Heavens to Betsy Read online

  It’s winter, so I’m wearing my clerical robe. Dr. Black puts his away during the summer months, which strikes me as a very Southern thing to do, like not wearing white after Labor Day. For a woman minister, the blessing of a clerical robe is that it saves you from helpful fashion advice from your parishioners. If I stick to my navy suit, I hear that I need to be more stylish. If I wear a dress instead, I’m not properly professional. And God forbid I should wear pants on the chancel, even under my robe. The steeple would probably crack down the middle and fall into the parking lot.

  Today I’m in my navy suit. After the David incident last night, I’m repressing any hints of sexuality, robe or no robe. If it wouldn’t make me look like a flight attendant from the eighties, I would have tied a little bow in the scarf around my neck. Instead, it’s discreetly tucked inside my jacket. My only jewelry is a pair of small pearl earrings. If I were any more vanilla, I’d be in a tub at Baskin-Robbins.

  The last notes of the opening hymn die away, and I ascend the steps to the pulpit. It’s a tricky moment because I have several things to accomplish. First, I need to not trip or stumble, which is an iffy proposition for me on a good day. Second, I must remember to bring with me everything I’ll need while I’m up there: Bible for reading the Scripture text, sermon manuscript, worship bulletin, and a cup of water. If I forget any of these, I’m toast. At my first church, I used to put them up in the pulpit before the service, until the Sunday one of the deacons who was preparing the communion table helpfully decided my essentials were leftovers from the previous week. He dumped the water, threw away the sermon and the worship bulletin, and apparently sent my Bible to the Island of Lost Things because it’s never been seen since. Oh well. It was just my study Bible from divinity school—with three years of intensive notations scribbled in the margins.

  Today I make it safely into the pulpit. Before the service I did a sound-check on the microphone, adjusted the height of the pulpit with the nifty little hydraulic switch, and turned on the library lamp below the microphone. Now, as the congregation settles back in the pews, I spread the first two pages of my sermon across the podium, stow the worship bulletin on the little shelf below, and open my Bible.

  “Hear these words from the gospel of Mark.”

  Mark’s my favorite gospel. Short and to the point. Matthew, Luke, and John have lots of bells and whistles, which can be quite entertaining and illuminating, but Mark keeps his focus. I try to show my congregation the same consideration.

  Today’s passage is full of lost things. Sheep. Coins. And a shepherd and an old woman who go looking for them until they’re found. I can identify with that lost sheep and the coin that fell between the cracks somewhere, and I figure if I can identify, my parishioners can too.

  When I finish the Scripture reading, I set my Bible on the shelf on top of the worship bulletin. I swallow, take a deep breath, and begin.

  “When I was a child and I’d lost something, my mother always told me it would be in the last place I looked…”

  I’m off to a pretty good start. Few people, though, really listen to the sermon, and I can’t say I blame them. Most sermons struggle to attain mediocrity, and today I notice several people watching the butterflies from last night’s wedding flitter from one side of the sanctuary to the other. Once in a while, though, I get a live one—someone who looks at me from his of her spot in the pew—and I know that person’s connecting with what I’m saying.

  Happily, today is such a day.

  She’s an older woman I’ve never seen before—a visitor maybe or someone’s Aunt Ruth who happened to be in town this week. She frowns at the challenging parts of the sermon, smiles at the funny parts, and even takes a few notes in the margin of her worship bulletin.

  Bingo.

  That’s when the fun really begins. The words roll off my tongue as if I’ve said them a thousand times before. And they’re words from my heart.

  “God never quits looking, never gives up on finding us no matter where we’ve wandered off to. No matter what cracks we’ve slipped between…”

  I hope the woman will speak to me before she leaves today. I’d love a more substantial comment on what I have to say than “You have such a sweet speaking voice.”

  The sermon peaks on the next-to-last page of my manuscript.

  “Are we really willing to be found? to let God lead us back to the fold? Maybe it’s easier to be lost than to be in the care of the Shepherd, because when we surrender to God’s care, we’re relinquishing our lives to a higher authority.”

