me wonder about that ‘adi-furry’ you mentioned at our meeting. Hettie said it got you out of a lot of projects.”

Kay laughed again and handed her a pair of girl’s anklets. “Adiophora. It’s Greek for ‘middle things’. Stuff that’s not essential to salvation.”

“Still clueless.” Allie frowned spacing the socks evenly.

“It’s when KiKi Smith complains there’s not enough wine in her little communion cup, or Maggie thinks we should sing more of those ol’ time-religion hymns, or—and this is my personal favorite—when Edna threatened to leave the church if we started using tambourines. It’s not important. I refuse to get pulled into the discussion.”

“Who’s Edna?” Allie had a puzzled look.

“She doesn’t go here anymore.”

“Because of tambourines?”

“Because some people have a cow if you change anything. Adiophora means you ask, ‘Is this essential to where my soul spends eternity?’” Kay shrugged and held up striped knee socks.

“Do you mean we can have jazz or heavy metal at church because music isn’t essential to salvation?”

“Let ’er rip. You’d have to haul several people out from heart attacks, but as long as it points to God and draws you to an attitude of worship—rock on.”

“But…that means most of the things in the sanctuary—aren’t required.”

“Bingo.” Kay pointed at her. “Can’t you see Jesus at the Sea of Galilee saying, ‘Hey! One of you disciples get candles and a choir. And bring the green hymnal, not the red one. I can’t deliver words to save your souls without those items.’” Kay smiled, watching Allie absorb the weight of this revelation. “In Martin Luther’s time, they didn’t even have pews. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we have them—it’s hard to sleep standing up—but bulletins, robes, even music aren’t crucial. Although,” Kay patted her heart, “I’d keep our gurgling baptismal font. It’s like having a water feature, reminding me of my baptism.”

“Now that’s essential isn’t it”? Aren’t we supposed to be baptized?”

“Hey! One of you other disciples go get me a baptismal font,” Kay mocked. “I’m not using the river Jordan anymore. Too much pollution and the bathing laws are getting so strict. Salvation needs props.”

She handed Allie more socks. “Anyway, that’s adiaphora: choice about non-essential items. I don’t get my tail in a twist over frou-frou.”

“But that’s what I like about the church—the different colors of the church season and the mysterious symbols everywhere.”

“Actually, we stole that from the Roman Catholics when we split. The Episcopals took it too. Grace is our big thing. So simple. So complex.”

“The-I-can-do-anything. I’m-covered-because-of-grace doctrine. Right?”

“Ha.” Kay shot a pair of stretchy socks off her fingers at Allie as though they were a rubber band. “That’s like saying, ‘If I cut off my head, I won’t have any more bad hair days.’ If you do something wrong or hurt yourself or someone else, you’ve broken the harmony and justice of life. You have a mark against your name.”

“Wow, Kay, you probably have a lot of marks against your name.” Allie made giant eyes of horror.

Kay returned the look with a flat stare. “Just takes one. The penalty is death.”

“But Jesus took my place so I’m free from your scare tactics.” Allie shook her head.

“Yeah,” Kay’s voice dropped, “but when someone takes your place for death, it does something to you. When a friend of mine was little, he was sitting in a jeep on top of the river bluff. The rest of his family had gotten out to admire the view. The parking brake gave way. As the jeep slowly edged over the cliff, Bill’s mother jumped in and threw him to safety.

“She made it out?

Kay shook her head. “She sacrificed herself so her son could live.”

The silence spun out. Kay finally interrupted their thoughts. “It makes you wonder why anyone would die for another. Especially a stranger.”

“Love.”

“It’s unfathomable.” Kay rubbed a furry sock between her fingers. “Unmerited love. It changes you. Makes you want to do the best you can. Perhaps it’s some small way of saying ‘thank you for saving me.’”

Sobs shook Allie’s body.

Kay stared. “It worked out okay. Bill grew up to be a wonderful man.” She patted Allie’s leg. “I just meant it’s impossible to truly understand grace then do anything you want—like be an axe murderer.”

Allie clung to the ladder, bawling even harder. In-between shuddering breaths, she gasped, “I’m such a bad mother.”

“Come here.” Kay guided her down. “Let’s sit in the sanctuary.” Allie shook her head.

“It’s a sanctuary, a place of refuge. You don’t have to talk. I’ve cried buckets in there. It’s better than the women’s restroom, believe me.” Kay herded her through the door.

Beams of sunlight shafted through the stained glass windows. The light of the eternal candle flickered in its red vase. Squeezing Allie’s hand, Kay leaned back in the padded pew and closed her eyes, letting the hushed serenity creep over her. Occasionally she heard a whimper next to her. Smells of old hymnals, extinguished candles, and former floral arrangements hung in the air. Kay had forgotten what it was like to let the sounds of the church settle around her. The silence was different than being alone in her car or by herself in the middle of the night. This silence was peaceful.

After some time, Allie took back her hand and wiped her face. “Johnny has an old second-hand hamster. One morning it didn’t move, so I rubbed its little chest. I stuck a straw in its mouth and puffed. It came back to life. No tears. No kid drama. About once a week I had to CPR the hamster, then every day.

“I couldn’t keep sneaking around resurrecting him, so I thought the humane thing would be to end it. I put Hairy in a bag and attached it to the muffler.” She glanced at Kay. “The bag caught on fire—in the garage. Five hundred dollars of damage.”

“Oh crap,” Kay said.

“What kind of mother am I? I’m a hamster killer. And I don’t want to be pregnant again.”

“You are?”

Allie nodded, tears trailing down her cheeks. “It’s selfish, but I was looking forward to a change. For a few precious hours, both kids will be in school next year. I was going to have time to myself. Now I’ll be tied to diapers, night feedings, two little ones, and a baby. I’ll be trapped again. Then I feel guilty for feeling this way.”

Kay nodded. “I had a friend who called it: I-Want-To-Read-A-Book-Without-Pictures syndrome. I called it: I’m-Tired-of-Being-Stepped-Spit-and-Pooped-On.”

“You don’t think I’m bad?” Allie asked.

“I once considered leaving my kid in the baby-food aisle. I figured anyone shopping for kid-chow must have a baby and would know how to take care of another one.”

“You didn’t.”

“It seems funny because now I’m worried about my kids leaving me. You’re normal, Allie. You’re stressed, but it’s a normal thing.”

“I still feel like an awful mother.”

“You should talk to my ex-mother-in-law. She’d tell you about my failures. You’d feel better in a jiffy.”

“But you never wished you weren’t pregnant.”

“I use a different, more sinister technique. I wish my kids’ lives away. When they were born, I wished they were older so they’d sleep through the night. Then I wanted them a few months older so they’d be potty trained. If they were just a few years older, they could dress themselves. Then I add more years so they’ll get off the phone, go to college, or get out of the house. Next, I’ll be wishing they’ll come back for a visit.”

“Everybody does that.”

“Yeah, we wish our lives away instead of living in this moment. It’s simpler than changing ourselves. It’s easier to stay in a crummy job, complain about our kids, or avoid people we’re annoyed with than do the internal repair work.”

They sat in silence.

Dust motes drifted in the shafts of sunlight. The large wooden beams of the church creaked as the wind blew outside.

Kay frowned at her own words. She preferred to poke fun at Vera or better yet, avoid her, rather than do the repair work. She didn’t even want to help Hettie with a heart to heart.

“This would probably be a good time to remember grace,” Allie said.

Kay shook away her thoughts, patting Allie’s knee. “Indeed. Let’s slap the rest of those socks in the windows and go have a cup of hot chocolate.”

“What about plastering them on the ceiling, surprising Vera?”

“Maybe I should change instead. I’m sorry I had you on a ladder.”

Allie waved away the apology. “Thanks for listening.”

“Don’t feel like you have to carry your burdens by yourself,” Kay said.

“You mean like sitting in the car and crying alone?” Allie gave her a meaningful look.

Kay blinked. “Now I don’t know whether to follow my own counsel, or stop giving unrequested advice.”

Allie smiled, raising her eyebrows twice. “Neither,” she said.

Lent

A FEW DAYS later, an empty Taco Bell cup skittered across Hettie’s path. The schoolteacher held a hand above her glasses, shielding them from the drizzle, and watched the wind bounce the cup across the parking lot. Her coat flapped against her legs as she ducked her head and pushed toward the doors of the church. Once inside, she combed her curly hair with her fingers and made her way to the Fellowship Hall. The rain always fuzzed her locks into a Chia Pet. “Half of the leaves of Kansas have blown into Oklahoma,” she greeted everyone. “And they’re all congregating in my front yard.” Women murmured in agreement, patting their hair or pulling their sweaters to their chests.

“Ladies, let’s get started,” Vera said, waiting for the usual interruptions. Silence and a circle of faces peered at her. She hesitated. “Okay. We haven’t had a treasurer’s report in a while, Hettie?”

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Vera. I didn’t bring it.” She shucked out of her coat as she sat down. “We’ve got money. The youth made over $340 on sandwiches for the Super Bowl and they reimbursed us for all purchases, including buns.” She shot Kay a keep-your-mouth-shut look.

Instead, Nan expressed everyone’s thoughts. “Wasn’t Vera baking the buns?” All heads turned to the chairwoman.

Vera cleared her throat. “Roger and his sons signed up to help, but…were unable to assist in the baking, so we bought the bread.” She didn’t add that Roger had said she’d “already baked his buns” and she could “wait till the Apocalypse” before his kid apologized. No wonder the child acted unmannerly.

“Great,” Kay said. “Now pass the chocolate.”

“The youth have a good start on their fundraising.” Vera kept her eyes on her hands. “So how much is in our account, Hettie?”

“Let’s see. We bought wine and cheese trays for our Christmas party, but we’ve got plenty of dollars left.”

“Let’s have a Valentine’s Party or trip,” Nan said.

“The money is not to fritter away.” Vera aimed a stare at the organist. “It should be spent on mission projects and needed church items rather than party supplies.”

“Yeah. What’s the matter with you?” Kay squinted at Nan.

The organist became busy with her knitting, mumbling, “How’s wine and cheese an approved expenditure?

Kay picked up a chocolate chip cookie. “You should’ve drunk more. It’s definitely a needed church item.”

“Hettie, I was not aware that came out of our account,” Vera said.

“Well,” Hettie rubbed her forehead, “it started out as a cookie-exchange. Of course, we were supposed to bring something to eat, too. Then a few folks wanted an ornament swap. So everyone needed to bring three dozen cookies, the recipe, an ornament, and an appetizer.

“Then the phone calls started. Ladies complained they were too busy to gather all that stuff. To make it easy, I told everyone to just come; there’d be food.”

“I brought cookies to exchange,” Micki said, “but I was the only one, so we ate them.”

“Ooooh, I remember the Triple-Chocolate-Fudgies. Can you give me the recipe?” Kay patted her fingers together.

Vera jerked her hand to a halt signal. “You’ve already had your chance for recipe exchange. Hettie, in the future you need to run all expenditures by me. Now who has the minutes of the last meeting?” The room was silent. Kay leaned across the table to scoot a piece of paper toward Micki. Vera watched, saying, “Are you passing around a copy of the minutes?”

Kay opened her mouth, but Hettie shoved an elbow in her ribs. Kay narrowed her eyes at the curly-haired teacher then faced the chairwoman. “Sorry, Vera. That was my e-mail address for the recipe.”

Vera stared at the two for a moment then asked, “Who is secretary?” Silence blanketed the room. “I do the correspondence, reports and anything important. Are you telling me I gave one assignment, and that person couldn’t be compelled to take minutes?”

“Do you remember who you punished with the task?” Kay said and received another nudge from Hettie.

“Nan.”

The organist’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. “Wasn’t me. I’m knitting, minding my own business. Not saying a word.”

Vera gazed around the table, her eyes resting on, “Micki. You seem to be fidgeting.” Kay gave a snort and ducked under the table. “Kay,” Vera tapped her pencil on the table, “do you have something you’d like to say?”

“Yes. I have a lot to say,” Kay sat up, clutching her purse and a metal box of mints, “but Hettie would elbow me again. Besides, I need to get home early to help my darlings test their theory of nuclear fission, so could we move along?”

Vera closed her eyes, shaking her head, and let out a breath. After a moment she turned her focus to the agenda in front of her. Micki mouthed thank you. Kay mouthed, recipe. Both nodded.

“We’ll move on to Lent, a time for repentance and reflection,” Vera began. She waited for the inevitable interruptions.

Silent, waiting faces surrounded the table. Kay made keep-going hand gestures. Vera hesitated, suspecting a prank. Seeing no booby-traps, she asked, “Would anyone like to help the Sanctuary Arts committee decorate for Lent?”

Lorena’s hand shot up.

“Allie, you’re new. Would you like to learn about Lent by helping?” Vera asked.

“She’s not interested,” Lorena said.

“Allie?” Vera pressed.

“I don’t know much about Lent, and Lorena wants to do it.”

“I’d like someone from the Ladies Circle to oversee the Sanctuary Arts.”

“I’m part of the Circle too,” Lorena said. “I just don’t come.”

“We don’t let Lorena decorate for Lent,” Micki explained to Allie.

“Because of that “adi-furry” thing?”

“No because…” Micki gazed upward, casting about for the right words. “Because Lorena loves Lent a bit too much.”

“In other words, it looks like a morgue when she decorates,” Hettie said.

Lorena nodded. “The darker the mood, the brighter and more uplifting Easter will be.”

“Lent is an old Anglo-Saxon word meaning ‘spring,’ not ‘death’.” With her eyes, Vera tried to encourage others to volunteer. “Kay? You and Allie did a nice job on the sock campaign.”

“Did you just give me a compliment?” Kay cocked her head sideways, looking at Vera. “You are desperate.” She turned and gave Hettie a worried glance.

Vera sighed. “Lorena, do you truly understand that Lent is a time for renewal and growth? A time to spend working on our discipleship and recommitment?”

Kay took another cookie from the plate. “Then what’s with the ashes, sackcloth, and fasting during the season?”

“Worship aids.” Vera gave the table a couple of pencil-taps.

“I set the tone.” Lorena floated a hand in an artsy manner. “Just a splish of black here and there to remind us of the season.”

“Yes, you walk into one of her Lent-themed rooms,” Hettie frowned, “and you feel death is sitting next to you in the pew.”

“Lorena can decorate, and the Ladies Circle can host a pancake supper for Faschnacht,” Kay said. “We haven’t done that in years.”

“That’s the German version of Fat Tuesday—without the parade, bourbon, and nudity,” Micki whispered to Allie. “It’s pretty much about eating.”

“Ja! Ja!” Kay rubbed her belly, getting a giggle from Nan who was trying to be quiet.

“Actually,” corrected Vera, “on Faschnacht the Germans served a type of potato doughnut,” she cast a glance at Kay, “and paraded around in fools’ masks. The doughnuts used up the grease and eggs in the household before the Lenten Fast began.”

“Well, I like doughnuts, but I don’t want a whole supper of them.” Hettie patted her friend’s shoulder. “For once Kay had a good idea.”

Lorena tapped her manicured nails on the table. “I agree. The Bible says, ‘for every time there is a season.’ All in favor of beginning our starving season with pancakes raise your hand.”

“Lorena.” Hettie used her teacher’s voice. “How about letting Vera run the meeting?”

Vera closed her eyes, gave a huff, and shook her head. She waved her hand in dismissal. “I guess you’ve decided, then.”

“Surely our ancestors had beer at this thing. It’d be much better attended,” Kay said as Nan quietly left the room before job assignments began.

“Vengeance is Mine…Says the Lord” Romans 12:21

THREE WEEKS LATER, Allie stood at the church kitchen stove, creating flapjacks in the shape of overweight bears with chocolate chip eyes. Lopsided piles of golden pancakes sat in warming trays. Allie’s husband placed a vat of maple syrup next to pots of homemade blueberry and chunky strawberry syrups. He gave each container a stir and adjusted the flame under the chafing dishes. Bowls of bananas, pineapple, raspberries, walnuts, and honey-butter littered the table. It wasn’t magazine-pretty, but there was plenty of it. Accordion music and the scent of fried bacon drifted through the Fellowship Hall.

“Is Elke going to play his wheeze-box during this whole meal?” one of the ladies asked Vera as they filed downstairs.

“I don’t know. I didn’t okay it.” Vera’s words dropped like ice on the tiled floor. She had made careful sign-up sheets for the Faschnacht Feast. Food wouldn’t be duplicated. Her work shifts would cover all tasks. The notices she’d put in the bulletins had given plenty of advance notice. She hadn’t used the graphics Kay designed for the event: a pile of happy pancakes covered with a syrup cross. It was too kitschy. Vera had thanked her, and then used her own PR. Simple, plain words got the job done. Everything had been planned.

“Elke.” Vera tapped the white-haired man on the shoulder. “I didn’t know you were playing, today. You didn’t sign up.”

“I asked Pastor Poe,” he said as he did a double-step, dancing with the three-year-old at his feet. “He told me to have a good time.”

Vera scanned the room for the minister. Her face went blank when she saw the banner over a coffee stand with Kay’s Christian pancakes smiling and announcing: Lattes for Mission Trips. Beneath the bright banner, Hettie’s husband was straw-bossing the youth on how to use the borrowed espresso machine.

She hadn’t approved the fundraiser either. Good grief! Would no one tell her anything anymore? Vera returned to scanning the room for the Pastor. The grooves of her frown deepened as her sight skipped over the woman ordering a drink. Most likely, she’d had a hand in this insurrection.

“I’ll have a decaf, single, ristretto, grande, five-pump chocolate, non-fat, no whip, extra-hot mocha,” Kay said.

Hettie’s husband, a broad-shouldered man, kept his wire-rimmed glasses riding on the tip of his nose. He peered over their rims, giving her a spiritless look. “You can have a latte: caramel, vanilla, or raspberry.”

“Such a surly employee. Don’t expect a tip.”

“I’m going to make yours last.”

“Elke.” Kay waved. “Come over here and play right next to Merle; he just loves polka music.”

The stairwell next to them began to vibrate. Children came thundering down the steps only to be tugged back outside by parents. Most of the kids’ feet were covered with muck and grass clippings.

Micki watched Johnny grab a plate, pieces of mud flaking onto it from his small, grubby hands. “How did you get so filthy, honey?”

He gave the adult a skeptical frown. “I was playing outside.” Without a word, his father took the plate and pulled him toward the restroom.

“No. No. I wanna eat.” he yelled.

Their exodus passed Lorena who was coming down the stairs. “I know just how you feel, kid,” she said and walked directly toward the table of ladies sipping their lattes.

“Lorena! You…look…uh…” Nan paused.

“Like I stuck my head in a toilet and flushed it a couple of times?”

“Well, I was going to say frazzled.”

“It’s those damn Canada geese hanging around on our lawn. Everyone thinks they’re so charming.”

“Lorena. Such language out of that designer mouth of yours.” Kay held a hand to her cheek. “And it’s just one lonely goose, the rest are ducks.”

“I don’t care. All of those fowl are instruments of Satan. They’re possessed! I was walking across our lawn with a bowl of fruit, and that big ol’ he-goose runs right at me, beating his wings and hissing like a snake.”

“He hissed?” Hettie asked.

“You can tell a bird’s gender?” Kay’s eyebrows rose.

“He hissed, spit, and his head spun on his neck.” Lorena twirled her finger. “He probably was vomiting algae too. I don’t know. I screamed, ran, then I tripped, or slipped, or something. Right down into a flowerbed of mud and duck crap. I’ll probably have typhoid and—”

“I wish I could’ve seen that,” Nan said. Receiving Lorena’s stare, she added, “But it’s terrible.”

“I think it’s just diarrhea and pink eye you’ll get; typhoid comes from rats.” Kay patted her shoulder.

Lorena held her glare. “It gets worse. I tried to look nice today because I wanted to meet the new guy, Robert Fullerton—again. But I’d spilled my Heavenly Peachy Salad, and as soon as I was down, those ducks were on me like I was a June bug. They noodled my legs and my new floral blouse; the goose was taking whacks at my head. The only reason I look this good is because half of the demon spawn was attacking Vera.”

“Poor Vera. That’s just what she needs.” Hettie looked around the room. “To discover even the birds have it in for her.”

“Hey! She did better than yours truly here. After she booted a few, they backed off. And then Walt ran to help her. Of course, I was being pecked alive at the time. Finally, he got around to rescuing me, trying to whack those da—those demonic birds off my back. Hit me in the head once. He was behind me, and when he yanked me to my feet, I used more than a few inelegant words on him. He’s the one who made feeding stands for that crew of moochers. I was serious-mad.

“That’s when I heard Walt laughing…and Vera, too. I turned and saw it was Robert Fullerton who’d tried to save me.”

“That’s awful.” Kay hid her grin under her hand.

“What’d you do then?” Micki asked, nudging Kay.

“I went home and took a quick shower. I wasn’t going to come back, but I’ve got the second shift on kitchen duty. Besides…I’m getting even with Walt for putting out duck food and enjoying those terrorist birds.”

“I think,” Micki bit her lower lip, “according to the Bible, you’re supposed to talk to Walt first, rather than attack.”

“I won’t hurt him.”

“She only attacks new members, like Robert Fullerton,” Kay said. “But you can’t blame Walt. Everyone in town comes here to feed the birds. They like seeing them nest in our bushes and waddle around the parking lot with their babies. It’s not Walt’s fault there’s a watershed pond next door.”

Lorena smiled, adding over her shoulder as she left, “Let me just say, the youth will have a successful fundraiser today.”

*

After a short prayer, plates were filled. Pastor Poe walked around, squirting whipped cream on top of pancakes and cups of hot chocolate. He requested a break in the music so there could be a round of applause for Vera and the volunteers, and he added how much he appreciated all that she did. Elke used the opportunity to fill a plate with griddlecakes, but shortly, the edges of the room were filled with children hopping to his accordion notes again.

The little ones dancing next to the coffee corner were offered bribes of extra whipped cream if they’d bring the teens food. The espresso business was so brisk the youth didn’t have a chance to eat. Micki’s daughter, recruiting latte orders table-by-table, was surprised that Walt had never had any “fancy-pants coffees.”

Lorena waved teen away. “I’ll take care of Walt.” She turned to the Property Manger. “I’ll get you a regular cup of ‘joe’. Do you put anything in it?”

In a few moments, she returned, placing his coffee in front of him. He took a sip, set it down, and stared at it. Dipping his fork into his cup, he lifted out wet feathers.

Lorena winked at him. “Since you like those birds so much, I thought you’d enjoy a drink with them.”

“I suppose I deserve this,” Walt nodded, “but Vera has a plan to save you. She’s—”

“I don’t need Vera to take over. I’ve already handled it myself. Have you ever tried to get duck doo out of a new blouse, Walt? It’s nasty-difficult.” She aimed a lethal stare at him and retreated to the kitchen.

*

Lorena slipped a bib apron over her head. “Hey, Allie. Fred. I’m here to relieve you. Sorry I’m late.”

“You okay after your attack?” Fred began untying his apron.

“Shitake mushrooms! Does everyone know?”

“Vera told us. Have a cup of tea.” Allie pointed to a mug. “I’d have done the same thing. They would’ve found my legs sticking out of the bushes.”

Fred slipped an arm around his wife, patting her stomach. “Good thing you’re stuck in the kitchen with me and missing the excitement.”

Lorena stared at them, watching Allie bow her head and put her hand on top of Fred’s. A smile started at the corner of Lorena’s mouth and spread to her eyes. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

The ladies washing dishes turned off the running water. Those pouring and serving juice turned around. Hettie, who’d been digging in the closet, peered out the door at Allie. “What’d you say?”

Allie cast a glance at Fred, murmuring, “I’m due in October.”

Voices burst out in congratulations. Lorena stuck her head through the kitchen door. “Elke. Stop squeezing that thing for a moment,” she yelled into the Fellowship Hall. “Hey everybody, enjoy those pancakes because the chef won’t be cooking for us for a while. She’s pregnant.”

There was a long moment while the church members stared at the empty doorway, waiting for someone to appear. A blushing Allie and embarrassed Fred stepped out to applause and cheers. “Happy Birthday” wheezed from the squeeze box because Elke couldn’t think of anything else to play.

*

“I hope they wanted that announced.” Kay wiped plates as she took them out of the dishwasher.

“It’s a baby.” Hettie glanced up from pouring syrup into plastic containers. “Why wouldn’t you tell everybody?”

“You’re just mad because I beat you to it.” Lorena flipped her dish towel at Kay. “That announcement is something you would’ve done.”

Kay paused, staring at the wall. If she hadn’t known Allie regretted this pregnancy, she would’ve done the same thing. Perhaps with more style, shouting it like a newsboy. How often had she acted without considering what other people wanted? How many times had she done it to her friends so everyone could laugh?

“Are you all right?” Hettie asked.

Kay searched the schoolteacher’s face. “Have I…ever…done things to hurt you?” She ducked her head. She’d often run over Hettie. The teacher was an easy target for a joke.

“Why, Kay,” Hettie grabbed her arm, “it’s all right.” A tiny gasp came from Kay’s throat before she could catch it. Hettie pulled her into a hug.

“What’s the matter?” whispered Micki, shutting off the faucet where she rinsed plates.

“Well, at least you’re not hiding in the bathroom with your emotions.” Lorena circled the counter, rested her hand on Kay’s shoulder, and patted her back. Nan joined them.

“Don’t leave me out.” Micki didn’t bother to dry her hands, encircling as many people as she could.

“Okay. I’m feeling weird here.” Kay tried to shrug free. “I realized that I joke about whatever pops into my mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Kay,” Hettie said, “that’s just you.”

“But I’m sorry for the pain. I don’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“You don’t hurt people on purpose.”

“Oh, back off! She needs absolution. She needs to hear it.” Nan grabbed Kay’s shoulders. “We forgive you, Kay. We love you and forgive you.” Then she pulled her into a hug. Micki was tearing up.

“Why are you crying?” Lorena asked Micki.

“I don’t know. It all feels so healing. Why’s Hettie crying?”

Vera appeared at the doorway, her head cocked, her eyebrows knitted as she assessed the teary-eyed group.

“Come on, Vera.” Micki waved. “We’re forgiving each other.”

Hesitating, she set her coffee cup on the counter, crossed the kitchen, and placed a hand on Micki’s arm.

Kay attempted to shrug free again. “Lutherans don’t do this. We’re not touchy-feely.”

“Then don’t tell anybody,” Hettie said. “Don’t be anyone but yourself, Kay. We love you just as you are.”

“That makes me want to be a better me.” A tear escaped from Kay’s eye. With a crooked smile, she wriggled her arm free, using a sleeve to wipe her cheek.

“It’s a group-hug-thing. Join us,” Micki announced to the youth director, who’d trailed into the kitchen. He took one look at the women, and left.

Vera made her exit too, but she paused at the doorway, looking back. Someone in the group had giggled. She watched the women break apart with laughter, wiping their faces with aprons and towels.

She took a deep breath, arranged her face to neutral, stepped into the dining room, and began picking up dirty plates. People didn’t realize how important it was to hug the single people in church—particularly the widows.

*

“Come on, Walt.” Kay and Lorena stood in the Fellowship Hall beside the two men sitting at the table. Kay jerked her head toward the espresso bar. “Let’s get a coffee.”

“Oh, I don’t drink that stuff. I promised Juan Valdez I’d buy only his pure Columbian beans.”

“Then help me carry them.” She pulled on his arm.

“Heavens, woman! Anyone with a grip like that doesn’t need help hefting a few cups of coffee.”

“Walt, come with me.” She smiled. “Please?” As they left, Lorena slid into his chair, next to Robert Fullerton.

The coffee line was short, and when they returned with drinks, Kay noted Lorena’s apology must have been short also because now they were chatting about his job. The group’s conversation continued in starts and stops. The only dialogue Walt contributed was holding up his latte every now and then and saying, “This isn’t half bad.”

Only a few people were left in the Hall when they pushed back their chairs to leave. “Wait, Walt.” Lorena’s eyes flittered between the floor and the Property Manager’s face. “I apologized to Robert for my bad behavior this afternoon, but I need to apologize to you. I’ll help you clean up the mess.”

“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have laughed when the ducks tried to eat you. I think Micki already cleaned that cup of feathers you served me.”

Lorena didn’t look relieved. “I’ll see you in the parking lot.”

Walt squinted at her. “You need a ride? Robert’s with me, but there’s room.”

“Never mind.” Lorena walked away.

Walt blinked. “What’d I do now?”

“She’s had a rough day.” Kay gave them a good-bye wave and hurried to the kitchen where Lorena was filling a pail with water. “Okay. What gives?”

“Kay, what have you gotten out of this Faschnacht Feast?”

“Unmerited forgiveness is a wonderful thing. Why?”

Grabbing some rags and hefting the bucket from the sink, Lorena hurried up the stairs. “I learned revenge is a bad idea.”

“What’d you do?”

Lorena continued through the front of the church doors, and into the parking lot. When she got outside, she set the bucket down and pointed at the men getting into the vehicle. “It’s too late now. Just watch.”

The men closed the doors. Lorena frowned as the guys carried on their conversation like they were in a coffee shop. She picked up her bucket and hurried to the Dodge. “Walt.” Lorena rapped on the window. “You guys are probably sitting in crap. There’s a goose behind your seat.”

He rolled down the glass. “And you toted that out here to clean it up for me?”

“I paid the kids to put the Satan Goose in your truck.”

“You’re a terrible influence on our young people.” Walt squinted at her, shaking his head as he cranked the starter. “It so happens, Vera saved you. She told me to transport your deadly goose to the lake. I asked the kids to help me catch it. They told me you’d already requisitioned them. It’s in the back.”

A cardboard box sat in the truck’s bed. A goose’s black-and-white-striped head poked in and out of a hole in the top.

“They were supposed to put it in the cab.” Lorena frowned.

“Well, considering what you paid for his capture, you should be happy about contributing to a good cause, but if you’re still feeling guilty, I’ll bring you the box to clean when I’m done.” Walt winked.

As the extended cab Dodge Ram pulled away, the goose rocked the box, beating his wings and making noises.

Lorena’s malignant stare followed the truck. “I told you that bird could hiss.”

Ash Wednesday

THE NEXT EVENING, Lorena’s handiwork greeted worshippers. A rough wooden cross, entwined in black silk, hung from the church doors. Ends of the ebony scarf caught the breeze and circled as though beckoning penitent sinners inside.

The overcast February day matched the oppressive mood. Smells of damp earth and approaching rain hung in the air. Thunder rolled through the sky as a storm advanced from the north.

No musical prelude greeted the worshipers. Without speaking, each person entered and pinned a small square of burlap to their shirt, a rough brown reminder to be remorseful about their sins. They sat in silent meditation.

The great bell in the steeple rang once, a comfortless peal muted by low clouds. When the note faded, the choir stood and sang, “Alas, My God, My Sins are Great.” During another interlude of reflection, worshipers wrote their transgressions on small slips of paper to be burned.

Vera, wearing a somber face and carrying a dark wicker basket, walked up and down the aisles, collecting the written confessions. She had to wait for Micki to scribble two pages of sins before she could leave.

When Vera finally came through the door, Hettie, who waited in the Narthex, picking sickly-looking leaves off potted plants asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never burned sins.” Vera stared at the pile of scribbled trespasses. “I thought two of us would make the chore go faster, but there isn’t as much unbosoming here as I’d imagined.” She scowled. “The centuries-old tradition is to burn the fronds from the previous year’s Palm Sunday for ashes. Jim always did it in our fireplace. This is another ‘bright idea’ to spark-up worship. It’s not enough to come, confess, and receive absolution; we have to add activities.”

“You stored palm branches for a year then burnt them? That’s crazier than burning sins.”

Vera sighed. “It was symbolic. You know…the frond-waving cheer of ‘Hosanna. Here’s Our King!’ turning into an angry: ‘Crucify him.’”

“Well, I guess burning our wrongs is symbolic, too.”

“Yes. Yes. Let’s do something different.” Vera dumped the papers into a small metal trash can. “Let’s ignore the mystery of tradition. Let’s have immediate gratification. We need our sins to disappear in smoke and be rid of them.”

“If you feel that way, why’d you volunteer?”

“I didn’t volunteer; I was asked. Pastor Poe and I had a discussion yesterday. I believe this is his way of apologizing and assuring me he values my assistance. He said he needed someone he could trust to never read these confessions.” Vera moved the project outside the front doors and struck a match.

“And he thinks the rest of us would?” Hettie peered down into the container. “Look at that one. It’s a wad as big as a marble. I bet that’s a doozy.”

“Get some more paper, please. The fire doesn’t want to catch.” Vera frowned at the smoldering contents as a large drop of water splatted the top of her head. Hettie soon returned, carrying a stack of brown paper towels and several purple papers. “Ash Wednesday” was written across the top in wavy letters.

“I figured we could burn leftover bulletins—oh-oh.” A streak of lightning zigzagged to earth several miles away. Seconds later, thunder rolled over them. Sheets of water began pouring from the sky. Vera picked up the trash-can-of-sins, setting it inside the doorway.

“You can’t do that in here.” Hettie gaped as the white-haired woman snatched a bulletin from the container.

“They will need these ashes at Communion, and they’re already at the Nicene Creed.” She scanned the printed liturgy. “Most of the smoke should funnel out the open door.”

“I don’t think so.” Hettie shook her head, watching another of Vera’s matches snuff itself out.

They jumped from the flash a millisecond before the crack that ripped through the skies. The accompanying rain-noise sounded like punk-rock drummers on the roof.

“Whoo! That one was close.” The whites of Hettie eyes were big. “We need to shut that door.”

“We’ve got to get this burned.”

“Well, I only teach elementary-school science, but I can tell you—this isn’t going to work.” Hettie used her teacher-voice to broadcast over the sound of rain rebounding off the walkway.

“I’ll keep trying; you get your husband.” Vera threw another lit match into the can.

“He’s not here.” Hettie stared at the tiny flame as it shrank and winked out.

“Well, get Walt.” She shooed the teacher away with an anxious wave. As she left, Vera closed the door, set a paper towel on fire, and threw it into the sin-can. Pieces of paper caught and flamed. White smoke spiraled upward. She cracked the door open, then a bit more, to create a draft. Removing her right shoe, she jammed it into the gap. She fluttered both hands, encouraging the smoke toward the opening.

Inside the sanctuary, Pastor Poe had begun his sermon. Hettie chewed on a fingernail and scanned the rows. She didn’t see Walt, but then she didn’t know exactly what the back of Walt’s head looked like. She always sat behind the Hendrixes, so she could hear the bubble of the baptismal font and look through a tiny clear, diamond-shaped pane in the stained glass window. It was a strategic location for checking the weather and making afternoon plans.

She saw Pastor Poe glance at her. Twice. He stuttered then checked his notes. When he looked at her a third time, she pulled her fingers away from each other, mouthing, Stretch. He hesitated.

Seeing Roger on the back row, Hettie stuck her head next to his ear. “Help me. Quickly.”

As they exited, Pastor Poe leaned farther and farther sideways from the pulpit in order to see through the doorway. He watched Vera do a barefoot stomp on a tiny blaze on the carpet. When the door hushed shut, he straightened, checked his notes, took a deep breath, and continued.

*

Another gust had whistled through the shoe-wedged door. More partially burnt sins, edges glowing orange, floated out of the can, drifting around the narthex with the others. “Grab them,” Vera ordered as one wafted past Roger.

A corner of his mouth turned up as he stepped on a smoldering sin. Neon fingers of lightning spread through the sky. Thunder rattled the windows. Vera stared at Roger, daring him to say something. He grabbed the trash can and set it outside.

“It’ll get damp,” Vera gasped, going after it.

He stepped back to let her by. “If it sets off the smoke alarms, we’ll have to evacuate the church.”

“Oh.” She stopped.

Hettie was picking up escaped confessions. “Look at this. It’s completely burnt, but you can still see the words on the blackened paper.” She oscillated it in the light, reading “I hate my mother-in-law.”

“Hettie.” Vera snatched it, fracturing it into pieces.

“I wasn’t reading it. I was just showing…never mind.”

Vera checked her watch. The prayers of the day had begun. “There’s no time to go home and get ashes from my fireplace.”

“Maybe somebody has an ashtray-full of cigarette cinders in their car,” Hettie said. “Who smokes?”

Tight-lipped, Vera turned to Roger. “Can you think of anything?”

“Yeah.” He waited for her to say something else. In the silence they could hear the wind growling in the rain. After a moment, he turned and went outside.

“He didn’t even have a coat,” Hettie said. Before she could quick-step to the door, it opened a few inches. Vera’s shoe flew inside.

Hettie whirled, facing Vera. “That’s the limit. We need to talk.”

Vera stared back, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other; then she picked up her shoe.

“I don’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but you’ve become mighty righteous,” Hettie said, “as if you’re silently judging all the time. You’ve always been serious, but you used to laugh at mistakes—even your own. Now you don’t make mistakes, and those of us who do are fools.”

“I’m sorry you think so.” Vera’s face was stony. She snatched paper towels from the pile and sat on an upholstered chair.

“I know for years you’ve felt as though you had to pick up loose ends, but it’s time others stepped up. And they’re not going to do it the way you think it should be done. You’ve got to let go and let them—”

“Why?” Vera crammed then removed paper towels from the toe of her wet shoe. “Why do I have to step aside? Just because Jim is gone, it doesn’t mean I’ve outlived my usefulness.”

“Nobody’s saying that.”

“But they’re doing it. Communication is terrible. I’m not kept in the loop, even though I take care of most of the details. The ladies skylark through meetings.”

“The Ladies Circle has always been a walk through a chicken house. Everyone’s squawking about a different thing. And it all gets done, doesn’t it?”

“Barely.” Vera narrowed her eyes at Hettie. “Sloppily. It’s all a big joke.”

Hettie bit her lip, turned, and stared out the window. She didn’t see Roger. She’d meant to keep watch in case he got lightning-fried in the parking lot. She hoped he’d taken refuge in the lawnmower shed, although with all the fuel, oil, and paint cans, it may not have been safer.

“Where was Walt?” Hettie flinched, feeling Vera’s voice flog her.

“I couldn’t find him. Roger never asked a question, just came when I asked.”

“He wouldn’t have come if it were me doing the asking.”

Hettie sighed. “He would have, but it would help if you’d be nicer to people. Starting with Roger.”

“I am not ugly to him.” Vera’s face was a mask, her eyes cold. “I simply do not put much value into whatever he says.”

“And you argue that you’re never wrong. Other people are—”

“Other people don’t take life seriously. Serving the church has been my whole career. Now, I’m reduced to silly tasks like torching sins, but I will earnestly do it—” The first chords of the communion music bisected her words.

“Oh-oh.” Hettie stared at the sanctuary doors. “Doesn’t Pastor put the ashy crosses on our foreheads when we take the wine? Isn’t it too late now?”

“He’ll have to impose ashes at the end of the service. Pastor Poe loves change. He’ll get to adapt like we do.” Without glancing up, Vera scrubbed the toe of her shoe as if she were rubbing jailbird graffiti from a wall. Hettie didn’t reply. The thrum of the rain filled the silence between them.

In a few minutes, Roger entered, hunched over the container, protecting the contents from the torrents. His shirt and pants clung to his body as though he’d gone swimming in them. Rivulets of water trickled down his face. Vera grabbed a handful of the blackened notes and crushed them into the sea shell she’d pulled from her pocket. The papers turned into bits and flakes, but not ash suitable for drawing.

“Maybe he can get a few pieces to stick to people’s foreheads, especially if they’re oily,” Hettie said.

White-lipped, Vera opened the sanctuary door, holding the sea shell high, so Pastor Poe would see it. She stood, awaiting her cue to bring the ashes forward. Roger stopped behind her. Droplets of rainwater fell from his chin onto her shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Vera,” he whispered.

Lightning opened the skies. The—crack—that followed made her jump.

Holy Week

THE FORTY DAYS of Lent were accompanied by the fanfare of an awakening world. Each day, sunrise rushed to the horizon a few minutes earlier. Peeper-frogs ardently serenaded their lady friends. Pregnant buds bulged on tree tips. Sunny mornings often roiled into gray-green afternoons filled with storm and tornado warnings. Roger and Walt intended to dig up the newly-sprouted mole mounds dotting the church lawn, but yellow jonquils had spiked through the dirt piles, so the men left them.

Two weeks before Easter, Robert Fullerton paused in mid-brushstroke at the wall he was painting for church-wide clean-up. With furrowed brow, he studied a wispy collection of dried, colorless flowers in a black vase. Slowly his head turned back and forth, scanning the line of black vases that had appeared in window sills over the past weeks. The sound of voices interrupted his thoughts, and he quickly finished his brushstroke to whitewash scuff marks. Two women said hello as they walked by. Kay and Nan had seen the confused headshake he’d given the vases. They glanced at each other and held their laughter until treading downstairs to the Fellowship Hall.

“Oh good.” Micki looked up as she took several Chocolate-Haystack cookies. “Kay and Nan are here. Now we have enough for a quorum.”

“When has that ever mattered?” Vera shuffled through her papers.

“Vera! You made a joke,” Micki said.

Kay slouched into a chair. “I don’t feel like meeting, even if Vera’s going to tell jokes. I’ve got the blahs. I don’t want to do anything, especially clean a stove.”

“Well, that won’t be any different.” Vera glanced at her.

“Vera! You made another joke,” Micki said.

“I certainly didn’t mean to.” Her straight white hair fell close to her face as she wrote on her agenda. “The Kitchenettes already have begun this morning.” She straightened her papers by tapping their edges on the table. “So this will be a short meeting, then we’ll help them spring clean. First off, more and more black decorations are appearing. I am greeted by a new display every week.”

Kay focused on the cuticles of her right hand. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I like the dried flowers, maybe the black ribbons are a bit much,” Micki said.

“The cattails in burlap bags next to the pulpit are quite artistic,” added Nan.

“And Lorena had the Sunday school children draw those pictures of sinners crying,” Hettie said. “She put them right next to the entrance. Parents love seeing children’s artwork displayed, even if it is sad.”

Vera closed her eyes as she spoke. “Lent is about reflection and hope.” She tapped her pencil to the beat of her last three words. “It’s beginning to look like a community memorial where people leave flowers and notes. I’m surprised she hasn’t included teddy bears.”