  I try to leave time for some denouement, a bit of quiet reflection before the “Amen.” In that small space of time, you know whether you’ve succeeded or failed. If it’s quiet, you’ve been heard. People are chewing on what you’ve said. If there’s a lot of rustling with worship bulletins and fussing with purses, you missed. If you preach every Sunday, the misses aren’t so catastrophic. There’s always next week. Now, as an associate minister, the misses hurt more because I have fewer chances to hit the target.

  I pause before the last paragraph to gauge the mood of the congregation. It’s mostly quiet. A sweet sense of satisfaction starts in my midsection and spreads outward. When you use a gift God has given you and use it well, there’s nothing comparable. At least, I didn’t think there was until last night in that movie theater.

  “Thanks be to God. Amen.”

  And it’s done. Next week Dr. Black will be back in command of “his” pulpit, and if I’m lucky, I’ll get to do some of the liturgy That’s another reason I’m leaving the ministry. Being an associate is too much like being Tantalus from Greek mythology, the guy who hungers in the underworld with food eternally just beyond his reach.

  The rest of the service runs smoothly, and before I know it, I’ve pronounced the benediction, recessed down the aisle behind the choir, and am shaking hands at the church doors. The visitor, the older woman, comes through the line to shake my hand. I hold my breath. Her fingers are warm in mine.

  “That was well done.” Her smile is warm and genuine. “You have such a lovely speaking voice.”

  My smile freezes on my face. Come on, woman. Give me something better than that.

  She squeezes the fingers of my right hand, then reaches down and grabs my other hand. She looks at the ring finger on my left hand. “A lovely girl like you ought to be married by now.”

  Tell me something I don’t know, honey.

  “Aren’t you sweet,” I say. No hint of my frustration shows on my face, and she disappears into the Sunday-morning sunshine.

  Eventually, the line of people dwindles, and I set about the business of closing up the sanctuary, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  I find myself in that situation a lot these days.

  “You want me to set you up with my brother for Valentine’s Day?” My best friend, the Reverend LaRonda Mason, sips her Frappuccino and eyes me with skepticism. It’s Monday morning, and we’ve met at Starbucks for a Sunday postmortem and coffee klatsch. I’m wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and my hair is jammed into a ponytail as befits my day off. Ronnie’s short-cropped hair is perfectly styled, and she’s wearing a gray trouser suit with pearls. Her brown eyes are highlighted with carefully applied eye shadow. LaRonda never takes a day off. She learned that from her father, the founding pastor of Mt. Moriah Church. In a manner of speaking, LaRonda inherited the family business.

  She rolls her eyes. “Honey, do you want to lose your job? ’Cause I know you don’t have a thing for my brother, and unless it’s true love, it ain’t worth it.”

  I twirl my half-caff-nonfat-two-Equal-latte between my palms and try to appear nonchalant. “Well, I find your brother … interesting.”

  “Interesting? He’s Phi Beta Kappa. Of course he’s interesting. What about sexy? hot?”

  Truth to tell, LaRonda’s brother is all of the above, but he’s too much of a brainiac for me. He’s a resident over at Vanderbilt in obgyn. So he’s sexy and smart, and he probably has a grea
ter working knowledge of my anatomy than I do. But as intimidating as he may be, he’s not David, and that’s my main criterion for any date material for the coming weekend.

  “I wouldn’t lose my job.” Not since I’m planning to resign in a few months anyway. “C’ mon, LaRonda. Help me out here.”

  LaRonda is nobody’s fool, least of all mine. “What’s this about?”

  “I need a date for Saturday night.”

  “For what? Wedding? Fund-raiser?”

  “No, just to prove a point.”

  Her eyes narrow. “So you want to use my brother to prove a point?”

  I sigh. “Not a political point. A personal one.”

  “Which would be?” Her generous lips are set in a thin line, and I know what it feels like to be one of her parishioners caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Then don’t ask me if you can use my brother.”