“That’s harsh.” Hettie gave Vera a flat stare. “I know for a fact Lorena has tried very hard to provide tasteful and eloquent visuals to help people reflect on their lives.”

“She’s using the boiling-frog technique.” Vera punctuated her sentence with two more pencil taps. “Surreptitiously, she adds a little each week, slowly turning up the heat so the frog won’t notice and jump out of the pot.”

“You boil a lot of frogs?” asked Kay.

The corners of Vera’s mouth warped upward even as she tried to hold her lips in a tight line and look at the floor. A laugh had almost blurped out before she could squeeze it off with a cough. She quickly smoothed the twist on her mouth, and narrowed her eyes. “I knew this would happen. I said as much.”

“None of us wanted to decorate.” Kay shrugged. “And you have to admit, Lorena’s kept it interesting. I move we buy her a coffee card for putting in so much effort every week.”

“I’ll second that.” Hettie locked eyes with Vera. “We don’t have to love her style, but we can be nice.”

“Are you saying I haven’t been polite?” The two women stared, silence stretching between them. Vera’s frown deepened as she internally berated herself. This is what she got for tolerating Lorena’s ever-growing chapel of darkness. She should’ve said something the first week. Of course, she would’ve been accused of harping too soon. She’d tried to be good-natured.

The sound of Kay digging through her purse made Hettie look away, and gave Vera the chance to tack a few more hobnails into her defense. “When excess becomes a distraction, purpose is lost. It says, ‘Look at me,’ rather than, ‘Think of God.’ It’s like a flashing halo delivering the announcement of salvation. The listener doesn’t know which to focus on.”

“Good grief, Vera.” Hettie glanced at Kay again, who seemed to be ignoring the fracas in front of her and texting on her phone. “You’ve managed to insult two people with one sentence.”

“I apologize. I was putting the worshippers’ needs first, but there are better ways to handle this. Who is in favor of recognizing Lorena’s efforts with a coffee card?”

Mumbled ayes circled the table, except for Nan, who made a show of busily counting the stitches in her knitting.

“Pssst, Vera…” Kay ducked her head, holding her hand to her mouth. “I’ll let you borrow my halo if you’ll give me one of your frog-boiling recipes to put in my biker-chick cookbook. I prefer a recipe with cheese.”

This time Vera didn’t smile; she checked her notes as though she’d become deaf. “All right. I know when to pick my battles. Because all of you esteem the Lenten decorations, I’m sure you’ll want to show our organist your appreciation, too. Nan needs a choir leader for the children’s Easter songs. She will not be playing for Easter services.” Faces turned toward the organist.

Nan gave an apologetic shrug. “I can’t. It’s my allergies. That many lilies and I’d need a respirator and new lungs before the church service is over.”

“Why hasn’t this been a problem before?” Micki asked.

The click of Nan’s needles stopped. She stared at the floor. “In the past, the flower committee made concessions for my sinuses. We used white azaleas. They lasted longer, looked great, and folks could plant them afterward. Now there are new people on the committee, and Pastor Poe asked if we could try lilies this Easter, so—”

“I’m substituting for Nan,” Vera said. “Who is going to work with me and lead the children’s Easter songs?”

The women stared at the table, floor, or air.

“I’ve already done the hard part,” Nan said. “We’ve rehearsed for several weeks.” She turned to the chairwoman. “I’ll ask a Sunday schoolteacher to herd the kids.”

“Kay?” Vera narrowed her eyes at the short woman. “I believe you have a relationship with the children. They love you after you taught them they’d receive flashing headgear when they went to heaven.”

“Oh, Vera, you funster, you made another joke.” Kay gave her a flat smile as she put away her phone and grabbed her third cookie.

“I have my hands full.” Vera held up a clipboard covered with lists. “I’ll be assisting Altar Guild with Maundy Thursday and Good Friday and playing the organ on Easter Sunday. Someone needs to volunteer for this.”

“You know, this is like one of those condo/hotel pitches in Cancun. We were lured here by the anticipation of Vera’s comedy show and her secret frog recipes, but now we find out she wants us to teach kids corny songs they don’t want to sing in order to get our free stay and jeep rental,” Kay said.

“What are you talking about?” Hettie squinted at her.

Kay’s eyes shifted to Vera. “I’m getting a coffee before my shut-up muzzle completely falls off. She pushed away from the table, and headed toward the kitchen.

Hettie called after her. “Stay there. Maybe the Kitchnettes will let you clean the stove.”

*

Spring Cleaning went as Vera expected. The Kitchenettes issued orders to any man or woman who happened to venture into their command center. They’d earned the right years ago when three long-standing members, frustrated with fuzzy surprises in the cabinets and dirty dishes in the sink, staged a kitchen coup. They’d cleaned, labeled drawers, created rules, and posted signs. Your mother DOES work here. Honor your mother.—The Kitchenettes

They were an efficient army, flushing out the downstairs cobwebs. Vera was happy to let them have their territory of spatulas and appliances. They assigned the Ladies Circle to unpack and sterilize 40 new plates and sets of flatware, recently purchased with the congregation’s collection of boxtops.

Vera left the workers. Too many generals made a battle. She chose to work alone in the library, intermittently pausing to listen to the sounds of chore parties throughout the church. Late in the afternoon, she stopped shelving and alphabetizing. She went to the door and listened again. Satisfied everyone had left, she walked through silent hallways toward her goal.

She arrived at the sanctuary, noting two black wreaths had been added since this morning. This really wasn’t something she wanted to do, but Lorena had made a death saga out of Lent. They’d all known it was going to happen. On Friday, God’s Friday, members and many visitors would attend the unique, ancient Tenebrae service.

They wouldn’t be greeted by this horror.

Karfreitag

THE SORROWFUL FRIDAY…“darkness overcame the land”

Luke 23:44

WALT PUSHED THE okra and fried pumpkin seeds around his plate. He preferred pecans in his vegetables for a little crunch, but his daughter-in-law had brought him a bag of raw, green pumpkin seeds, saying they were good for prostate health.

Shocked that she would even mention this private manly part, much less give him food for it, he’d left the bag on the shelf for a month. It would’ve still been sitting there if he hadn’t forgotten to buy pecans. The green kernels stuck to the okra. They sure were chewy little critters. What starving fool had been so desperate he’d discovered seeds were food?

The red light from the answering machine continued to wink at him. He’d ignored it when he’d walked in the door from a day of fishing. While he was in the shower, getting ready for Good Friday services, he’d heard the phone ring again. Most likely, it was his son checking on him. Instead of calling back, Walt had cut off a chunk of fresh bass. Fried it with okra, sprinkled the whole mess with pumpkin seeds and had supper, adding store-bought pudding for dessert.

Ruby would’ve insisted on a leafy salad. He hated that rabbit-food, but if his late wife had been there to fix one right now, he’d have eaten it. She had wandered through his mind a lot this morning.

He hadn’t cared if he caught anything; he liked being outdoors, watching Roger’s boys. They whooped and jumped when a fish hit their lure. Their eyes lit up like halogen bulbs. That was something to see.

Ruby would’ve said, in that hushed, knowing voice of hers, “Why Walt, I believe you’re getting soft in your old age. Maybe you should have an experience like that with your own grandchildren.”

Walt glanced at the blinking light again. Yeah, he’d mention it when his son came by. He’d receive a visit if he didn’t return the phone calls. He would duck his head, act hang-dog and take the scolding for not letting them know he was all right and wasn’t dead on the floor. He still won. He got to see his son and sometimes his grandkids. Often his daughter-in-law brought strange presents like chocolate-zucchini bread or pumpkin seeds.

“They’re busy,” Ruby would’ve scolded.

“Well, I won’t be around forever,” he spoke out loud to the memory. His mind crawled over the years. She was standing in front of him, blocking the kitchen doorway. He was holding that same rod he’d used this morning, arguing, “I work sixty hours a week. Stop trying to make me feel guilty about taking a day to fish.”

She’d placed a hand on his arm. “Take the boys. They hardly get to see you, except when you’re tired.”

“They wrestle and skip rocks, scaring fish and wildlife from here to Texas. I deserve some time to myself.”

“They won’t be around forever.” She always was one to wallop him with guilt. He punched the play button on the machine.

“Walt!” Vera called his name loud and thin as though she’d seen a ghost. “Can you come to my neighbor’s house immediately?”

He shook his head. That woman loved to volunteer him for duties. Since Jim had died, she’d become more demanding. Vera was always stiff as an old sack, but she used to at least laugh once in a while. Had he changed as much since his wife died?

Naw. He’d always been a cranky old coot. He smiled. Ruby would’ve agreed. He’d been happy today though, showing Roger’s boys how to gut a fish.

When he watched them work, he could see they’d done it before, but they’d listened and treated him with respect. He was surprised to feel how much he needed that. When his son came to check on him, he’d offer to take his grandkids fishing.

He hit the ‘play’ button again. The other message was from a siding company hawking sweat-proof windows. His son hadn’t called. He could be lying in a creek or floating face-down in a pond for all his family knew. It was awful to get so old nobody needed you.

Nobody…but Vera.

He found that irritating and heartening at the same time. He sighed and poked a seed. His fish had gone cold.

*

Vera rang the doorbell. She’d planned this carefully. It was hard to get away from her lonely neighbor. Each day Vera checked on him, and she expected to find him slumped over an ornithology book. At ninety, he was housebound, practiced bird calls, and insisted visitors guess which fowl he was imitating. Vera was very good at identifying crow-in-distress from crow-spying-food. Usually, she dropped by in the mornings, but today she’d purposefully waited until evening to visit. After 15 minutes, she could say she needed to get a loaf of banana-nut bread out of her oven and get to church—and she wouldn’t be lying. To compensate for the short visit she’d brought along a plate of freshly-baked sugar cookies.

As usual, no one answered the door. Vera called his name as she let herself in. Silence replied. She looked in the favorite places where she predicted he’d keel over. He wasn’t there. Even though he wasn’t supposed to poke around with his bird feeders, she checked outside. When did a man ever do what he was supposed to do? She was relieved not to find him, toes-up in the backyard.

Closed doors lined the hallway. She called out as she walked to the open door at the end. He lay in bed. The coverlet pulled to his chin. “Gus?” Vera whispered as though afraid of waking him. “Augustus Vogler!” Vera shook the bed. The old man didn’t move. In the muted light of the bedroom, he had the same pallor she’d seen on Jim when she’d known he was gone. The fading light of a body freshly abandoned by its soul. She rapped the old man’s chest and flicked his nose, but got no response. She’d done the same to Jim, but had never told anyone.

“This is not good timing,” she told the Deity as she left the house. Pastor Poe had given her only one task for this evening: set up the line of candles. He’d told her she should take more time to grieve and not busy herself. He was young at shepherding. When he’d lived longer, he’d know it was the busyness that got a person through. She’d show him how it was done. If he was ever to become a seasoned pastor, he needed to learn to juggle two knives, three Bibles, and four parishioners at the same time. She’d notify folks of the death after tonight’s services. It’s not like Gus would mind waiting.

The thought carried her all the way to the moment she put her hand on her front doorknob. She couldn’t sit in church, her mind tittering of a dead-man secret that only she and God knew. Vera went in and called Walt.

The second phone call went to her neighbor’s daughter, who lived ten miles away. “Gus is gone,” Vera breathed into the phone and explained what she’d found. “I haven’t called the medical examiner. I thought you’d want some quiet time with your father. I distinctly remember those moments with my Jim.” She should keep talking, comforting, helping the daughter plan the next hour of chaotic events, but there wasn’t time. She had to prep tonight’s special service. “I may not be here when you arrive, but I called a gentleman to wait with you. His name is Walt. I left a message for him. I hope he’ll get—” Vera paused. “I think my house is on fire.”

*

Smoke rolled from the oven. Fire alarms in the kitchen and hallway wailed with irritating loudness. Vera set the charcoaled bread dish on the front step then mentally flogged herself as she opened windows and doors. She was becoming one of those old people who lost their keys and forgot why they came into rooms. She’d need to change clothes. She smelled like a fireman, and folks at church didn’t need to know about this. They’d think she was even more incompetent than they already assumed.

The burnt scent filtered through her bedroom. Vera tugged open a window, grabbed another blouse, and shucked out of her old one as she walked down the hallway. A woman stood in her living room.

“Good heavens, Lorena. You scared me to death. What are you doing here?” Vera only heard part of the answer between the intermittent beeps of the alarm. She hove her arms into her sleeves and walked out the front door into the yard, motioning for the full-figured blonde to follow.

“Are you all right? What happened?” Lorena’s voice carried a note of concern, but her squint-eyed look chorused an anthem of skepticism.

“I’m just fine.” Vera snapped as though Lorena was disturbing her usual routine of dressing on the front lawn. “What do you want?”

Lorena looked back and forth between a black brick smoking in a bread dish and the open doors and windows of the house. Finally she shrugged and squared her body to Vera’s. “Where are my Lenten decorations? I’m putting them back up.”

“Oh good grief. I haven’t time for this nonsense.” The alarms shut off, leaving Vera’s last words as a misplaced shout. “I’ve got to get to church.”

“I just came from there. Most of my décor is missing, and you’re my number one suspect. I came to talk to you privately—not at church.”

“Lent is not a morgue room. I asked you to not overdo it with the black decorations, but you ignored me. It’s about respect, Lorena, and this discussion will have to wait.”

Lorena pointed to where Vera had misbuttoned her shirt, making one side longer than the other. “You think kidnapping my displays will gain you respect?”

“Thank you.” Vera mumbled and began rebuttoning. “As if you never mess with other people’s creations, adding a splish of color here and there.”

“It was Roger who gutted your Thanksgiving display.” Lorena flashed her palms outward, ridding herself of the accusations. “I was as appalled as you.”

“Is this what you wanted me for?” Walt asked as he walked through the yard. “To referee?”

“Thank heavens you’re here.” Vera patted her front, inspecting her blouse for coverage. “I didn’t see you drive up.”

“You two were busy. I parked back there under the tree. Is this the problem?” Walt pointed to the wisps of smoke drifting off the loaf pan.

“I’ll be on my way then,” Lorena said. “Just give me my decorations, and I’ll run them over to the church.”

“Lorena! A man has died here!” Vera’s fists shook by her sides.

Lorena blinked. For a moment a hole of silence gaped between them. Walt stared until he finally mustered, “Who?”

“My neighbor.” Vera flung her arm behind her. “I need you to stay until his daughter arrives. I don’t know what could be keeping her.”

Lorena’s brows furrowed. Walt put a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “Are you talking about the guy standing on his porch watching us?”

After Vera turned and blinked several times, she tromped hard and fast across the lawn, fists swinging with each step. Walt and Lorena followed in her wake. “You’re supposed to be dead,” Vera shouted.

The ninety-year-old touched his body with his fingertips, verifying his pumping heart and still-inhabited flesh. “Sorry.” He smiled. Vera gave him a detailed account of how she’d found him unresponsive and expired. “Nope.” He shook his head. “I didn’t sleep worth a darn last night. I was just taking a nap.” He let out a cockadoodle-do. “Guess.” He pointed at Walt.

Vera closed her eyes, shaking her head, her white hair shimmying around her face, as her breath huffed out like a released valve. “I am going to church.”

“Me, too,” Lorena said. “As soon as I get my decorations.”

“Rhode Island Red.” Gus Vogler shouted into the conversation. “Now what’s this?” He puffed his cheeks and loosened a series of twits and tweets. Walt lowered his head. A frown crossed his face as he studied the man.

“I have never missed a Good Friday,” Vera stared at Lorena, “and I won’t this year either.”

“I’m parked behind you. You can’t get out.” Lorena crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I’ll move as soon as you give me the decorations.”

“I’ll walk.” Vera turned and trudged across the yard, taking quick steps down the street.

Walt called after her, “It’ll be over by—” A high-pitched screech cut through his words.

“Red tailed hawk, hunting,” Gus Vogler explained. “She’ll get it.”

Lorena pattered down the steps. “And where are you going?” Walt rushed his words into the gap before Gus let loose with more birdsong.

Exasperation flattened and stretched Lorena’s words. “To pick her up. You’ll take care of this?” She flourished her hand at Vera’s open doors and then Mr. Vogler.

“Sure. Sure. I enjoy telling people I haven’t met about the resurrection of their father in a situation I know nothing about.” Walt looked at the old man. “You happen to have a beer, buddy?”

The haaa-haaa-haaa of a kookaburra echoed down the street as they went inside.

*

“Kevin said tonight is scary-church,” Johnny whined from the back seat of the car.

“Who’s Kevin?” His father eyed the five-year-old in the rear-view mirror.

“One of Kay’s boys, Fred.” Allie pulled a loose thread from her sleeve. “No, honey, church isn’t scary.”

“Kevin said there’d be dark things that make you jump.” Johnny showed claw-hands to his little sister in the car seat beside him.

“Scare-ey,” repeated cherub-faced Bette.

“Which one is Kay?” asked Fred.

“The one who’s always looking for coffee.” Allie scratched at a spot on her jacket. “No, honey, things at church aren’t supposed to scare you.”

“What about Saint Scary? If you don’t sing, they make you sit in a dark room with him.” Johnny bared his teeth.

“Scare-ey,” Bette said.

“Who’s Saint Scary?” Fred returned his son’s monster face in the mirror.

“Arrgh! Why am I always wearing the kids’ food?” Allie wrapped a napkin around her finger, licked the end of it and rubbed a spot on her shirt. “What are you talking about, Johnny?”

“We were here last night.” The boy crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna go again.”

“It’s Holy Week. We’ll be here a lot,” Allie said. “Tonight is Tenebrae, the service of shadows.”

“See! It’ll be all shawdowy and scary.” Johnny put his hands over his face. Bette put her hands over one eye, leaving the other uncovered, watching her brother.

“Tenebrae isn’t scary.” She shot her husband a look. “It’s a play that tells what happened on Good Friday.”

“What happened?” Johnny peeked through his fingers.

“Well, Jesus was hurt when his friend tattled on him. He was lonely when everybody left him. And he was in terrible pain when they drove nails through…. Well, you can’t go to the service. You’ll be in child care.”

“Sounds scary.” Fred made big-eyes in the mirror at his son.

“I wanna go,” Johnny said.

*

The church was dimly lit and eerily quiet as the family entered. The lone usher spoke in whispered tones. Allie led the children to child care while Fred waited, studying the bulletin. “I thought they were going to recreate the Crucifixion,” he said when she returned. “There’s no screen or props in there for a video or play.” He peered through the sanctuary doors. “Folks are just sitting in the dark.”

“It’s a Service of Darkness. People all over the world are at Tenebrae tonight, not just Lutherans. The service has been done on Good Friday for centuries.” Allie gave Fred’s arm a tug.

“Feels like a funeral. A funeral without music,” he mumbled entering the sanctuary.

“This is Jesus’ funeral,” Allie whispered as they sat.

Two women were hurriedly setting up candelabras. Soon fourteen candles glowed atop the altar. A weak light filtered from the ceiling fixtures as though the bulbs were giving out. Fred could barely make out the words of the Tenebrae liturgy. Micki passed a box of tissues along her row. The teens in the back pew sat, staring at the floor.

A reader dressed in black apologized for the late start, explaining there had been a problem setting up. From the pulpit she announced, “The sun sets on Good Friday. God’s Friday. Darkness enters our world, just as darkness covered the earth at the crucifixion of the Son of God.”

Black-clad readers told of the last week of Jesus’ life. After each reading, a candle was extinguished. The church grew darker as worshippers lived the betrayal and desertion. The gray light erased details, smudging people into shadowy forms.

Someone shouted, “Crucify him!” Others took up the refrain, calling for blood. It was too dark to see who had yelled. Who had called for Jesus’ death? People stole sidelong glances at their neighbors.

Three, slow hammer blows resounded, stilling the cries.

Only one candle remained lit when wild, loud, discordant organ notes jarred every surface. The steady thud of a heart beat warred with chaos-chords of the earth groaning and convulsing at the crucifixion.

The heartbeat became louder and stronger. BOOM-Boom. It dominated the dissonant notes, forcing them to fade away. BOOM-Boom. The beat was steady, rhythmic, comforting. Then life hesitated. Silence stretched between each pulse. The rhythm slowed to near death, the last light, the Christ Candle, was carried from the sanctuary.

Worshippers sat in darkness. A long pause stretched between the heart beats. Allie found herself holding her breath. Then there was nothing. The soundlessness of death settled over her.

Someone slammed a large tome shut. She jumped, feeling the finality of the stone rolling in front of a burial chamber. She could hear sniffles around her. She, too, regretted she’d ever contributed to the death she’d just witnessed.

There was no benediction. No blessing. People left in silence, as they had at every Tenebrae service for the past thousand years, ploddingly making their way from a dark church into a dark world.

*

“Was it scary?” Johnny asked as his dad carried him to the car.

“No,” Fred said. “It was sad.”

“Are you sad?” Johnny put both hands on his father’s face, studying his eyes for a moment, but the sound of arguing voices made him look away. Two ladies walked toward the church as others got in their cars. “…and I want respect,” the white-haired woman quietly growled.

“Well, I’d like my plans to work out, too…” the blond was saying.

Johnny watched them pass then squirmed, trying to look at his mother carrying his little sister. “Are they fighting?”

“They sound like you and Bette, don’t they?” Allie said.