  “I guess it did sound like that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  LaRonda waits patiently for me to cough up the truth. Around us conversation buzzes in the back room of the Green Hills Starbucks, where the Volvo and BMW moms congregate after spin class. I’m not sure LaRonda and I fit in, but when do we ever? And if being a white woman minister is an uphill climb, being a black woman minister is like hauling yourself up Mount Everest with your feet tied together. With the help of her upbringing as a preacher’s kid, LaRonda has always made it look like a Cakewalk.

  “Look,” I confess, “I need to save face here.”

  “Well, your face is going to have to find someone besides my brother to save it.”

  “But who? Do you ever meet any men besides your parishioners?” I casually scan the round room tucked in the back of the coffee shop. This space was a dry cleaner when I was in divinity school, but now it’s a collage of wood and tile permeated with the aroma of burned coffee beans.

  “What about David?” LaRonda swirls her straw to catch the last of her Frapp.

  “David’s why I need a date.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  LaRonda puts down her drink. “Which you are going to tell me right now.”

  I look away. “I’d rather not.”

  “Betsy, there’s no way you’re not telling me what’s going on. What happened Saturday night? I thought you guys just went to the movies.”

  I set my empty cup down next to hers. “He touched my thigh. In the theater.”

  LaRonda coughs, pounds her chest, and then coughs some more. “He did what?” she chokes out.

  I blush. “Not on purpose. He was going for the popcorn.”

  “And?”

  “And … well, I felt something.”

  “What kind of something?” A zing.

  “A zing? You felt a zing?”

  I nod and then bow my head.

  “Hallelujah,” LaRonda sighs.

  “What? How can you say that?”

  She leans back in her chair. “I’ve been waiting for this since the first week of div school.”

  “But, LaRonda, its David”

  “You mean smart, tall, funny, kind David? The kind of guy we’d give our eyeteeth for?” She looks me straight in the eye. “If you think this is for real, not some biological fluke, you have to tell him.”

  “I know, I know. And I will. But first I have to go on this date.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I told him I had a date Saturday so I couldn’t go to the movies with him.”

  LaRonda massages her temples. “Let me get this straight. You turned down a date with a man you’re attracted to so you could go on a date with a man who doesn’t exist?”

  Well, when you put it that way, it does sound a bit ridiculous.

  “But David wasn’t asking me on a date. He was taking me for granted, assuming I didn’t have plans for Valentine’s Day.”

  “Girl, that’s your fault. You didn’t just give him a license to take you for granted. You printed it, signed it, and had it laminated.”

  “I know.” Even my ritual latte can’t straighten out my head. “But I don’t want to look like a complete idiot. Where am I going to find a man by Saturday?”

  “What about one of the baristas?” LaRonda nods toward the bar. “There’s some nice eye candy back there.”

  I laugh. “I’m not about to endanger my daily caffeine source.”

  LaRonda taps her manicured nails on the café table. “Zing from David aside, when are you going to quit finding reasons not to date?”

  “What?” My heart rate increases noticeably.

  “Face it, Betsy; it’s not that there aren’t men out there to date. You just rule them all out before they even ask you.”

  The latte in my stomach turns sour. “No one’s asked me out in months.”

  “And why is that? Could it have something to do with your wardrobe?”

  “It’s my day off. What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “At the best of times, you dress like your mother.”

  That hurts. “I do not dress like my mother.”

  LaRonda laughs. “If I called your mom right now and asked her what she was wearing, what do you think she’d say?”

  “I think she’d call you a pervert and hang up.”

  We both laugh, and that feels better. “Are my clothes really that bad?”

  “Not unless you mean to put the m in matron.”

  “Are you telling me I’m frumpy?”

  “You’re the Queen of Frumpy.”

  “And if I dress differently, I’ll date?”

  “You will if you agree to do that segment for Tricia.”

  Now the caffeine rushes to my brain. “No way, Ronnie. I refuse to be humiliated on local television.”