“Tonight is mad talk and sad church.” Johnny laid his head on his father’s shoulder. “Don’t grown-ups know about Easter?”

“East-ter!” his little sister yelled. She added a laughing trill which Gus Volger would’ve identified as a nightingale—singing into the darkness.

A Night of Easter

“GIVE ME THE light, you’re bouncing it all over.” Kay held out her hand.

“Heads up, Mom.” Marcus tossed the flashlight and ran into the darkness after his brother.

“Marcus! Kevin!” she hissed, not wanting to disturb the eternal silence of this place. The boys’ footsteps faded into the damp air. Above, Aries and Pegasus had slipped to the other side of the world, but Lyra and Hercules shone on a handful of people standing in a huddle, not far away. Dewdrops dripped from the trees and glistened in the rays of their flashlights.

Kay walked the serpentine path toward them, feeling an unseen presence on either side. She paused, arcing her beam off the path. Slab markers rose in lines, stretching beyond the scope of her tiny ray. An errant light cut across the cemetery, zig-zagging between stones and heading toward the group. Kay hurried to join the others. Moments later, the owner of the stray light stepped next to her. The face was hidden by a hooded jacket, and it took several seconds for Kay to recognize Vera’s hushed greeting.

She studied the woman’s long coat and sturdy boots, dripping with dew. She’d probably come early to visit her husband’s grave. Perhaps give him an update on how things were since he’d gone. Kay clicked off her light wondering what would happen when Vera died. Who’d do the updates? Her children had moved away. Besides…the newest generation rarely did graveside inspections unless they were bored on Memorial Day. Eventually, an occasional lawnmower would be the only thing visiting their plots. The details of how Pastor Jim loved a good prank and how Vera ran the Universe would be gone. Their headstones would become no-vacancy messages for that section of the cemetery.

Kay slipped her arm through Vera’s. The older woman turned. The darkness hid her expression, but after a moment, she patted Kay’s arm.

Pastor Poe, wearing a headband-light, began the service with a prayer. He continued with readings from the Old Testament, unfolding the story of God’s creation and the saving of His people through the centuries. The worshippers shifted from foot to foot, their breath fogging in the chilled air. Being Lutheran, all had turned off their lights to save batteries.

Kay scanned the darkness for Kevin and Marcus. They were the ones who’d begged to come to this vigil. She’d rather be home in her warm bed. She’d dutifully awakened them at 4:30, pleased they were finally showing an interest in worship. She should’ve known their motivation was to explore a cemetery in the dark. Another expectation dashed.

And what a lame service. Pastor Poe was trying to add variety. She wondered how much after-whine he’d get about standing around in a cold, dark graveyard. The only reason Vera probably supported this event was so she could have Easter with her husband.

Kay’s stomach clenched. Many times, she’d wished her ex had attended church with her and the boys. She unlinked her arm with Vera’s, now somehow uncomfortable by the association. What were they doing here? A graveyard, in the dark, made a forlorn Easter.

They sang a short, mournful song. The ragged words fell from their mouths to the ground without accompaniment. Elke had offered to bring his accordion, but Pastor had said no. Another expectation dashed.

A gray band had materialized in the eastern sky, enough to outline the tops of tombstones surrounding the tiny garden where they stood. Kay stared at the markers. Each one erected over a soul who’d cried, fought, or piled day upon day, chatting, giving, worrying…living. They all had a story until death tapped their shoulder. They’d moved on. Now, the only sign they’d been here were stones sticking out of the ground.

She’d expected more from an Easter vigil. Insight. Heavenly music. Worship with her loved ones. All mystery revealed. Vera dropping to her knees and renouncing her pushiness. This service was none of these things. Several more expectations—dashed.

The trill of a bird brought her to the here and now. She could make out letters and pictures on headstones. Pink streaks smudged the eastern sky. One yellow ray fanned upward. Staccato bird chirps encouraged the dawn. Kay could discern the details of faces formerly hidden by darkness. She knew all of these people. She knew their stories.

Pastor had left the Old Testament journey with the night. He was now reading the Gospel of Matthew 28: Two women went to Jesus’ tomb at dawn. Kay listened, eyes closed, and knew the exact moment the sun broke the horizon. The surrounding trees came alive with birdsong. Pastor Poe stopped in mid-sentence. The sun, a white sliver, flooded the sky with light as they eavesdropped on nature worshiping.

The verse that had gotten Kay through many nights rose in her mind: His mercies are fresh each morning. She’d come to this graveyard with expectations and found nothing. Yet in the absence of candles, pianos, hymnals, and sermons, she’d found more. These stones didn’t mark spots, but honored people who’d finished the journey. It seemed quite clear in the break of dawn, that like all circles, the end was another beginning.

Pastor Poe had finished reading about the empty tomb from a red Bible. Colors were discernible now. Pink and brown faces surrounded her. Blue ribbons on flowers fluttered in the breath of morning, small pleasures emerging from the nothingness of the dark.

A thousand diamonds reflected off the grass as Pastor shouted, “He is risen.”

The tiny group matched the birdsong. “He is risen indeed!”

*

Kay walked past headstones, uncaring how wet she was getting. Kevin and Marcus had not returned, but their footsteps were marked by the dew. Purple and yellow flowers nodded over graves. Sweet smells spiraled around her.

“Mom! Up here! Look what we found,” yelled Marcus.

“I thought you wanted to attend the service.” She could hear the irritation in her voice as she hiked the path up a small hill toward them.

“Is it over already?” Marcus asked.

“What do you think? It’s dawn. We need to get to church. There’s the youth breakfast and another—” Kay topped the spine of the ridge. A small, white mausoleum stood like a tiny cottage under a fragrant cedar tree. A brook burbled nearby.

Marcus watched her face. “Neat, huh? You shoulda seen it when the sun hit it. The stone glows. And the birds, they started singing like somebody turned on an i-pod. Even the creek sings.” He pointed to the two-foot wide stream. “And look at the crypt-thingy. It looks like somebody’s house.”

Kay nodded. “All it needs is a flamingo and Christmas lights to make it a home.”

She gazed at her oldest boy, Kevin, sitting motionless on a concrete bench in front of the cottage-mausoleum, staring at the sunrise. Motherly love nudged the corners of her mouth upward. “I’m sorry to disturb this moment,” she said quietly, “but we really need to get going.”

“Just a little longer? Please, Mom? This is the kind of place God walks around,” Marcus said.

Kay raised an eyebrow at her teenager. She sat on the bench next to Kevin and patted the empty space next to her. Marcus sat, chattering thoughts as they rolled out of his brain. Kevin kept quiet, staring at the horizon.

Kay’s heart ached. She knew if she asked what he was thinking, he’d reply, Nothing. Her silent child. She sent a prayer that he was dropping all of his “nothings” into the hands of the God who gave hope with every sunrise.

Then there was Marcus, barely squeezed onto the bench against her right side, popping like a toaster with a new idea every minute.

“…and we could put ours right over there,” he was saying. “But we’re gonna put benches with backs on ’em so you can lean back and totally relax while you’re sitting here.”

Kay put her arms around her sons. Kevin didn’t shrug her off. Marcus was yammering about putting a bridge over the creek. Thank you God, this wasn’t the type of worship I expected, but thank you.

“This is cool. Sometimes I get wrecked with school, then when I see it like this…” Marcus pointed at the water, glinting with sunlight. “Was the service down there any good? You get anything out of it, Mom?”

“I learned…” Kay thought for a long moment and held up a finger when Marcus tried to fill the gap. “I discovered that nothing is sometimes richer than all my somethings. I learned about nothing.”

“Geez, Mom, you shoulda come with us,” Marcus replied.

Kay caught Kevin’s eyes. He gave her a slight chin nod. They smiled at each other as they rose to leave.

Holding Onto The Traditions of Men

WORSHIPPERS IN THE cemetery watched the sun edging the horizon, while across town, Lorena drove into the church parking lot. It was an innocent beginning to a day that would be remembered for years at Shaded Valley Lutheran.

Local church antics weren’t written down. They passed mouth to mouth, finally fading with the generations who lived it—except for Lorena’s escapade. She became a second-tier celebrity, garnering a catch-phrase: “It’s-a-Lorena.” For years it was a popular argument-stopper.

Some said Vera was partly to blame for the situation by kidnapping the Lenten collection of black vases. If folks had looked more closely, they would’ve realized both women were pawns, puppets for the actual offender and instigator of the problem, but that name has been forgotten and only Lorena’s remains.

Early Sunday morning, Brynn and the ladies of the Easter committee worked frantically in the conference room. When the shout of “Mother Mary and Joseph!” echoed down the hallways, they paused and looked at each other. Seconds later, Lorena burst through the door.

“What happened? Did you forget?”

One of the women sighed. The others resumed wrapping potted plants in gold foil.

Lorena waved her hands. “It looks like someone died out there.”

“That’d be your work,” a short-haired woman said and returned to ironing white banners.

“It’s all right.” Brynn’s voice was quiet. “Everything’s under control.”

“Vera and I put away my Lenten decorations—well, what was left of them after Vera’s meddling. Now they’re back out. Why didn’t you decorate on Saturday? Were the lilies late in arriving?” She grabbed a plant and smoothed a square of gold paper around the base of the pot.

“You weren’t supposed to be in the sanctuary.” One of the ladies took the plant from Lorena. “There was a heavy cross barring the door.”

“I moved it. What do you mean? It’s a church. I’ll go into the sanctuary if I want. A sanctuary that’s supposed to be all in white for Easter. Jesus has risen, if you hadn’t heard.” She snatched the flower back.

“And why are you here so early?” another woman asked.

“I thought I’d help, adding a splish of elegance here and there. I have a touch for that sort of thing.”

“Why don’t you elegantly wrap more pots? We’re in a bit of a hurry here.” The short-haired lady turned her attention to clipping fake butterflies on flowers.

Lorena picked up ribbon, but stopped half-way through tying a double bow. “This is not how Easter should be.” She grabbed the lily and walked away.

“Lorena.” Brynn stopped her before she reached the door. “It’s different this year. During the six o’clock service, we’ll remove all your decorations and replace them with symbols of a living Christ and the resurrection. It’s part of the service. It’s a visual form of worship.”

“That’s stupid. This is Easter!”

“Yes, and this is a new Easter service. We’ve done the same old thing as long as I can remember. Some of us wanted something different. Pastor Poe agreed. We’re having one new service and one traditional. If you want everything decorated and the same as it’s always been, then come to the ten o’clock service. Right now, everyone is gathering outside. We’ll bring Easter into the sanctuary, just like the women returned from the tomb bringing good news. It will be transformed in a few minutes. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

“That’s still the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Lorena hugged the potted plant to her ample chest. “People don’t guilt their kids and relatives into showing up on Easter Sunday just to have them stand in a parking lot.” She peered through a window at the gathering crowd. “What’s Walt doing with that brazier?”

“He’s lighting a ‘new fire.’ It represents the return of light and resurrection from the grave. The Christ Candle will be relit from it and carried inside to light the sanctuary.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. It looks like a Wiccan gathering. Fires in the parking lot. Strange ceremonies. This is Easter. You don’t mess with Easter!” Her lily snapped to and fro over her head as she talked. “Fix the sanctuary like it’s supposed to be. Where’s Vera when I finally need her?” She turned and walked out. The ladies were silent. A few rolled their eyes.

“It’s off, Walt. We don’t need this fire,” Lorena said, still carrying her lily.

He gave her a slow look. “Once again, I don’t believe you’re in charge, and you haven’t had your coffee yet have you?”

“Don’t give me any crap; we’re not changing Easter.” She glared at him, a hand on her hip.

Walt gently blew on the fire, encouraging the small flame to burn higher. “Well now, as I heard it, Easter changed a lot of things many years ago, and it’s been changin’ things ever since.”

“This is not the way we do it.” Lorena tapped him on the chest. “People come to church on Sunday morning knowing what’s going to happen. It’s comforting that way. A worshipper can expect a grin-filled person to greet them at the door. They’ll sit in the pew they always do, or pretty darn close to it. Newcomers will notice our weird baptismal font, full of water, bubbling like a water feature.

“We’ll sing favorite songs—all the verses—and it’ll be accompanied by normal instruments like an organ or piano, not goofball tools like spoons or plastic buckets. Our readings will come from the Bible. We’ll confess our sins, and a robed, ordained pastor will give us absolution. He’ll preach from the pulpit, not sashaying up and down the aisles. We’ll all stand and pray—in unison—and we’ll say the Lord’s Prayer and Nicene Creed with the real words we learned in our youth, not that mushy ‘save us from the time of trial’ mumbo jumbo.

“Row by row, we’ll go for communion, not tromp up there all at once like a herd of hyenas. The church will be decorated in the liturgical colors, which should be white and gold this morning. Beneath the pastor’s upheld hand, we’ll receive a blessing, and we’ll leave, feeling comforted and forgiven because that’s the way we’ve always done it. That’s what we expect. That’s why we’re not mutating it.”

Walt had inched backward until he was surrounded by the gathering crowd. Lorena took this as a signal to reach a greater audience. She pleaded, one hand outstretched, the other hugging the lily.

“We don’t want to change Easter, do we? For some of you, it’s the only time you come to church. You expect it to be glorious when you walk inside. Flowers everywhere. Banners. Trumpets. A pure white altar. That’s what we’ve always done. That’s what we know. That’s our tradition.”

Blank faces stared at her. The small fire made popping noises in answer to her protest.

She felt a soft touch on her shoulder.

“Many of us asked for this,” Brynn said. “Pastor Poe didn’t want to change it either, but it’ll be beautiful. A metamorphosis from dark to light. Let’s talk about it inside.”

Lorena looked at people staring or whispering. Her gaze stopped at the fire. She straightened her back and lifted her chin. “No.”

With one heeled foot, she kicked over the brazier. Embers and half-burned sticks bounced and scattered in front of the doors. She smacked her potted plant onto the concrete. Two petals dropped on the coals, sending whispers of smoke spiraling upward. “Leave that there.” She pointed at the lily then plowed through the crowd. “There’s got to be some sign of Easter for people who have to worship in a parking lot.” Faces hinged back and forth, looking at her then the plant. The gold paper caught on fire, making the lily appear to rise out of the flames. Low murmurs of the story began as she drove off.

*

Those who attended the service said it was quite transforming to see the old black symbols stripped away. New gold and white adornments filled the sanctuary with the accompaniment of a brass ensemble and many tiny, lit candles.

The one-person revolution became part of church history. Of course, the name of the real culprit was never used; so thereafter, when people said, “It’s-a-Lorena”—they really meant “change.”

Come Back

THE OKLAHOMA SUN had become a heat lamp, baking each day of May a little longer. Evening brought a few degrees of relief. Its arrival was announced by the hum of lawn mowers and the shouts of children who’d abandoned the air conditioning. The maintenance man outside of The Cuppa Bistro pushed his mower back and forth, heedless of the cloud of translucent insects rising before him. Inside, diners ate as refrigerated air chugged through vents and dropped into the sun-drenched dining room.

“I’ll take a cuppa.” Lorena stood at the counter, pointing to the menu with one hand while working the other under her short-sleeved, floral green jacket to tug the strap of her sundress. “Their gazpacho and garlic sourdough are really good.”

Kay scanned the laminated, one-page menu, intermittently glancing at Lorena’s flower earrings, matched necklace, and purse. She looked down at her faded jeans and loose knit shirt. As a graphic designer, she dressed for comfort not customers. It was coincidence when the latest trend coupled with her style. She continued to stare at the menu, but was trying to think of the last time she’d changed her purse to match her jewelry or even the season. “I’ll have whatever she ordered,” she mumbled, handing the menu behind her.

“Thanks, but I don’t need it,” Hettie said. Hints of flour-dust covered the front of her shirt. “Just berry gelato for me. A big cup.” School had been over for several hours, and even though she’d organized this little meeting, it had interrupted a baking project.

“Okay. I’m here.” Lorena settled into a chair. “Is this some kind of intervention?”

“I think interventions make you realize you’re out of control and convince you to commit yourself.” Kay folded a napkin in half. “You’re past that.”

“Now, Kay.” Hettie used her teacher-voice. “You said you’d be helpful.” She switched on a sympathetic smile as she turned to Lorena. “We’re here because you haven’t been to church in a while, and you weren’t at the last Ladies Circle.”

“She rarely goes to Ladies Circle.” Kay sat her drink on the folded napkin, shrugging at Hettie’s pointed stare.

“I can’t go back.” Lorena gave a single wave. “I miss you all, but I made such a scene. I can only imagine what people are saying. What’d Vera say?”

“Nothing. Vera doesn’t talk about people. Only us cats hiss and growl.”

“Speak for yourself.” Lorena eyed Kay. “How they got those changes by Vera is a mystery. Maybe that early Easter service would’ve gone differently if she’d been there to help me.”

“You did a great job all by yourself.” Kay ignored Hettie’s teacher-stare. “I don’t think cremating lilies is Vera’s style. She’s more of a nip-it-in-the-bud sorta gal.”

“Vera’s been busy.” Hettie spoke quickly. “Her aunt is coming to stay with her, and she’s more than a little distracted. Now, can’t we leave all that in the past and you return?”

Lorena shook her head. “There is no past. Everything keeps changing. Next thing you know, we’ll be singing bluegrass to the accompaniment of a gut bucket.”

“So you’re never coming back to Shaded Valley Lutheran?”

Kay frowned. “Oh, rub a duck. Don’t you know that’s why there’re two Lutheran churches in each town? It has nothing to do with doctrinal differences. It’s so when someone gets ticked off, they can worship at the other Lutheran church until they get ruffled there. Churches don’t grow; we just exchange members.”

“I’m not going back to the other Lutheran church either.” Lorena took a sip of her ice tea and stared at the table.

“What’re you going to do?” Hettie asked.

Lorena shrugged, turning her glass, watching it spiral sweat rings on the glass tabletop.

“You’re considering one of those evangelical churches, aren’t you? This is an intervention after all.” Kay reached across the table and gripped Lorena’s forearm. “Don’t let the threat of fire and brimstone dazzle you. Sure, sure, their no-dancing, no-card-playing policies sound fine because you’re too old to rap and play poker, but there’s more to religion than good singing and being saintly.”

“Stop it, Kay,” Hettie hissed. She turned to Lorena. “I thought about bringing Vera, but you two…sometimes…compete.”

“There’s singing all the verses of all the songs, even if they sound like funeral dirges,” Kay continued. “There’re potlucks with no less than three Jell-o salads containing pastel, multi-flavored marshmallows, not just the miniature, white kind. There’re quilting parties and sometimes we actually quilt. And what about the mandatory coffee hours? We’re known for our strong coffee.”

People at other tables stared.

Kay stood, unceremoniously palming the top of Lorena’s lacquer-sprayed head. “Think of your heritage. We’re German.” Kay bent low, still holding her firmly. “Actually, you look kinda Norwegian to me. But we have a favorite hymnal that’s as old as German dirt. Sometimes we even use it. We’re known for being inflexible. What other church can offer you that? Come back, Lorena. Come back to the Lutheran light.”

“You’re messing up my hair.” Lorena squirmed as Kay mashed her bangs into her eyes. “Vera’s starting to look good to me,” she said to Hettie.

The schoolteacher rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I asked Brynn to come. She’s sane and sensitive, but she couldn’t be here. Think of this as atonement for what you did.”

“I was a substitute?” Kay straightened, removing her hand from Lorena’s head and pointing to the table. “Just put it there,” she said to the waitress standing near her with their order.

Lorena finger-tousled her hair into place. “Is this the end of the intervention?”

“Do you want me to start again?”

“No!” Hettie said. “Shut up and sit down.”

“I’m Baptist, and some of us dance,” the waitress said.

“Do you polka?” Kay asked.

“No. Do you all?”

“If I eat enough Jell-o salad.” Kay smiled.

The waitress squinted, shaking her head. “What does gelatin have to do with—”

“Wiggles.” Kay gave a quick hula of her hips before sitting. The young lady turned away, giving the other patrons a big-eyed look.

“I’m sorry, Lorena. Ignore Miss BatCrazy here.” Hettie scooched her chair closer, leaning forward. “We miss you and want you to come back.”

Lorena stirred her soup. She shook her head, not looking at them. “I wanted Easter to be perfect. Easter shouldn’t change.”

“That’s what Pontius Pilate said, too. ‘You crucify a guy, why can’t he stay dead?’” Kay nodded.

“You know what I mean.”

“And those Pharisees agreed with you about change.” Kay nodded. “‘Why can’t that Jesus-fellow heal Monday through Friday like a regular physician? We have rules about curing on the Sabbath.’”

“This is different.”

“And my favorite, and this is why I joined the church; ‘Why can’t that priest at that little church, what’s his name? Martin Luther? Yeah. Why can’t Luther just shut-up and let us continue to sell forgiveness for sins? Little, nobody priest trying to change things.’”

“All right. All right. I know change is inevitable.” Lorena tore her bread in half. “I wanted Easter to be perfect. That’s all.”

“Why?” asked Hettie.

“I…don’t know. I had an image of the way everything was supposed be on Easter morning. It was ruined.”

Hettie took a tiny taste of gelato. “I asked my fourth graders to draw a picture of spring. Most kids drew a circle with some petals sticking out of it.” She used her itty-bitty spoon to point. “That’s the attitude Kay would have—it’s a flower. Use your imagination. It’s good enough.” Kay raised her eyebrows twice and ate her gazpacho.

“But I had a student who kept starting over because the clouds or birds weren’t perfect. I bet she drew it four or five times.”

“What’s your point?” Lorena said.

“I asked her, ‘Could you think about why it has to be perfect, and tell me?’ I’ll ask you the same thing. Why did the Easter service have to be perfect?” Lorena shook her head. “My student couldn’t tell me either.” The three ate without speaking. Hettie hoped the silence would break Lorena, as it often did a nine-year-old.

“Want my bread?” Kay pushed back from the table. Lorena shook her head again. Hettie held out her hand, and Kay handed it over. “Well, Jesus came into an imperfect world. Must’ve driven Him crazy. So I’ll use your favorite phrase, ‘What would Jesus do?’”

Lorena tore the crust from her sourdough, eating only the soft part as she thought. Finally, she sighed, “I guess He would die. Die to make it perfect.”

“Grace.” Kay smiled. “Accepted just like you are and made perfect by someone else’s effort.”

“We’re not talking about me.” Lorena pushed back from the table. “We’re talking about Easter.”

“Say,” Hettie used her light tone, “I’ve got news. A couple checked out the church on Good Friday. They were looking for a place to have their wedding. The bride loved your decorations, Lorena.”

Lorena sneered. “They were black. It was Lent.”

“That’s the bride’s colors, black and red. She wanted to know if we’d drape the cross in black again for her December wedding.”

“Ewwww,” Lorena groaned, shaking her head. “That’s just wrong.”

“She thought it was perfect,” Kay said.

“You’re an ass sometimes.” Lorena put several bills on the table and stood.

“Yeah, but you love me in spite of my faults. That’s grace. Besides, I don’t think you can call people an ass if you become a Baptist.”

“I’ll see you, Hettie.” Lorena headed for the door.

“This Sunday?”

“Maybe, if I get to call Kay other names, too.”

“That’s the spirit. ‘Sin, so grace can abound,’” Kay called after her. They watched as she walked to her car, got in, and drove away.

“Do you think she’ll come?”

“Do you think she’ll realize she and Vera argue because they’re so much alike?”

Hettie frowned. “So if Vera’s her benchmark, why does she need to be perfect?”

“This and all questions will be answered.” Kay made a signal for the check. “I’ve found God’s a great teacher. He keeps giving the same lesson until we get it. Only then do we get to move on.”

Stairway to Heaven

A PREGNANT ALLIE reclined on the couch in the narthex, cutting flame-shapes from orange and red construction paper. “Why fire for Pentecost? Why’d the Holy Spirit appear as tongues of fire hovering over heads?”

“As opposed to what? Making people’s eyes glow white?” Hettie taped monofilament to a paper flame and handed it to Walt.

“You women talk about the weirdest stuff.” Walt passed the flame up to Kay atop an ancient wooden ladder.

Kay taped the transparent line to the ceiling. “That white-eye thing would be too confusing. You couldn’t tell the difference between Christians and zombies. C’mon, Walt. Hand them up a little faster.”

“What do ya want? A ladder holder or a flame thrower? He smiled at his little joke, turning to help Hettie with the monofilament. “And…there’s no such thing as zombies.”

“Yet.” Kay motioned for him to keep his grip on the rungs.

“This ladder ain’t gonna fold up on you. Now, you may fall off, what with all the lip flappin’ you’re doin’ up there, but it’s solid.”

“I bet this baby was used to scale castle walls,” Kay said. “I should’ve brought mine from home. Why do you refuse to get us a lightweight, aluminum one?”

“Cecil Weinhauer gave this to the church, and it still has years left in it.” Walt rubbed the heavy, wooden rungs spotted with paint and scraped with use.

“Fuds buds.” Hettie handed Walt some flames. “Cecil died ten years ago. I bet he was lifting that ladder when he had his heart attack.”

“You gals need to put on some muscle. I’m just helpin’ you all because Hettie brought me some homemade cinnamon rolls. Don’t get used to this.”

Kay had climbed down and was pointing to another spot. “Okay, move this staircase again, Mr. Head-of-the-Property-Committee. You’re toting this tree trunk around for us because you won’t buy us a ‘woman’s ladder.’”

“How I suffer for The Church.” Walt shook his head as he scooted the ladder over. Kay climbed the rungs then waggled her hand for something to hang.

“Just perch up there a minute. We’ve got a problem on the assembly line.” Walt watched Hettie yank at the snarl of monofilament.

“Cut it off, and trash it.” Frustration tinged Kay’s voice. “It’s about a penny’s worth of fishing line.”

“You wanna throw everything away instead of fixin’ it.” Walt stared at Kay as he patted the heavy rails of the ladder. “Isn’t that what those flames you’re manhandling represent? A Holy Spirit who makes you realize you’re broken. Some folks don’t even know their screws are comin’ loose until they fall completely apart. You want a god who throws us away? No repairs provided?” He patted the rungs again.

“Carpenter theology. Interesting.” Kay smirked at him. “Are you saying you can fix this ladder so it isn’t heavy?”

“I could take about hundred twenty pounds off it.” He gave the ladder a shake. Kay gave a stop-it shout, stomping the rung next to his hand.

“Why don’t both of you join the youth discussion this Sunday?” No one had noticed Phil enter. Shin-guards covered the front of his legs, and a baggy shirt emblazoned with “Italia” hung over long athletic shorts. “We’ll be arguing if God is male or female.”

“Hey ya, Phil.” Kay waved. “Don’t let Vera know you’re discussing such heresy.”

“Has to be a man,” Walt muttered. “He knocked down the walls of Jericho. You women can’t even move this little ladder.”

“It’s a trick question.” Phil shifted the grip on the large painting in his hands. “He’s everything: man, woman, child—remember His name is ‘I Am’. It’ll be a lively session. You could add your man-reasoning, Walt. The guys will like it.”

“Well, Phil, you win today’s religious quiz. So you get to stand here and hang onto this ladder.” Walt grabbed a paper-flame from Hettie, offering it to the youth director.

“Sorry, I’ve got a game.” Phil’s smile didn’t hold an ounce of sympathy. “I only dropped by to hand off Mrs. Henley’s portrait of Saint Peter. It needs to be displayed anywhere besides the youth room.”

Walt clenched the wooden rails, staring at the canvas. “Put it back where you found it.”

“The kids would discover it again in the bell closet. They made eye patches, sunglasses, and tattoos from sticky notes, adding them to her painting.”

“It probably improved it.” Walt nodded.

“And…they named it St. Scary. I found them making the little kids sit in front of it with half the lights out if they didn’t sing or behave.”

“Oh,” Allie stared, “Johnny said something about that.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil said.

Allie squinted at the portrait. “Actually, it worked pretty well. Maybe I should borrow it.”

Phil thrust the painting toward Walt. “I’ve got a game in a few minutes.”

Walt shook his head. “Sorry, gotta hold onto this ladder, or Kay thinks it’ll turn to sawdust and she’ll die. I’m sure you’ll figure out something to do with it.”

“I’m setting it here in the corner.”

“Flip it around, so it’s not looking at us.” Kay said, but Phil had already waved his good-byes and was headed for the door.

“I’ll get it.” Hettie turned the canvas toward the wall. “It’s a difficult problem. What does the church do with donations? Vera invested a lot of time and lovingly made it, but it’s really hideous.” She shook her head, sticking out her tongue, as she turned away. “How many more flames do you need, Kay?”

“About twenty. What’re you going to do with it, Walt?”

He stared out the window and held up a line with a yellow flame swinging on the end. “Get to hanging, missy. I can’t lollygag here all day.”

When they’d finished, a swath of red, yellow, and orange fire-tongues danced from the ceiling, passing through the narthex. The ladies were packing up supplies, when Walt voiced a low complaint in Kay’s ear, “Since I’ve been hefting this ladder for you all morning, you can spare a minute to help me.” Before Kay could say something snarky, Walt pointed to the artwork in the corner, then he carried the ladder down the hallway.

“I’ve got things to do, too, you know.” She watched him disappear, mumbled words inappropriate for church, and followed him, toting the portrait of St. Peter.

When she caught up, Walt was unlocking a narrow door. He pointed to a dusty box of trash compacter sacks. “Stand in the hallway and secure that picture in a bag; I’ll set up.”

He opened, closed, and turned the ladder several times until it fit inside the tiny closet; its base angled through the doorway and into the hall. After a rough tug on the zip tie to check Kay’s bagging job, he gave a nod. “Thanks. You can skedaddle.”

She stared at him, arms crossed over her chest. He looked at the floor, shifting his weight foot to foot. His hand scrubbed over his mouth as he glanced at her a couple of times. “Okay, if you must know,” his words sounded terse, but his eyes asked for indulgence, “this is the only ladder that fits through the door and comes near the ceiling.”

“And that’s important because…” She peeked inside the room. “A mystery door in the ceiling?” A grin spread across her face. “I want to see what’s in the hidey-hole.”

“Oh! Now you want to climb the old, dangerous, ladder? The rungs don’t reach the ceiling, and you don’t have the muscles to hoist yourself through the opening. It’s not a secret. Just rarely used. It’s the attic for the organ pipes. Hand me this picture when I get up there.” He picked up the portrait-in-a-bag.

“Just watch me.” Kay climbed, accompanied by Walt’s complaints. She flipped open the hatch, and pulled herself into the darkness. “Hades Fire! It’s huge up here.” Sticking her head back through the opening, she frowned. “Won’t Vera ask about the portrait?”

“I think she’s forgot. I hope so anyway. Too much is changing since Jim died. She’s busy squawking and trying to keep a grip on things.”

“So you think this is the right thing to do?”

“Putting Vera’s painting away and letting future generations decide is the kindest decision. The kids like it now; maybe they’ll still like it and display it in twenty years. After I’m dead and gone. It’s dry and it’s temperature controlled up there.” He climbed several rungs and offered the plastic bag toward the hole. “The other option is to discuss it. Committees like Sanctuary Arts, Property, and The-Society-For-Cruelty-To-The-Seeing will wrestle it around. So tell me; do you think Vera’s feelings will be hurt if there’s talk about re-hanging this thing?”

“Give it to me.”

“Put it with the other bags. You want me to get you a flashlight?”

“What’s in these other—”

“Don’t ask.”

When she emerged from the hole, Walt grabbed her feet and guided them to the top rung. As she reached the floor, he gave her a hug. “Thanks. If anything happens to me, you know where the skeletons are hidden.”

She slapped the dust from her jeans to cover her surprise. She’d never seen Walt show any tenderness except toward tools. “You could’ve done this by yourself. Are you feeling guilty about those bags up there?”

“Not a lick. Everything up there is a kindness to somebody. I appreciate you being my confederate.”

“Nobody knows?”

“Ruby, my wife, knew. Pastor Henley knew. They’re both gone.”

Kay studied the white-haired man. He looked away, seeming to shrink under her assessment. “Then I’ll carry the secret to the grave, too.” She stuck out her hand.

Walt shook it, a shy grin crossing his face and disappearing just as quickly. “You want one of my cinnamon rolls?”

“I’ll trade you a fancy-pants cup of coffee for one.” She gave him a pat.

Walt nodded. “Maybe I’ll get a light, little ladder you women can tote around.”

Pentecost

OFFICIALLY, IT WAS Pentecost—fifty days after Easter. Unofficially, it heralded the beginning of summer vacation when slacker attitudes and a do-nothing energy began its slow ebb through the congregation.

The irony was lost on most people. Pentecost, the flaming arrival of the Holy Spirit, enabled believers to go out and spread the word. Instead some were inspired to go to the lake where they felt God sat around with them, beer in hand, watching waves and witnessing to crows and crappie.

At the Shaded Valley’s Pentecostal celebration, worshippers were greeted by paper flames dangling over their heads. Red geraniums decorated the sanctuary. The plants became table decorations, and in a few days, they’d end up in flower beds around the church. The floral committee, honoring their efficient German ancestry, was especially pleased they’d decorated and landscaped with one purchase.

Coffee hour featured a large sheet cake covered with red banners and dotted with white doves. Nuts, mints, and a punch bowl of cranberry-7Up ensured folks would hang around after church, instead of wandering home to nap or garden. Lorena slipped into a chair next to an aged woman in the back corner of the Fellowship Hall.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Lorena asked the elderly stranger.

“Why, no.” Ocean blue eyes beamed from a tiny face, and the Dutch-boy haircut jumped when she shook her head. “Not at all. Vera left me in this corner so I wouldn’t get into trouble.”

Lorena talked slowly and loudly for the woman’s old ears. “Are you a friend of Vera’s?”

“Are you?”

“I…uh…well, yes.”

“Naaah. You aren’t. That was a church-lady response. Vera doesn’t have friends, at least not any close ones that I’ve ever known.”

“I guess you aren’t her friend either.”

“I’m a relative. Aunt Ula.” She stuck out a tiny hand mapped with the raised lines of blood vessels in her thin skin. “There was quite an age difference between my sis—who was Vera’s mom—and me. I was fifteen when Vera was born. Sometimes I tell people she’s the older one. They believe it. She was born a Methuselah.”

“I’m Lorena.” She squeezed the old woman’s fingertips. “How should I call you Miz—?”

“Aunt Ula! I already introduced myself. Goodness, child, your hearing’s worse than mine. No wonder you’re sitting in this forlorn corner with me.”

“Well, Aunt Ula, I’m sitting back here because I had a little hissy fit at church weeks ago, and I don’t want to parade through the crowd and hear anyone say something about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because…because…” Lorena weighed the long and short explanations. “It would hurt my feelings.”

Allie set a piece of cake on the table and lowered herself into a chair. “I hope it’s cooler in this corner.”

“I hope you’ve got two babies in there. If not, you don’t need that cake.” Aunt Ula pointed to the bulging midline of Allie’s shirt.

“Good try, but you’re not getting my cake.” Allie took a forkful and nodded at Lorena’s shocked gaze. “I met Aunt Ula earlier.”

“LoWena, be a dear—”

“It’s Lo-Rena.” She pasted a smile on her face.

“Dear, get an old lady a piece of cake. Vera said she was going to bring me a piece, but that was hours ago.”

“Now, ma’am,” Allie pointed her fork. “Vera already gave you cake, and she wanted you to park it here so she could find you.” The young woman covered her mouth, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. The hormones have removed my mouth filter.”

“Call me Aunt Ula, and I won’t mind your mouth if you go get me a piece of cake.” Allie pushed away from the table as the old lady added, “Don’t get a square with any of that red icing. It’s as sour as a tin can. See if you can get a little dove on my piece.”

Lorena eyed the old woman’s shoes. Low-top Keds. A circle of the canvas material was cut away on each foot just below the big toe. Lacy anklets peeked through the holes. “You’re pretty tricky, Aunt Ula. Is that why Vera sat you here by yourself?”

“I’m not alone anymore. I’m sitting with a pregnant woman and the church outcast, and I’ve got a piece of cake coming. I’m doing pretty well. How about you?”

“I…”

“You can say it. Even if we are in church, LoWena.”

“Lorena!”

“Well, quit worrying about other people. Say what you think.”

“I already did. I was loud and angry about all the changes on Easter Sunday. That’s why I’m sitting in this corner with…” Lorena gave the old woman a pointed stare, “with you.”

“Do you regret it? I mean, what you did, not about sitting with me. You may feel badly about sitting with me, but I don’t give a rat’s tail. Are you sorry for your actions?”

“I should’ve done it another time and another way instead of exploding.”

“So apologize.”

“That would be even more embarrassing,” Lorena said.

“How can you be forgiven if you have nothing you’re sorry for? What do you practice in this church? Even a cantankerous ol’ woman like me knows you need to repent if you’re trying to do some internal housecleaning. And believe me, I’ve had to do a lot.”

“I believe it,” Allie said as she slid a paper plate with a big corner piece of cake and extra frosting in front of Aunt Ula.

“Who would I apologize to?” Lorena shrugged. “I don’t even know which people saw my emotional meltdown.”

“Aaaw! There’s no little dove on this piece.” Aunt Ula gave her waitress a sugary smile. “Thank you, Allie. I bet the next piece will have a little bird on it.” She scraped her fork across the icing and stuck a big clump into her mouth. “Lo-Wena,” she emphasized the last syllable, “I’d say you’re not sorry about diddly; you regret people thinking you’re a loon.”

“Holy carrotballs,” Allie licked her fork, “you sure don’t pull any punches.”

“I’m old. I don’t care. I’m tired of folks living to please everybody else. I’ve been around them all my life.”

“And now you’re visiting Vera and sharing your opinions?” Lorena grinned.

“No. My house in Ponca City was condemned, so I’m living with Vera. She hasn’t changed a bit. She was born giving orders and handing out opinions.”

“Does she try to order you around? I’d like to see that,” Allie said.

“LoWena, while you’re getting a refill, get me a cup, too, and another piece of cake. Get a little dove on it this time.”

“It’s Lorena. And I don’t even have a cup. I’m fine.”

“You don’t want people to gossip about how you made a pregnant mother and a crazy old woman wait tables. Not after what they already think of you.”

With a big sigh, Lorena left for the serving line.

“That was kind of mean. This is the first time she’s been back since her blowup.” Allie wiped frosting from her lips. “Now tell me how you manipulate Vera when she orders you around.”

“Oh, I don’t fight with Vera. I’m just a guest there. She could put me out in the street—but she won’t. Poor thing. I’ve always felt sorry for her.” She shook her head, staring at the crowded room, not seeing anyone.

Allie leaned forward as far as her belly would allow. “Why feel sorry for her?”

It took a moment for the words to break through Aunt Ula’s thoughts. She blinked then took a bite of cake. “Well, she was supposed to be a boy.” She nodded at Allie’s frown. “Vera’s daddy was a pastor. He prayed for a boy to follow in his footsteps. He was disappointed when their little “Vern” turned out to be a Vera. She’s spent the rest of her life trying to make up for it.”

“There are women ministers,” Allie said.

Aunt Ula’s eyes widened as though she’d heard blasphemy. “Not back then.”

“She could’ve become a nun,” Lorena spoke behind them, making the old woman jump. The full-figured blonde grinned as she pushed cups of punch toward each lady.

“She could’ve done a lot of things, but following in her daddy’s footsteps was the only sacrifice she felt would please him, so she married a pastor, controlling everything around her to meet her daddy’s expectations. And why did it take you so long to bring this punch?”

Lorena’s eyebrows rose. Her forehead furrowed. “I said hello to a few people, Your Highness, and maybe I stopped to slip something in your drink.” Aunt Ula stared at the mug but didn’t touch it.

“It’s good to see you again, Lorena. I see you’ve met each other.” Vera walked to the table also frowning into her coffee cup.

“We’re hearing about your family. I didn’t know your father was a pastor.”

“I come from a long line of pastors,” Vera said without a smile.

“Vera’s daddy pastored right up until the day he died.” Aunt Ula continued peering into her punch. “When he drew crosses on foreheads with ashes, he was so old and shaky, they looked like swastikas.” She snorted a laugh. “You should’ve seen the looks we got when we stopped by the grocery store on Ash Wednesday.”

“That’s enough, Aunt Ula.” Vera’s mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Niece, go get some cake for Allie, LoWena, and me. Relax. Join us. You’re working everyone hand over fist like a military operation.”

“You don’t need cake. It will ruin your lunch.”

Aunt Ula narrowed her eyes. “The Captain likes cake. He’s coming to get me.” She arose quickly for someone her age and grabbed a dirty paper plate. Her shoes smacked the floor as she headed toward the kitchen. “Thanks for the punch,” she said over her shoulder.

“I didn’t put anything in it. I was just kidding,” Lorena called after her. The small figure stopped and threw a smug look at the blonde.

“I got you out of this corner, circulating again, didn’t I?”

“Where are you going?” Vera’s words were respectful, but the tone dripped with a sense of get-back-here. “We need to leave; a neighbor’s coming over to give me an estimate on fixing the latest leak in my roof.”

“The Captain insists on a shipshape table. Wash your cup and stow it when you’re through, Vera.” Her white anklets beamed from the holes in her shoes.

“That’s the Aunt you were preparing for?” Allie rubbed her stomach, staring at the bony retreating form.

“My crazy Aunt Ula,” Vera sighed, sipped her drink, made an exasperated face, and set the cup on the table. “I think she salted my coffee.”

“Why’re her shoes like that?”

“She has bunions and won’t spend any money to have them fixed.” Vera rubbed her forehead.

Lorena smiled. “I love her lacy anklets with fancy buttons around the top.”

“You would.” Vera sighed and shook her head.

“So who’s the Captain?” Allie’s eyes were wide as she leaned forward.

“A figment of her imagination. She was never married. Sometimes she’s lucid, and sometimes she seems…a bit off.” Vera sighed again.

“Yeah. She’s crazy all right.” Lorena could see Aunt Ula bellied up to a counter in the kitchen, chatting and eating another piece of cake. Crazy like a fox.

Experienced Merchandise Sale

WALT REMOVED HIS cap and rubbed his bald head with a handkerchief. A “V” of perspiration patterned the front of his blue shirt. “Okay, Lorena, I hung that big banner of yours in front of the church, but dang if I know what it means.”

Vera, sorting through a carton, straightened and stared. “Why? What does it say?”