  LaRonda’s been after me for weeks to do a makeover segment for her cousin’s new local morning show. She says it will empower me. That I’ll be a new woman. I’m more worried that I’ll be the first failure in the history of makeovers.

  “What makes you think you’ll be humiliated? Everybody wants a makeover,” LaRonda says.

  “Do we need to broadcast my unattractiveness to the whole city?”

  “Once the men of Nashville see the new you, they’ll be lining up at your door.”

  I don’t believe her. But I’m a thirty-year-old single woman with all the attendant insecurities. Desperation can be a great motivator. I wanted to change my life. Maybe my appearance is the place to start. “Okay,” I say with a dramatic sigh worthy of an early Christian martyr being thrown to the lions. “But you better be there. I don’t want to be left alone to Tricia’s tender mercies.”

  LaRonda beams. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back. You won’t regret it.”

  Of course I will. But at least it will take my mind off all my other problems.

  LaRonda doesn’t let any grass grow under my feet. The next day we meet a camera crew waiting at the entrance to Green Hills mall. LaRonda’s cousin Tricia hosts the local morning show for the new affiliate of a fledgling network, which would explain why someone would be desperate enough to put me on television.

  Tricia is tall, thin, coiffed, and plucked. She looks like a finalist in the Miss America pageant, only without the evening gown. She smirks when she sees me. “Excellent, Rond. When I’m done with her, the Queer Eye guys will bow their heads in reverence.”

  I don’t know about the Fab Five, but I feel my head sink lower on my neck. Am I that bad?

  The camera lights go on, and I’m blinded. Tricia shoves a microphone in my face. “So, Reverend Blessing, are you ready to be transformed from holy to hottie?”

  I mumble some inarticulate reply that Tricia takes for a yes, and we’re off. If I didn’t know I was leaving the ministry, I’d think this was a stupid career move. The camera stays on me the whole time, even while we’re riding the escalator down to the lower level. Tricia comes to a stop in front of a store with the frightening name of
Oh Là Là! “Here we are.”

  The mannequins in the window look like hookers with some cash to spend. The clothes do not look like they were made for a woman who can sing “Jesus Loves Me” in three languages.

  “LaRonda—” My protest is cut off by the shove she gives me, propelling me into the den of iniquity. The camera swings to Tricia, who details the travesty that’s about to be perpetuated on me. A perky sales assistant pops up on cue and starts groping me.

  “Hmm. Size 10?”

  I wish I could argue with that assessment, but I’ll be lucky to squeeze into anything less than a 12.

  The sales assistant looks pensive. “Normally, we don’t carry anything in double digits…” She looks at me with obvious distaste. “Perhaps monochromatic, all black…”

  I snap. “Something in a burka, perhaps?”

  She stares back at me without comprehension. “Is that a new kind of halter?”

  Mercifully, LaRonda intervenes. “How about these?” She thrusts a pair of leather pants into my arms. The sales assistant adds a see-through chiffon blouse, and Tricia shoves me toward a dressing room even as she continues to give a running commentary of my flaws to the camera.

  “A bit broad in the hips, but a flare leg can balance those saddlebags—”

  I slam the dressing-room door behind me, grateful to be alone, and sink to the little pink tuffet wedged into the corner. Three full-length mirrors occupy all the available wall space. I peep upward to make sure the cameraman hasn’t shoved the thing over the top of the door to film this, too, but there’s no sign of him. Thank heavens for small mercies.

  I should put an end to this right now. I’ve been humiliated enough in the past year, and I know that something as superficial as my looks isn’t what’s truly important. But a tiny part of me wonders if it would help. If my appearance improved, would my life? Besides, Tricia will never put this on television. No amount of clothes and makeup could make me into a Glamazon.

  I discover the leather pants will zip if I give up breathing. I beg LaRonda for a camisole to go under the blouse, and Tricia grudgingly consents. I refuse to look in the dressing-room mirror. LaRonda yanks me out into the shop and forces me to the even larger monstrosity magnifier out there.