“Now, now.” Lorena wiggled fingers at the older woman. “You said I’m in charge of publicity, and you wouldn’t interfere. We’ve got to create pizzazz to get people to leave their air conditioned cocoons and come out in this heat.”

“What does it say?” Vera stood upright, arms akimbo.

Walt pulled a toolbox from the donation bin and examined it. “You don’t need publicity. Folks show up every August. They always come.” He slid each drawer in and out. “I don’t know why people think they need others’ junk.”

Cartons blocked Vera’s path but she used her voice like an arrow, pinning Lorena in place. “What does it say?” Aunt Ula took advantage of the diversion to slip a sequined party dress over her clothes.

Lorena arced her hand like a banner across the room, “EXPERIENCED MERCHANDISE SALE.”

“Oh, heaven help us. It’s a rummage sale. You take a simple task—”

“Well, nobody wants to buy rummage.” Lorena looked around for Walt. He’d already made his getaway with the toolbox, leaving five dollars on the table. “We want people to know these are good, perhaps slightly experienced, quality items. Some of the merchandise was donated from two estate sales. Besides, the Presbyterians are having their sale this weekend, too. We want to set ourselves apart.” Lorena headed for an exit.

“Yeah, quality stuff. How experienced do you think these are?” Kay held up lacy women’s briefs.

“Lorena! Change that sign,” Vera yelled, but her publicity woman had escaped. “People will be a half-mile down the street before they figure out what it means. Kay, throw that out. Why anyone would donate undergarments is beyond me.” Vera shook her head.

Kay made a twenty-foot shot, lobbing the wadded ball of panties into a “FREE” box. “If you don’t have anything, then cheap, clean underwear is a godsend.”

Aunt Ula snatched them from the box, patting the sides of her party dress, looking for pockets.

“Hey, Aunt Ula, how’d you get your name?” Kay smiled as the elderly lady whisked her treasure behind her back and strolled away from the bin.

“I’ve told you before, dear, my name is French, for Ooh-La-La.” She busied herself with a jumble of purses.

“It is not.” Vera pulled tangled Christmas decorations from a shoe box. “Her name is Eulalia. I couldn’t say it when I was young, so she became Aunt Ula.”

“Isn’t that the most asinine thing you ever heard?” The old woman stuffed a large straw bag with contraband she’d hidden throughout the room “Who would call a child Eulalia? And my poor brother was named Faron.”

“Are those family names?” Kay said.

Aunt Ula examined a candle then shoved it into her purse. “Yes, some poor souls in our clan were saddled with ugly names, and our parents, being good Germans, continued the misery. But no kid who valued their front teeth called my brother Faron. He always went by Joe. That’s what we put on his headstone. When he was young, he inked over his name in the family Bible so no future generation would be tempted to call anyone Faron. I always thought that’s why he died so young. It can’t be good luck to scratch yourself out of the family Bible.”

“He died in the war. The Bible had nothing to do—” Vera straightened to stab Aunt Ula with a glare. “Get that dress off! We are here to unload boxes, not shop. Get it off. Right now. Before we started, I told everyone there would be no early shopping or saving things. That includes you.”

Kay hefted another box to the table. “Get real, Vera. That’s the main reason anyone helps. So they can get first pick. That’s why I’m here.”

“And I’m tired of listening to complaints that the good stuff is bought by the set-up crew. So it’s not happening. Come back and shop tomorrow with everyone else.”

“That’s probably why most of your volunteers left. You need to reward them. Let them buy something before the sale starts.”

Vera looked around, noticing for the first time that the number of helpers had silently diminished. “I’m checking on the outside crew,” she said as she went upstairs.

Aunt Ula waited several moments then cat-called down a hallway of Sunday school rooms, “You can come back now, LoWena. I saw you.”

“Thank you, Eulalia.” Lorena slipped into the room and grabbed a wooden flowerbox.

“Hiding your swag from Vera?” Aunt Ula added a small laugh as she folded a pair of pajamas.

“It’s better and easier than stashing it in a big purse.” Lorena pointed at the straw bag slung over the old woman’s wrist.

Aunt Ula shrugged. “At least I don’t hide in the Sunday school rooms.”

“You hide from Vera by acting nuts.”

“I am crazy. Who else would wear this color of shoes with this dress?” The old woman held the glittering skirt in front of her, shook it, and laughed.

Lorena held up a palm. “Someone’s coming. Break a sweat, girls.” She turned and hurried down the side hallway.

“They’ve left. I can’t believe it.” Vera’s voice shot down the stairwell. She emerged a moment later, hands stirring the air, each word pitching louder and higher. “And people are trying to bring donations today, even though the cutoff was a week ago. I caught Alice Hanson upstairs, unloading curtain rods. I told her she’d have to store it and donate it next year; we have all we can handle. Do you know what she told me?”

“I know what I would’ve told you,” Aunt Ula mumbled.

“Why don’t you try to be helpful?” Vera gave her a white-lipped, venomous look. “What have you done today?”

“I maintained this table in Bristol fashion by folding . . .” she held up the pajamas, “this!” Her bag slipped from her wrist, swinging down to the crook of her elbow.

“What’s that?” Vera walked toward her. Aunt Ula dropped the pj’s, clutching the straw purse to her chest.

Kay made her breakout, telling herself some problems were better left between family members. The last thing she saw was two white-haired ladies tugging a straw satchel, stitched in orange letters, “Miami.”

*

Roger parked his fifth Wheel at the church. He sat in a lounge chair under its awning, having a beer and guarding tools, furniture, barely-used treadmills, and plastic swimming pools. When Vera and Aunt Ula emerged from the church at 1 a.m., he kept an eye on them as he quietly stuck his two empties in a used fertilizer spreader. Vera had one arm around the old woman, urging her to keep moving. “Because we have to be back by 7 to set up.”

“You really put in a day,” Roger called out as he stood. “You’re welcome to spend the night in the trailer. I’ll let you have it.”

Vera looked up and gaped at the big RV. She let go of Aunt Ula and marched toward Roger, her eyes strafing him with criticism as she approached. “People are not going to steal from a church There’s no reason for you to be here, using the parking lot for your campground. I didn’t approve it. It’s neither appropriate, nor allowed by the city. Move it.” Without waiting for rebuttal, she turned and strode to her car. She had to return to drag Aunt Ula out of a lawn chair.

“Let me be,” the old woman protested. “It’s been a long time since I spent a night with a man.” Roger winked, gave her a thumbs-up, and settled back in his chair. Aunt Ula grinned and blew him a kiss as Vera tugged her to the car.

*

The Sunday school teachers arrived at 6 a.m. and began cooking. Within an hour, they were icing down their second batch of orange juice cartons. Church volunteers, arriving early to sort and price, had bought them out. The smell of sausage, onions, and breakfast burritos wafted through the parking lot.

Vera arrived, barking orders as soon as she opened her car door. Aunt Ula traipsed to Roger’s trailer and knocked. “Can I borrow one of your beds? I can’t dance all night like I used to.”

“Sure. Why didn’t you stay home and sleep?”

“Vera thinks I’ll burn the house down if she leaves me alone.”

“C’mon. I don’t know how much rest you’ll get. It’ll be noisy here. She gave him a no-big-deal-wave and climbed the vehicle’s steps.

It was 90º by 8 a.m. The pale blue sky had one tiny, puffball cloud to the north. A hot breeze rustled the sea of pop-up canopies along the lawn. Parked cars lined the street, and shoppers gathered at the rope tied across the church’s driveway. When it dropped, forty people hurried toward Lorena’s directional signs.

EXPERIENCED BABY ITEMS--DOWNSTAIRS

EXPERIENCED LAWN EQUIPMENT

REAR OF PARKING LOT

Shoppers made requests for lawn mowers experienced enough to mow by themselves. A shovel missing its handle sported a chalk label: “Had a bad experience.” Some jokester scratched the word, “Experienced” above the Food sign. Within a couple of hours all the volunteers had grown tired of Lorena’s unique marketing strategy.

By noon, the temperature had reached 100º. The cloud in the north had grown into tall, billowing towers. The Sunday school food booth began hawking sandwiches, but the big seller was homemade strawberry shortcake with piles of ice cream.

As Vera whisked around the sale, giving advice and negotiating prices, she searched for her aunt, asking if anyone had seen her. When Roger heard, he tracked Vera to the Fellowship Hall, informing her Aunt Ula was sleeping off last night in his trailer.

“Why didn’t you tell me before? I’ve been looking everywhere.” She scowled at him, dark circles underlining her eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

“Well, I have enough to do without worrying about her, too.”

Roger broke their stare-off with, “You never asked me. Besides, if you knew, you wouldn’t have let her sleep.”

“I should say not. It looks bad enough to have cars parked overnight at the church, much less an RV. People wonder what we do here all night. Your trailer wasn’t something I approved, but I was too tired to argue last night.”

“You’re welcome, again. Glad you feel like arguing today.” Roger watched Vera examine an antique picture frame someone claimed should be priced higher.

He made a mental note to leave his truck parked in front of her house tonight. Walt could take him home. She’d be mortified by the slightest hint of a man staying at her place. What would the neighbors think? He’d stick a sign in his back window, too: “Experienced Truck Driver―CHEAP.”

“Don’t you have lawn mowers or loud, noisy tools to sell?” Vera said, shooing her fingers at him.

He gave her a single nod. “Yeah, I’ve gotta lot to do.”

“Tell my aunt to report to me,” Vera called as he left.

*

Aunt Ula spent the afternoon following her niece around, referring to her as “Lady Astor” until Vera could stand no more. “Do something useful. Help sell merchandise.”

In a short while, Aunt Ula approached a young couple looking at a baby crib. “Do you find any of these attractive?”

“Which ones?” asked the man staring at the five sets of earrings she’d clipped to her ears.

“Any one you choose, and we have necklaces and pins to match.” She pointed to her chest bejeweled with beads and glass brooches. She’d slipped into her sequined gown again and was touring the grounds, selling adornments off her body.

When she saw Vera coming, she slipped into Kay’s canopy of crafts which no longer fit anyone’s décor.

“You are a problem.” Anger seemed to scent the air around Vera as she pointed at the old woman.

“Take a number. We’re working on several problems.” Kay walked past, lugging an oversized frame to a senior citizen’s SUV. “Grab a corner, Vera. Help carry. Why’d you plan this sale when the kids are in San Francisco on their mission trip? Their young backs could be toting this stuff to people’s cars.”

“Your boys didn’t go on the trip. Why didn’t they help today?” Vera took uneven steps, trying to keep her end from dragging the ground. She didn’t notice Aunt Ula slip away, or Kay’s mouth tighten into a straight line.

The customer unlocked her car door. “I love the experienced merchandise theme.”

“Thanks. You’re the only one.” Kay gave a weak smile then wedged the unwieldy rectangle into the back seat. Walking back to the canopies, Kay’s words were short and sharp. “You’re in rare form, Vera. I’m about the 15th person you’ve tromped on, so here’s your first and last warning. My kids aren’t here because they’ve moved out. They’re working at the lake with my ex and his nymph of the week. Don’t push me. I’m having a rough time.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Vera squeezed the bridge of her nose as they walked. “I’m tired, cranky, and have been putting up with that all week.” She flung her palm toward her aunt.

“It’s not the same thing. Not even close. Don’t you ever grieve your losses, or do you just stay busy?” Kay didn’t wait for an answer. “Besides, I think Aunt Ula’s entertaining. So do the customers.”

“She’s embarrassing herself and this church.” Vera stopped walking but Kay continued. “Wait. Please?” Vera watched the younger woman halt, her shoulders sag, and several seconds tick away before she turned around. “She adores you, Kay. You’ve dropped by the house several times and taken her shopping. She loves it and I thank you. If I give you a twenty, would you take her to Dari-Drive for whatever treats you both want?”

“Are you bribing me to babysit?” Kay squinted, arching an eyebrow. “She’s not hurting anything.”

“She’s driving away customers.”

Kay’s hands slowly balled into fists as the edges of her nostrils flared and paled. “I’ll take her, but not because you asked. Because I need a break.” She turned, took a step, then swung back around. “Actually, it’s you who needs a break. A break from everything. You only think you’re in control. Stop yanking everyone’s reins. It’s irritating for us, and it’ll most likely kill you. You’d be blessed if you lived long enough to be comfortable letting go like that.” Kay pointed to Aunt Ula.

They stared at the tiny, white-haired lady in anklets and bunion-liberating low-tops. She’d added a two-feathered hat to her outfit. With a model’s strut, she circled the parking lot, her sequined dress catching the sunlight. Little girls followed like groupies, begging their mothers for jewelry.

Secrets of the Soda Shop

“VERA’S SPONSORING ALL this?” Aunt Ula sat in the vinyl booth, sliding upside-down spoonfuls of thick chocolate milkshake into her mouth.

“We all needed a break, especially Vera, but the old dictator wouldn’t take one. So I took her money and left before the reptile part of my brain took control of my mouth.” Kay flashed a half-smile, trying to mash the bobbing sphere of ice cream into her root beer, without foam oozing out of the cup.

“I’m trying my best to wear her down.” Aunt Ula winked and shimmied her shoulders, making the sequins on her dress glimmer.

“Good luck with that. Sorry she didn’t let you wear all your earrings.”

The old woman wrinkled her nose and massaged her earlobes. “They pinched. Though, all those necklaces took me back to Mardi Gras.” She shook her head. “Live while you can, Kay. You never know when it’s going to end.”

“You still have plenty of life in you. You’ll outlive Vera.”

“Maybe. But I was speaking of the Captain.”

“Aaaah. The Captain. Tell me about him. Vera says—well—she doesn’t talk about family.”

Aunt Ula poked the mush of her ice cream with her straw, her eyes studying Kay. When she set the cup down, she massaged her chilled fingers, speaking softly, “Papa forbade the family to ever speak of him. Vera was too young to remember.” Beads of condensation trickled down the sides of her cup, puddling on the table top.

She pulled a napkin from the dispenser and began wrapping her milkshake. “My father, Vera’s granddad, was a pastor, too. Big, stern man with a handlebar mustache. Dark, piercing eyes. Voice of thunder and God. When he spoke, you listened—except me. I refused to marry the dull, young men he brought by the house. I . . .” she paused, looking up from her swathed cup. “Well, you’re no priest, so I’m not confessing the things I’ve done. Let’s just say, my choices made me the black sheep of the family. The day I brought the Captain home was the last time I saw or spoke to Papa.”

Kay frowned. “How old were you?”

“Twenty.” She pulled out another napkin, smoothed it open lengthways, and continued wrapping her cup. “He told me to stop sinning or leave his sight. So,” her eyes stared, not seeing, “I traveled the world. I knew the love of an older, wiser man. When the Captain died in an accident, I returned home. Papa had already passed on. You never know when it’s going to end.”

Kay touched Aunt Ula’s arm and looked away. The sight of the tiny figure, bowed with pain, rippled dark memories buried in Kay’s heart. No one had liked her husband Gabe, either. Even before he turned out to be a cheating rat. She’d tongue-lashed relatives and friends, defending him. She’d been so stupid. The dinging of the counter-service bell brought her back to the booth.

“Joe, my brother, was gone,” Aunt Ula was saying. “Died in the war.” Her face bent lower. She patted the napkin to the sides of the cup. “Ida, my sis, was married and already had Vera. It was just Mama and me in that old house. We never talked about it—Papa had forbidden it, and even though he was dead, Mama didn’t disobey him. It was as though that piece of my life never happened.” They fell silent.

After a while, Aunt Ula sighed, “I know how Vera feels about never receiving her father’s approval. Dear girl, at least she tried.” Aunt Ula tipped the extra milkshake from the metal container into her cup, scraping the insides with her spoon.

Kay watched the process, unsure what to say. Cars passed. Customers came through the door, saying it looked like a storm was kicking up outside. The teens in the next booth complained about sticking to the vinyl seats. Orders of icy drinks and ice cream treats paraded from the counter. Finally, the wrinkled face looked up, blue eyes wet. Kay was surprised how old Aunt Ula appeared. Had she always been so frail and tired-looking? Kay handed her the tiny, red handkerchief she now kept in her purse.

“I’ve been trying to help Vera let go and live.” Aunt Ula’s thin hands blotted her eyes. “I promised Ida, my sister. I promised myself. Will you help me?”

“I think Vera’s happy with her life,” Kay said.

The old woman smacked the table, making Kay flinch. “Nobody wants to change. I’m not that stupid. Of course, she’s going to continue being the perfect pastor’s wife—even though he’s dead, the perfect organizer—even though everyone tolerates her only because they don’t want to volunteer, and the perfect example a good Christian lady—even though she’s a judgmental, semi-tolerant prig. Sounds like a balanced, well-connected life to me. You want to help or not?”

“Aunt Ula, no one can fix Vera. She has to want to change herself.”

“She wants to change, but needs a nudge to let go of what’s familiar. I found Vera’s sheet music at the rummage sale.”

“O—kay?” Kay squinted, trying to read if the old woman was in Ula-World. “You found a lot of pretties yesterday. Who won the tug-of-war over your treasure-stash?”

“I let Vera have it, but she learned her lesson. Look, I’m telling you, she never liked the piano. She wanted to play the clarinet, but she dutifully took keyboard so she could assist in church services.”

“She played at our Easter services this year.”

“She plays like she has gum on her fingers.” Aunt Ula made a face. “Holds notes too long at random spots.”

“Well, it was slow for alleluia-music,” Kay said.

“She emptied her piano bench. I think she’s starting to dump guilt. Clean out her regrets. I’m betting she’s only keeping the piano because it’s expensive. If I start banging on the keys, it’ll give her a good excuse to get rid of it, too. ‘Cargo by the board,’ that’s what the Captain shouted when it was time to get rid of something.”

“Will you play or just beat the piano?”

“I have skills, but I’m actually a harpist. The Captain bought me a lovely one.”

“Is it at your home in Ponca?”

She shook her head. “I had to sell everything. They tore down the house. The only gifts I have from the Captain are in a safety deposit box at the bank.”

“So there’s proof of the Captain?”

The old lady gave her a pained look. “Not you, too.”

“Sorry. I’m never sure what’s real and what you’re saying to get your way.”

“Me?” A questioning smile accented the old woman’s face. “What’s real is that I’m trying to break Vera so she can be remolded. It’s on my bucket list and the top item is getting rid of that cursed piano. Will you help?”

Kay stared at the ceiling, letting out a long huff of air from puffed cheeks. Laughter, chatter, and the clank of spoons on glassware surrounded them as she slowly lowered her gaze to Aunt Ula’s eyes. “How about this? If there’s a real opportunity to make a difference, I’ll help. But count me out of your ‘wear-her-down’ antics.”

“Deal.” The old woman held up her palm. “I’m not stopping though. Aggravating Vera has sorta become a hobby for me.”

Kay high-fived the upheld palm. “You want a banana split while you scheme?”

“Nope, had one yesterday. Snuck away while Vera was giving the canopy crew their launching orders.”

“She told me she took away your purse,” Kay said.

“Traded for it, matey. I helped myself to the stash Vera saved as she went through boxes. She said it was for the Ladies Circle. A nice tablecloth. Some linen napkins. I used them for barter with Schultzy.” She pointed toward the man behind the counter.

“Does Vera know?”

“Sure, I brought her a strawberry sundae. What could she say? She broke her own rules. Her mouth puckered up till it looked like a lemon-suck.”

“I hope I never get on your bad side.”

“I don’t have a bad side, dear, neither do you. We’re trying to do the best we can and we always fall short. The whole process would be improved if we’d order some chili-cheese-fries.”

Kay blinked, trying to make the connection. “Those are awful for you.”

“Live while you can.” She rose from the booth, raising her right shoulder then her left, making her sequins shake as she strolled toward the counter. She grinned, looking back as she spoke, “If the chili-fries kill me, bury me in this dress.”

Kay thought Aunt Ula looked young again.

Riding the Storm

AUNT ULA PUSHED the soda shop’s door half open, stopping to gape at the sky. “We weren’t gone that long,” she murmured.

“Let’s get going.” Kay nudged her. The two hurried back to church as fast as the old woman could move her Keds. Overhead, the thunderheads had turned the color of dirty concrete and the air felt thirty degrees cooler. Heavy gusts stole their words, whisking them down the street with plastic bags and rolling paper cups.

At the church, a few canopies lay upside down, their white legs poking into air as folks struggled to collapse them. Volunteers were tossing merchandise higgledy-piggledy into cartons. Others carried boxes into the church.

“News says there’s a tornado watch until six tonight,” Roger yelled from the steps of his RV. A few people left, others continued pawing through items. Many helped carry boxes inside so shopping could continue. Sales picked up, fueled by the energy of an upcoming storm.

At five, Vera’s mind fumed as she watched Roger maneuver his RV around cars and drive from the parking lot. He was skipping clean up duties. A second thought elbowed the uncharitable notion aside with the reminder he’d been here all night. She should thank him…and apologize. One side of her mouth curled into a frown. Recently, it seemed she was always apologizing to someone.

It took a while longer to shoo the last bargain hunters away. Two people, each with a box under their arm, offered to help get rid of merchandise. Vera stared at the two dollars they waggled for their cartons stuffed with booty.

Her frown grew to both sides of her mouth and her forehead furrowed. She hadn’t allowed members to donate dribble-stained clothing, broken TV sets, or left-overs from do-it-yourself projects. The Shaded Valley Lutheran Rummage Sale had a reputation for great items at bargain-basement price. And these shoppers wanted them even cheaper—when the proceeds were going to charities around town?

With a thin-lipped glare, Vera pulled the boxes from their arms. She’d had it with people wanting something for nothing. Let them go over to the Presbyterians and cut-rate them. “We’re closed. Come to church tomorrow, we’ll be selling everything for 75% off after the service.”

Walt watched the couple leave. “Well, they’ll never come here again. You know, Vera, they’re paying us to haul away stuff we don’t want. It’s all profit.”

“Look at this.” Vera tossed stuffed bears and unicorns from the boxes. “The bottom is filled with jewelry and CDs they can resell. Who tries to cheat a church?”

“Who insults shoppers?” Walt said, watching Aunt Ula push through the doors.

“We need to go,” the old woman gasped, trying to catch her breath after tromping from the Dari Drive. “There’s a bad blow in the air.” She tugged Vera’s arm.

“Stop it.” Vera shook free, giving her aunt the stare she reserved for rebellious children or for dogs that tried to leave their treasures on her lawn.

“Come with me.” Kay patted Aunt Ula’s back and gave Vera a glare that said she had bricks for brains. “I’m going to Hettie’s. We’ll enjoy having you with us.”

“I won’t leave Vera. Nobody should be alone in a storm.” Aunt Ula tugged her niece’s arm again. “C’mon. Let’s get to safe harbor.”

“We can’t leave.” Exasperation bled through Vera’s voice as her hands fanned outward. “This entryway has to be cleared. The money needs to be counted. I know all of you snipe and snicker behind my back, but I don’t see any of you stepping up to make sure projects like this get done.”

Walt drew himself up to his full height. “You’re right. We’re all lazy sinners. Right now you’re a cranky one. It’s time to call it a day.” His words would’ve landed with more weight if he hadn’t broadcast the apologetic smile of a man who hoped Vera wouldn’t explode on him.

She scanned the tilted piles of boxes. “Very well. We’ll deal with this tomorrow. I expect all of you to come early to help. Particularly you, Walt.”

A curtain of self-earned misery drew across the Property Manager’s face. That’s what he deserved for breaking Rule #3: Escape as quickly as possible. He thrust an envelope at Vera. “Mr. Nobody-Helps counted the money. We made $530 and change. You know the combo to the safe. I’m leaving to pick up Roger.”

“Do those clouds look green?” a woman called out.

Aunt Ula paled. “We’re shoving off.” She pushed, and Vera chided her until they were out the door. Above them, patchy humps of clouds bulged and shifted as an upper layer of pea soup roiled sideways, heading northeast.

“Calm down. Dusk colors the clouds differently.” Vera dug through her purse for keys, pausing to watch Walt lock up. “We’ll start at 7.” Her words were lost in the wind. Walt never looked up.

“Ye gods and little fishes!” Aunt Ula bellowed, yanking the car’s door handle every few seconds. “Let’s go.” Several people glanced at them.

“I’m not driving until you mind your mouth,” Vera shouted back.

“At least unlock the damn door.”

“My side’s unlocked. Stop jerking the handle.” As soon as they got in, Vera held up a finger, her face glowering like a woman who wanted to smack someone. “Zip it. I mean it, or I won’t move this car.” Aunt Ula wrapped her arms around herself, mumbling into her lap. The parking lot was empty and the old woman silent when Vera finally cranked the ignition of her Olds. She drove, keeping up a patter of scolding. “What is the matter with you? You’re even more of a ninny than usual. You’ve lived through Oklahoma storms all your life.” The clouds had dropped low enough to skid over the tree tops. Vera sped up.

Aunt Ula rocked forward and back. “I saw this sky at sea. Someone died.”

“Uh-huh. And just when were you at sea and who died?” But before Aunt Ula could answer Vera blurted, “Now, who’s here?” She looked at a Chevy truck parked in front of her house. Its back window had an “Experienced Driver” sign.

“Who cares?” Aunt Ula leaned over and whacked the remote control on the sun visor. “Pull in.” She rolled her hand. “We’ve got to dog down the doors. I’ll take the anchor watch.”

Vera didn’t argue or ask for a translation. The truck was empty. She drove into the garage and had to admit she felt relieved when the door closed behind them. Aunt Ula was already out of the car and into the house.

*

Five blocks away, on the edge of Vera’s neighborhood, Walt and Roger sat at Cowboy Pizza. “And the ol’ boy who bought the lawnmower has a chain saw for sale . . .” Roger glanced up at the dark-skinned manager, standing among the four tables of customers. “Yeah…okay, I guess we’re ready for another beer since you’re here.”

“Oh, no sir, many pardons for bothering you. Two of the employees have gone home because of the storm. So I believe I will be closing soon.”

Roger leaned forward, reading the man’s name tag. “Kular, you’re not from around here, are you?”

“No sir. I am from India. I am completing my graduate work at the university. My friend manages this location. I am helping him while he is taking a vacation.”

“This is tornado alley.” Roger waved a hand. “There’s storm warnings all the time. When the sirens go off, we all hurry outside to see where the tornado is. You’ll get used to—”

The lights blinked out.

The dull gray of twilight filtered through the windows. Kular’s face had the look of a man falling off a cliff. “Not to worry,” Walt said as he stood and slapped him on the back. “I’ve got matches.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a matchbook, and lit the candle on their table. “We’ll have a medium cheese pizza and more beer.” Walt tossed the matches to the next table.

“But all power has gone out.” Kular stared at the customers gathering candles from other tables and lighting them. Two people left. He bowed slightly, repeating, “Thank you,” as they went out the door.

“The ovens are gas; you can still bake. Y’all want pizza?” Walt pointed at the other five customers who nodded. Rain began to beat the roof, drumming like thousands of marbles falling above them. “We’ll be fine.” Walt yelled to Kular and pounded his back again, hard enough to get him unfrozen from the floor.

*

Vera had been through the house twice, calling her aunt. The beat of rain on the roof answered her. A new leak plinked in the laundry room. The house demanded as much attention as her aunt. She set a soup pot under the slow drip, and put another kettle in the living room in case the latest patch job didn’t hold. From her front window, walls of water obscured her view of the street. A fuzz of color caught her eye. On her front landing, a blue raincoat slowly moved down the steps. A pair of Keds put both shoes together before advancing to the next tread.

It took three quick paces to get to the door which she threw open, yelling, “Get back here. What in blazes are you doing?” Rain pummeled her words into white noise. With clenched teeth, she ripped a rain jacket out of the front closet, jammed her arms inside, and stepped into the deluge. She could barely make out her late-husband’s raincoat walking across the yard. It was one of the few pieces of clothing she’d allowed herself to keep, reasoning it was too functional to give away. Now the smell of him would be washed away. Her aunt had a way of kinking everything around her.

Vera walked faster, water splashing high on her legs. Pools stretched across her lawn as the downpour overwhelmed the earth’s capacity to absorb it. Knowing Aunt Ula, they’d end up stumbling over each other and drowning in the front yard.

When she was near enough, she grabbed the oversized raincoat. The sleeves covered the old woman’s finger tips. It felt as though she’d grabbed a skeleton in a sack. The old woman’s head was lost in the cavern of the hood, covering most of her face as she turned to look. “What’s the matter with you?” Vera yelled. “Get back in the house.”

“Gus has a cellar. In his back yard.”

Vera stuck her mouth next to the old woman’s ear to make herself heard. “Full of snakes.” Maybe. It could be caved in or full of guns and hooch for all she knew. She’d repent of the lie later.

Aunt Ula shook free and kept walking. Vera reluctantly followed. Their hoods blew off twice. By the time they reached Augustus Vogler’s covered porch, water ran down their faces, seeping into their clothing. “First you had a cussing fit to get home, now you’re out in it? You need to be in a rehab center where you can get mental help.” Vera squeegeed water from her face.

“On my watch, no one weathers a squall alone.” Aunt Ula slapped the doorbell.

“He’s all right,” Vera yelled. “He’s made it through 90 years of storms.” Above them, lightning skipped sideways, thunder rolling behind it. “Move.” Vera shouldered the old woman aside, cranked Gus’s door handle, then bowed her head until it touched the door.

“Whatsa matter?” Aunt Ula shouted.

“Of all the days he decided to lock up—why today?”

*

“I like the spirit of community here.” Kular carried hot pizzas. The seven remaining customers had pushed tables together and filled the wait time by telling stories laced with beer and laughs. The pounding on the roof had slowed, so Kular didn’t have to raise his voice. Yelling was not calming to him.

“Join us.” Roger pointed to a chair. “Can I get you a lemonade?”

“I would like that very much. I don’t wish to be by myself in the kitchen.” Kular had relinquished the dining room to the customers while he baked. Now he watched Roger retrieve a bottle of lemonade and bring him a plate and a napkin. “This is a very unique experience.” He grinned as the diners reached across the table, lifting slices onto their plates, cheese trailers thinning into long strings. “And because the sound of the storm is letting up, and because we have successfully survived, I wish to show you my hospitality—the pizzas are my gift to all of you.”

A siren pealed through the night. The long wail dipped low then climbed to a shriek. Kular looked at the faces. Walt had his hand up, signaling everyone to be silent. A few people leaned forward. Some shifted one way then the other, listening. At the same moment, they turned, staring at each other.

Roger stood, grabbing Kular’s arm. “You got a walk-in cooler?”

“Yes. Is it happening?” Kular waved them to the kitchen. He tossed out two large bags of dough so customers could squeeze into the refrigerated steel box. “I thought you went outside to look when the sirens sounded.” He counted customers, then shut the door with a click.

Walt pulled him away from the door and into their huddle. “Not this time.”

*

At the first note of the siren, Aunt Ula kicked the door, screaming, “Gus. Let us in.”

Vera tore at her arms, her hands losing their grip on the slick rain jacket. “Stop it. Let’s go.” They moved off the porch. Vera could now make out the shape of her house through falling sheets of water. Beneath the wail of the sirens, Vera heard the raspy caw of a crow harking a warning. A spot of light flashed at their feet. She turned.

Gus stood in the doorway, beckoning them back with his flashlight.

“I was in the bathtub with pillows,” he said as they stepped into his house. “Why’re you—” The rumble of a freight train stopped him. The three stared at each other for a heartbeat.

“God help us.” Vera’s voice cracked as Gus pushed them down the hallway, leaving the front door to slowly swing back open, welcoming the tornado.

*

Through the walls of the walk-in cooler, they heard the growl of the twister, their bodies half-bent, arms covering their heads. They hunched in the dark. Several people grabbed their ears, crying out from the drop in pressure. Their voices joined the bawl of the wind. Seconds spun out until the din faded, leaving them murmuring their separate prayers. “Everyone okay? Are we all still here?” Walt asked. No one answered. After a moment someone gasped, “Is it over?” Voices spoke at once. Walt pulled away from the group, cracked the door, and peeked out. “There’s still a building around us,” he announced. Laughter and shouts of relief followed.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the all clear signal?” Kular said.

“You can wait if you want.” Walt walked out, Kular behind him, counting out loud as the others left and clapping when he reached seven. “You’ve got a broken window.” Walt pointed to someone’s dining table sticking through the glass. “But there’s still walls and a roof.”

“Look at this,” someone said as they opened the door to the parking lot. A light rain fell on tree limbs, broken 2x4s, bicycles, and bed sheets strewn across the pavement. “It was a bouncer. Skipped over us.”

“At least my car’s still here,” a young man said. “Under somebody’s . . .” he picked up cushions, “sofa.”

“And my truck’s here.” Roger walked toward his Chevy, lying upside down on top of the Cowboy Pizza sign.

Kular stared, his hands hanging limp at his sides. “This is bad.”

“No, this is just messy.” The lines in Walt’s face deepened with the knowledge freighting his mind. “It’ll be bad where his truck was parked—five blocks away.”

*

Kular gave Walt and Roger a flashlight. They made their way through the dark streets, climbing over wreckage that was once someone’s treasures. The tornado had cut a narrow path across neighborhoods, skipping over some homes, sucking walls and windows out of others. Pipes stuck up from foundations, hissing gas and spraying water.

At the intersection before Vera’s house, a writhing electric line threw sparks in the air, preventing them from going farther. They circled what they thought was the block, hoping to reach her and Aunt Ula from the south. People were coming out of homes and backyard shelters. A twenty-year-old man kept yelling “Mom?” as he peeked inside leaning walls. Far away a siren wailed.

“Which house is Vera’s?” Walt eyeballed piles of debris. “Are we even on the right street?”

“I always look for the big elm. That’s where I parked.” Roger squinted as Walt put the light on a tree. The few shredded leaves that were left dangled from broken limbs. “I think this is it.”

Walt arced the flashlight back and forth on a garage. Saw-toothed timbers stuck out where the rest of the house used to be. Homes on either side were missing roofs. Some of their walls had collapsed.

The squeal of sirens began to float across Stillwater from all directions. “It’ll be hours before they can get the streets clear enough to get emergency vehicles in here,” Walt said.

He and Roger climbed over the rubble. Soon they found themselves joining the other frightened people as they called out names and peered into dark crevices.

Two Sparrows for a Penny--Matthew 8:29

GUS, VERA, AND Aunt Ula made it to his bathroom. “I can’t bend too well anymore,” Gus mumbled. They hunkered in his tub, clutching pillows on their heads like helmets. His next words were lost in the rip of the downdraft. The tiny bathroom window bulged inward several inches then shattered in an explosive bang. Overhead, a monstrous wood chipper sucked and chewed shingles, trusses, and walls, spitting them over the neighborhood. Vera was screaming, but couldn’t hear her voice. The world spun around her. Something hit her, toppling her sideways.

And then it was over.

The roar was still there, but moving away. The earth stopped whirling. The sound of dropping boards and heavy thuds kept her quiet and still. She waited for the beast to come back, but it moved away, tearing the tops off buildings, playing hide and seek with the people below.

A hand bumped into her face. Her first panicked thought was that she’d lost her pillow. Her thoughts bumbled into each other, retracing what had happened. “That’s me,” she said, doing inventory, patting her body. “You’re grappling my nose.” It surprised her to hear the calmness in her voice. She swiped at the hand, pain exploding on the left side where she lay. Her arm, pinned under her body, wouldn’t move. “I think my elbow’s broken.”

“I’m okay. I’m trying to get off you two,” Gus mumbled.

Vera blinked. The world had gone dark. Where had the flashlight rolled? Her ears still hissed from the rumble of the twister, but now there were other sounds. Creaking timbers. Popping sheetrock as walls gave way and settled. A drumming hush of rain. She felt around her. They were still in the tub. Aunt Ula lay next to her. Gus floundered on top of them, attempting to scooch backward toward their feet. She patted the old woman. “Aunt Ula?” No answer. She attempted to sit up. Shockwaves of pain ricocheted through her body, and she plopped back down, banging her head on the bottom of the tub.

“I’ll lift up. See if you can move your legs from under me,” Gus grunted, stepping on Vera as he searched for footing.

“Aunt Ula!” Vera jerked her feet out of the way and continued rapping the old woman.

“Something’s angled on top of us.” Gus knocked on the timbers around him. “About three feet above the tub. Feels like sheetrock resting against the north wall.”

Gus had banged on the only wall that still stood erect. The rest of his home slouched on top of itself like a collapsed deck of cards. The tornado had clawed away the roof and walls, jolting the trio sideways into a pile of senior citizens. As a seemingly polite afterthought, the whirlwind tossed a section of a child’s room across the top of them, constructing a broken lean-to and a prison.

Gus grunted. First like a weightlifter, then he wheezed like an old man. “Can’t move it. Can’t see out.”

“Now what? Aunt Ula’s not responding.” Vera’s hand stuttered over the old woman’s neck and found a pulse. She rubbed the face. Unsure if the wetness was rain, she touched a fingertip to her mouth. A coppery bitterness spread across her tongue. Her hand continued exploring, finding a gash above the old woman’s eyebrow. She pressed the edges together, feeling warmth ooze between her fingers.

“She okay?” Gus asked. Vera shook her head then realized Gus couldn’t see her. She told him she didn’t know. “Now, we wait.” He groaned as he pushed on more boards.

“I’m sick of waiting.” She heaved a miserable sigh. “I’ve been waiting for the next piece of life ever since I can remember. And this is what arrives instead.”

“Birds know that life changes. The light will return to the sky. The rain will clear. A bug will stumble by. Why wait? Your next piece of life will come.” He gave a plaintive whistle.

“It’s nothing like I planned. It never is. You’d think if you’re a servant of the Lord, you’d get a pass for catastrophes like this.”

“No species gets a pass. Maybe you shouldn’t plan, then you wouldn’t mind the wait.” Gus grunted as he drove his shoulder against a pile of debris covering the end of the tub. “Everything is trying to eat something else. Except humans—we concoct our own misery.” He gave the same whistle again as he rested.

“A kildeer in distress,” Vera said. “I didn’t concoct this.”

“But here you are. In a bathtub with me.” He gave a quiet caw, waiting until Vera identified it as a crow-hello before continuing. “I don’t think you could’ve made it to your house.”

“Probably not. I wonder if I even have a house now.”

“No one plans to have their nest blown away.” He whistled several minor notes.

“Robin,” she murmured. Even in this crisis, she doubted Gus would skip playing his game. She could ask him all the questions she wanted, but hours of visiting had taught her she received answers only if she played along. Somehow, the familiarity of it was comforting. “Oh, Gus. All your books and sonograms. I hope they’re alright.”

“When birds move, they leave everything behind. No baggage. Maybe it’s time to move on.” They sat in silence, listening to the rain. After a while he gave a loud chucka chucka.

“Chukar?” Vera said.

“Is somebody in there?” a voice yelled from outside. Gus gave another rallying song of the Chukar Partridge. This time the voice was nearer, “Augustus? Is that you?”

“Walt?” Vera called.

“Vera! We thought you were blown to Missouri. Is Aunt Ula with you? Are you all okay?”

“She’s unconscious. I think my arm’s broken. Gus is all right,” Vera yelled. “Can you get us out?”

“Roger and I are working on it. There’s damage across the city. Emergency vehicles can’t get through.”

“Is my house still there?” She could hear the sounds of lumber being tossed aside.

Walt waved at Roger to stop making noise then hesitated, scanning the lopsided garage that remained standing on her lot. “You’re gonna need a new porch. Listen, there’s a pile of debris on top of you. We’re gonna try to open up a hole.”

Gus pushed and grunted again. “Sorry. Can’t move anything from here,” he said, but Walt had already left.

“It’s dripping in my face,” Aunt Ula wheezed.

“Praise God. You’re still with us.” Vera tried to sit up, but gave a yelp and dropped back down, panting, “Are you okay?”

“I hurt all over like I’ve been pitchpoled. Why am I getting Chinese water torture?”

“Rain is dripping through the debris. Can you move down a little where it’s more protected?”

“I don’t even want to try.”

A chill crept over Vera, either from an exhausted sense of doom or from her wet clothes sponging up the rainwater collecting in the tub. “Gus is with us,” she said lightly as though she were announcing a celebrity. “Give us a cardinal’s call, Gus, to cheer us up.”

“Sorry,” he rasped. “All that pushing, I’m troubled getting a breath. Feels like a wire around my chest. Someone’s pulling it tight.”

“Walt!” Vera shouted. “We need help.”

Shhhhhhh…” Aunt Ula wheezed. “No more excitement. Let them work. We’ll get out faster. Are you resting against something, Gus? Try to breathe slowly. It’s probably a panic attack.” He gave a low uuungh as he shifted into a spot.

Vera listened to the sounds of lumber being tossed in a pile. A sob escaped from her throat. “I said some terrible things to Jim about a hideous blue wishing well a member made for him. I’m sure it’s blown to Oz now. Looking back, it all seems so stupid.”

“You hated it, but still hung onto it after Jim died?” Aunt Ula reached up to touch the gash on her brow, pushing Vera’s fingers away, so she could staunch her own wound. “I’d say a tornado is a good pry tool to loosen a tight grip.” Silence answered her. Muffled clean-up sounds marked the time, punctuated by occasional low groans from the other end of the tub. Aunt Ula hacked, clearing the stickiness in her throat. “I’m sorry, Gus. You’d have this paradise all to yourself if I hadn’t traipsed over here.”

“Glad I’m not alone.”

They waited for the birdsong, but it didn’t come. Instead they heard a sharp intake of air followed by Gus falling on top of them. Vera gave a whoop. Aunt Ula yelped a sailor’s curse, bringing Roger to check on them.

After repeated questioning, Gus gasped he was okay, but in pain. “Make him as comfortable as you can,” Roger yelled. “I heard they’re turning off the gas and electricity for this section, then road graders can clear a track through the streets. It won’t be long. Hang in there.”

“Why?” Gus whispered. He shifted to his side, spooning between the women. With each jostle, Vera groaned even though she appreciated the extra warmth he carried. “Vera, you’re waiting to live,” he whispered. “I’m waiting to die.”

“Don’t say that.” Vera heard the words twist out of her mouth and wished she could take them back. A tiredness she’d never known carried her bones to the bottom of her flesh. It was unlikely rescue would arrive in time. Like the ugly wishing well, this might be the last time she’d see Gus or her aunt on this side of Earth. “Sorry. Say what you want.”

“Atta girl.” Aunt Ula’s voice shook to the tempo of her shivering body. “Speak your mind.”

Gus gave a trill of bird syllables.

Vera’s face flushed in spite of the chill. “Mating call. Meadowlark.”

Aunt Ula barked out a laugh. “Must be feeling better, Mr. Vogler.”

“Eased a bit,” Gus whispered. He gave a series of low twitters and chirps. Aunt Ula made several guesses. He had to bump Vera to get her to respond.

“Never heard it.” Her body shook. She felt relieved her left side was going numb.

“Sparrow. Two for a penny. Not one falls without the will of the Father.”

“Gus…” Vera roused herself. “You know scripture?”

“Live it, not strut it.” He gave a half-chirp. “‘Don’t be afraid: you’re worth more than many sparrows.’”

“The book of Matthew, isn’t it? I’d like to be a common sparrow.” She sighed. “No one notices them. I’d sit in the back pew, chew gum, and sing loud. Something I’ve never been allowed to do.” Vera coughed and leaned into Gus’s back. “I’d be free.”

“You’ve been free. You just didn’t know it, niece.”

“I don’t feel free.” Vera’s voice was tight with tears. “When Jim died everything changed. All chores fell on me, but I wasn’t needed, except by a plumbing system designed by Rube Goldberg. I was alone, not free. Let me tell you, that’s a black ache of sleepless nights. I couldn’t understand how the sun kept rising, my heart kept beating, and the roof continued to leak. It was unfair, but I kept going. Kay told me my God was too small.” A sob escaped. She let the rest of her tears loose, pressing her face into Gus’s back. He attempted to pat her, taking wild aim in the dark, groping across her leg and backside. She grabbed his hand, sniffed and cleared her throat. “That threw me into an angry fog. I pushed through it. I always do, staying busy. Keeping to business. Were you there, Aunt Ula, when she accused me of boiling frogs and adding cheese?”

“Warm food sounds good right now.” Aunt Ula shivered.

“It does, doesn’t it? I almost snorted when she said it, then I felt guilty. How could I laugh when Jim was dead and things were falling apart? I should be keeping everyone on track. Then you came to live with me. My semblance of control went out the window.” She let out a long breath and swiped her runny nose against Gus’s back. “The weeks he’s been gone have turned into almost a year. Life has gone on and it’s harder to keep plucking that same string. The person I used to be doesn’t fit anymore.”

Gus was shivering. She leaned her body against his back, trying to give him warmth even though she couldn’t feel her arms or toes. “One day last week,” she said, “I woke up and noticed summer was almost over. You’d have made fun of me if I’d told you the sunflowers were as big as pie plates and bowing their heads. I saw twilight with a bruised-purple sky and remembered how much I loved sunsets. I felt like I was coming out of a heavy sleep. Now this. Long ago, Jim told me to retire from managing the universe, but I didn’t listen. I guess I’m ready now. I’m not sure what to do next, or if there even is a ‘next.’”

“Worth more than sparrows,” Gus whispered. “And birds don’t carry luggage when they migrate.” A smile hinted in his voice.

“I’d applaud if I could feel my fingers.” Aunt Ula’s voice sounded clotted.

A blanket of silence covered them. Sounds reverberated through the debris as the men untangled boards, wires, and insulation. The soft tunk-tunk of rain dripped into their cavern. Aunt Ula’s teeth chattered. Vera felt her thoughts clear. She heard the music of the storm. Chords climbing to a harmonious crescendo. Not the repetitive one-note song she’d been living. She was waking up, heading into the next piece of life. She could surrender what she was and turn her face toward what she would become. The fresh scent of rainfall filled her body, a promise of growth after a long, lean drought.

Time became slack, uncoiling in wakeful clumps. Vera’s words were slow and thick. “A sparrow…floating on peace.”

“No…Vera. No floating on my watch.” Aunt Ula quivered then coughed. “Stay awake. Bump her, Gus.”

“Two sparrows for a penny,” he whispered. Gus gave a weak trill, the sibilant sound trailing off like a fading breeze. He shuddered against the old woman.

“Don’t leave me alone.” The words felt sticky in Aunt Ula’s mouth…or it might be blood. “Lift up, Gus. You’re squashing the air outta me. And pinch Vera.” Faraway, a monotonous hum of generators and engines thrummed the night. It was like the purr of a winch pulling up the anchor. Preparation to set sail. Soon they’d leave port. She could hear the creak of the rigging. The canvas sail gave a thwop as its belly filled with wind. Her face was wet with spray. She wondered if she was floating, too.

*

Nearby, Walt and a group of young men hauled a china closet of broken dishes to the curb. Five engineering and physics students from Oklahoma State University had sneaked into the neighborhood, ignoring the emergency curfew dropped on the town. “They’re sending people away to keep gawkers and looters out,” a young man with a scraggly beard told Walt. “We’re here to help if you want us.” Roger hadn’t been able to get through to 911. A busy signal buzzed in his ear each time he’d called. He sent two of the boys to find EMTs, giving them his phone number in case they had a problem getting back.

Walt and the remaining young men worked on the debris pile, arranging supports to stabilize the wall next to the bathtub. They were hefting a tree limb as thick as a man’s leg when the chug of a caterpillar, scraping debris to one side, pulsed down the street. Behind it, yellow lights of emergency trucks beamed through the darkness.

The bearded young man and his friend ran ahead of the machinery, picking their way around obstacles. “I told them my grandparents were really hurt,” he said to Roger. “They came here first thing. Don’t rat me out.”

Walt hurried to the wall, shouting into the dent they’d made in the pile of wreckage. “Help’s here. We’ll have you out real soon.”

He shouted again, telling them he’d spotted the red-blue lights of the ambulance. By the third shout, he realized—no one was answering back.

“Wisdom Brightens A Face, Changing Its Hard Appearance” Ecclesiastes 8:1

THE SKY SHONE like a furnace light in the west, leaving the group at the bottom of the hill sitting in the shadows. The pastor was speaking, but Vera didn’t hear a word. She stared at the top of the ridge where the sun’s last rays bathed a tall green cedar in light. The fingers protruding from the cast on her left arm felt cold. There was a chill here, not because they were committing a body to the earth, but because the vale was bordered by a row of thick-limbed elms casting ever-darkening shadows across the mourners.

Vera stood. Cradling the sling on her arm, she left the graveside funeral, taking a short asphalt path to the ridge of a hill. Several people caught each other’s eyes, nodding and whispering, “She’s been through so much.” The old-school folks made a point of not seeing her walk away. The rules were unstated, yet understood depending on the decade you were born. Older mourners had been trained that throwing up was the only reason to parade out of a service. Fainting or dying could be done in-seat as long as it didn’t distract from the speaker. Younger funeral-goers held a different frame of mind. They came and went, especially during prayers, as though pausing to personally talk to God was a commercial break in the service.

Vera felt their gaze and shook off their stares. If her mother had been around, she would’ve thumped the top of Vera’s ear and hissed, “You get back to that funeral right now. What will people think? ” Her mother had had rules. There’d been rules about everything. They could think what they wanted. For the first time in 60 years she refused to censure herself for selfish thoughts.

At the top of the hill she gazed across the skies. Towering white clouds sculpted by high-altitude winds resembled steeds romping across the horizon. Patchy shadows appeared and disappeared on the ground in front of her as the thunder-ponies rolled eastward. A white mausoleum gleamed in the slant of early evening sunlight. A small creek splashed along the fence line separating the manicured grounds from wild weeds and bushy scrub oak. She sat on a granite bench, her back to the ceremony, her eyes to the sky, enjoying the sun’s heat across her shoulders.

She gave herself permission to cry. Nothing happened. It wasn’t grief that had led her away. It was the need to sit in the light, to be still, and to listen, a gift from being trapped in a bathtub in the blackness. A rebellious tickle flitted in her stomach. Lately, she’d begun disobeying a lifetime of shoulds, have tos, and what other people thought. She’d begun questioning those rules. Clothes couldn’t be too flamboyant—a pastor’s family isn’t a bunch of showy peacocks. Houses couldn’t be too fancy—they’ll think his salary is too high. No bad language, edgy movies, or suspect friends—always set an example. When Vera was young, she’d argued that many of Jesus’s buddies wouldn’t have made the “approved” list. That had earned her a month of laundry duties. “Simple and moderate in all things” had been drummed into her, or she’d be an embarrassment to her grandfather, her father, and her husband.

They were all dead now. Jim had inconsiderately left her stranded. He’d abandoned her with who she was when she was with him—half of a pair. She didn’t recognize that person.

When he’d died, people had looked at her with eyes of concern, telling her how strong she was, but what choice was there? Keep going the way she always had, or fold in on herself. No one had told her—until Gus had relayed the message—there was a third option.

Perhaps others had said it before, but not until she’d been pinned down, still and listening, was she ready to hear. She could keep going, but in a new way, discover who she was, what she liked, how she fit now that everything had changed. It seemed like a daunting task, requiring energy she didn’t have.

She’d tied her identity to a perishable role, and when all of it went away, she’d felt lost. A nobody standing in a world where everyone else was connected. Kay had been right; her God had been too small. Years of being a preacher’s kid had hammered her with too much humility to want to be a peacock, but as the pastor’s wife and the head hen for 30 years, she’d enjoyed a little bright plumage—a false sense of control. Now she had to learn to let go. Trust like the sparrows.

The eternal question reared its head. How? Staying busy hadn’t worked out too well. She needed to find answers, to hold up the individual shards of her life, inspecting them like a jeweler assayed gems. No doubt some of her finer pieces would turn out to be sandstone. Resculpting was coming. She wished Jim were here to help on this journey, to look at who she was, what she’d done. But he wasn’t.

Sunlight shimmered on the water. She inhaled the fragrant scent of the kingly cedar near the mausoleum. Wind chimes tinkled in its limbs. Behind her, the whine of an electric cart whirred up the path and pulled to a stop. Soft whispers and the thunk of the brake being set floated to her ears. Finally Kay’s voice quietly called, “Feel like company?” Without turning, Vera raised a hand, beckoning with her fingers.

“I’ve never been to a service like that,” Kay said as she walked to the bench and sat down. “I didn’t know your neighbor was an internationally-known ornithologist. They did a warbler’s tribute to him.”

“That’s why the funeral was outdoors and so late in the day.” A sad, tender smile crossed Vera’s face. “They wanted to hear the birds’ evening songs.”

“They made a racket like a symphony of flutophones.” Aunt Ula used the back of her hand to tap Vera’s thigh, signaling her to scoot over and share the bench. “Why did Kay pick me up from the hospital instead of you? What were you doing? You couldn’t have been organizing this picaroon-fest; you wouldn’t have hiked off.”

A crosshatch of stitches trailed above the old woman’s eye and a bruise, yellowing at the edges, mottled her face from her hairline to below her ear. She’d been in the hospital getting “poked with every procedure since bloodletting. They even had me pee on a stick,” she’d claimed. After a two-day stay, which she’d wangled into three, she’d been released, mad as a Lutheran goose because Vera had stayed only one day with her broken wing.

“I was selling the Olds,” Vera said. “It was still in what was left of the garage, sporting dents, but it started. I got rid of it.”

“Why? Dents give it character. My Subaru looked like a hammered tin can by the time they made me stop driving.”

“Because I want a blue Mini Cooper, and we’ve always bought cars as big as party pontoons so we could haul parishioners to meetings and kids to events.”

No one replied. The wind chimes tinked in the tree as the layers of meaning in Vera’s words soaked in. Aunt Ula gently touched her bruised cheek checking for pain. “You should’ve gotten an electric car,” she said quietly.

“Probably. But I’m not sure I’d have a spot to recharge it in the future.”

“Why? Kay told me we didn’t have to stay in a hotel. We could kindly berth with her until we got on our feet. Aren’t you rebuilding?”

“I don’t know. At first I was devastated. There were so many memories in that home. But with each passing day, I also remember how that house was trying to betray me to every repairman in the phone book. The tornado finished it off before I did. I don’t have anything left to furnish a home. I’ve been downsized. My purse and photo albums have been lost; I wish I had those, but I can get by without the rest. I’ve been thinking—maybe we’ll move into a retirement center.”

Kay leaned forward, looking at Vera. “I promised Aunt Ula I’d help if there were an opportunity. You’re both welcome to stay for as long as you need, and the truth is I’m being selfish. My boys have moved in with their dad. The walls are echoing. Every room feels too big. I’d appreciate the company.”

“This’ll be a hoot that’ll last about a day before you cart us to a hotel.” Aunt Ula squinted one eye and jerked her thumb at Vera. “Do you know how hard she is to get along with?”

“I want to travel,” Vera blurted out. “Jim worked almost every Sunday and holiday. We never went far when we did get away.”

“Who are you? I thought I was the one who got hit in the head.” Aunt Ula’s eyes sparked blue, and her mouth quirked into a smile. “Listen, don’t worry about me. It’s time for you to be alone. The healing starts when you cry and grieve. You can’t do that with people looking over your shoulder. Do something for you. Maybe it’d help if you’d dabble in a few clarinet lessons.”

“How about if we take it week by week, and the music lessons…” She tried to give a caw as a warning signal. Her voice cracked. She’d meant it to be humorous, but it stilled the conversation.

In the vale below them, a cemetery worker casually peeked around a tree. Seeing no mourners in the immediate area, he rubbed his smoke against the trunk, pocketed the butt, then prepped the site. He waved to another worker who drove a tractor with a front end loader and began pushing dirt into the open cavity. The women glanced at the noise.

“I need to talk to you.” Aunt Ula slid a sideways peek at her niece then looked away.

“I’ll leave you two,” Kay said, getting to her feet.

“No, stay.” Aunt Ula waved her back down. “You’ll hear much worse in the upcoming weeks, I’m sure.” Kay sat. The whine of the tractor engine stretched out for minutes before Aunt Ula spoke, her head bowed. “Do you think I killed Gus?”

Vera patted the old woman’s leg. “No. I don’t. I’ve thought about that night. No. He died of a heart attack.”

“But if I hadn’t gone over there, he could’ve lounged in the tub by himself. He’d have been stretched out, calm and relaxed, instead of trying to push his way out and impress us.”

“You can’t be sure of that. If we’d stayed at our house or he hadn’t let us in, we’d be dead. He’d finished his last job on this side of resurrection and he was done. I’m sure it was something he didn’t even consider important. I think each of us have tasks we’re created to do. We’ll be at the right place at the right time to say or do something that will make a difference in someone’s life, and we probably won’t even be aware of it. It was time for him to go.”

“What was the task? Saving our lives?”

She shrugged. “Or maybe it was the message reminding me who’s really in control. Or perhaps his death made an impact on one of those college boys who’ll create tornado-resistant houses in the future. We can’t see the design for weaving our lives together. We’ll never know.”

The tractor had left. Stillness settled over the cemetery. Aunt Ula pulled at the hem of her jacket. “I still think it’s our fault. He was lying between us. He hadn’t been with even one woman in years…much less two. He probably got so aroused, his ticker couldn’t take it.”

Vera smiled, raising her eyebrows twice as she stood. “Then he went out happy.”

Kay snorted.

Aunt Ula stared.

“I’m going to his tribute dinner. I suggested our church would do it for his family and they accepted. Do you feel well enough to go?” Vera asked. “Lorena organized it.”

A smile lilted through Kay’s voice. “After the service, Lorena began herding everyone to the church. I thought I’d have to run over her to drive up here. All she needs is a megaphone and a sharp stick to complete her ascension to queen bee.”

“I hope she enjoys the post. I’m retiring from running the hive. I’m moving to a different adventure.”

“Good. Let’s go,” Aunt Ula said as she got into the golf cart. “Because I’m starved for cake, and I want to see if LoWena hauled out those black flower vases for table decorations. You want a ride, Vera? The cemetery director got one look at me, thought lawsuit, and offered us this nifty conveyance. I may’ve helped his opinion and anchored the deal by acting like I was a little crippled.”

Vera waved them on and began walking. The cart passed her. She heard Aunt Ula suggesting side trips and watched the old woman intermittently tug the steering wheel, veering Kay off course. Snippets of their conversation floated back as they weaved down the hillside. “At least I got rid of that piano,” “I don’t think you can take credit for that…”

As Vera passed the grave, she saw a few sparrows hopping between sprays of flowers and scratching the dirt clods. She paused and gave a whistle. The birds ignored her. She didn’t know their song. There were more notes to learn than the one string she’d plucked most of her life. She stepped closer and waved her fingers, playing an imaginary chord. The birds took flight.

She stared at the grave. One part of her journey had ended. The next was beginning. A sudden thought brightened her face. She hadn’t been left alone.

This wasn’t the trip she would’ve planned, and they weren’t the companions she would’ve chosen, but she’d been gifted with travel-mates for the next part of the journey. Challenging women, seasoned by life, thrown together through different circumstances, helping one another walk into only God knew what.

She gazed at the golf cart wheeling on and off the path. Beyond them, the last of the sunlight bladed the horizon. Above, sparrows sang and swooped through the sky.

She began walking, a smile curling the corner of her mouth. The world turned just fine without any help from the Manager of the Universe—Retired.

***

Acknowledgements

THE SEEDS FOR this story were planted when a bitty girl. I’d hide under the quilting frame whenever the cantankerous German women gathered to gab and sew. Years, longer legs, and straight stitches finally allowed me a chair at the frame.; I learned more about “how things really worked” from them than all the bucks I paid for college degrees.

My thanks to those ladies for teaching me a spiritual woman can be strong-spined, open-minded, and most of all—intelligent

To the Chrysalis Writers for gladly sharing their inside tips and including me in the school of support-ology.

I appreciate the line-by-line inspection of Kelly Wigmore and Enna Grahmer. I owe you a new set of eyeballs. To Lisa Nowak, who held my hand or kicked my backside, depending what was needed at the time.

A note of apology to the gang at Zion Lutheran and the town of Stillwater as a whole, which shares a geographic location but bears no resemblance to the environs of this novel. (But thanks for the memories.)

Most of all, thanks to my husband, who took the greatest gamble and made the greatest change to both of our lives long ago by getting in that boat with me.

About the Author

KRIS KNORR IS author of the humorous blog and book series: The Lutheran Ladies Circle.

Her droll wit can also be found in a more western-genre described as: stories of stupid cows, wise people, and small-town life. (Under Author name: B. Froman)

She lives in an eye-blink of a town in Oregon with 14 moles and 34 mounds of dirt in the yard.

For those of you who want to experience additional entertaining insights, here’s a path to both of her worlds

Before Morning Breaks: Barb Froman

Lutheran Ladies Circle: Kris Knorr

If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review or checking out the other books in the Lutheran Ladies Series.

Lutheran Ladies Circle: Plucking One String

Lutheran Ladies Circle:  Through The Knothole

Lutheran Ladies Circle:  Thanks for Leaving

And now…Marshmallows and Gelatin—“It’s a Lutheran Thing”

Lorena’s HEAVENLY PEACHY SALAD

1 large pkg. peach gelatin

2 large bananas

1 can crushed pineapple (drain and save the juice)

1 cup mini-marshmallows

Follow direction on gelatin package. Add drained pineapple and bananas. Pour into an oblong dish. Arrange marshmallows on top of mixture. Chill until set.

CREAM CHEESE TOPPING

1 small pkg. cream cheese

1 egg

2 tbsp. flour

1/2 c. sugar

1/2 c. pineapple juice from drained pineapple

1 tub of whipped topping

Use a small saucepan and low heat to mix egg, flour, sugar and juice. Stir well. Bring to bubble, add chunks of cheese. Cook and stir until smooth. Let cool. Gently fold cooled mixture into whipped topping. Frost gelatin with topping. Chill until topping is set. Avoid ducks & geese when carrying this dish to a potluck.

Enjoy and good reading.

Discussion Questions for Book Groups

1) DO YOU think there was a defining moment, a turning point, in Vera Henley’s life? Consider her early crossroads as well as later. If she had made different choices how do you think it would have affected her life?

2) Lorena and Vera have strong reactions to change. Were their reactions the same or different? Why?

3) Walt has figured out a system to endure the constant changes within a church (or organization). How do his actions affect others? Do you think a similar set of “unwritten rules” exists within your group?

4) The women understood that the church was a hospital for sinners, so why was it difficult to live in the simple, yet complex understanding of grace? In what ways do you see “unmerited love” in your life?

5) Kay’s divorce was some time ago, so why did she react so deeply when she heard of her ex’s summer plans? What did she learn about herself?

6) Do you see a parallel between the characters’ participation in projects and your own? If so, discuss both the positive and negative responses.

7) How do such different women manage to work together when they disagree so often? What do you think unifies them?

8) Why are the characters reluctant to confront Vera? How do you handle confrontation in your group? family? church?

9) What rituals (repeated practices) or symbols do you have in your group, company, school, church? How are they comforting? How are they discomforting?

10) Can you think of a biblical parallel to people expressing anger about altering rituals?

11) Aunt Ula extracted a vow from Kay to help change Vera. Would you have made it? Why or why not? Is there ever a time we should relinquish a vow we have made?

12) Vera, Lorena, and Kay had experienced changes in their lives. How did others support them? Did they accept or deny the support?

13) The women show their love in different ways. What character do you most identify with and why?

14) Do you think God has a sense of humor? Why?

Enjoy plucking new strings—K.