Heavens to Betsy Read online

  “Still here.” A conspiratorial light glints in her baby blues. “Did you bring what I asked?”

  I cast a quick glance back over my shoulder to make sure no nurses are lurking in the doorway. “Yep.” I reach into my purse on the floor beside me and withdraw a small vial of pills. I slip them into her fingers, and she quickly tucks them under her Bible.

  “You’re a dear girl.”

  “I feel like a drug dealer.”

  “They’re only herbal supplements.”

  “And strictly banned in this place.”

  Velva smiles. “Let me worry about that.” She motions me to sit in the chair opposite her.

  “How is Dottie today?” I look over at her roommate, who lies motionless in the bed.

  “She’s tired. We stayed up too late reading last night.”

  “What kept you up so late?”

  Velva draws a book from the seam of her chair where it had been tucked. She turns it toward me. Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

  “You wild woman.” I laugh and she joins me.

  But, as always, Velva knows I’ve come with something on my mind. “What’s troubling you, Betsy?”

  I sit in the chair opposite her. “Dr. Black resigned. They’ve asked me to be the interim senior pastor.”

  Our lighthearted mood quickly evaporates. “Did you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  Her brow furrows. “Why?”

  “Because I want to prove I can do it.”

  She adds a frown to her furrow. “That’s not the reason.”

  Velva sees into my soul even more deeply than David does. Maybe it’s her greater years of experience.

  “No. It’s not the reason.” I’m quiet for a long moment, and Velva just sits with me, waiting. She’s good at that. Just being a companion, not pushing or prodding, but waiting as if she has all the time in the world. Why is it that a woman of ninety-four, who probably has very little time left, can be far more patient than a woman of thirty who has a lot of years ahead of her?

  “I’m leaving the ministry.” There. I’ve said it. It’s out there, named, floating around in the ether.

  Velva reaches out and takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are twisted and weak, but her touch conveys strength. She doesn’t say anything for so long I feel compelled to speak.

  “I’m going to law school.” The words ring with a harsh belligerence I hadn’t anticipated.

  Velva cocks her head like a little bird. “Has God called you there?”

  As usual, Velva cuts straight to the heart of the matter. Tears gather in my eyes, and my shoulders slump. “I don’t know. I don’t know what God wants anymore.”

  Since my parents split up when I was fifteen, church has been my refuge. I found comfort, affirmation, opportunities for leadership. When I was a senior, the pastor told me I should think about ministry. The seed seemed to grow of its own accord, and until the day my first church fired me, it always felt like the right thing.

  “I’ve tried to do what I thought was right,” I tell Velva, “and look where it’s gotten me. I thought the Big Guy said ‘ministry,’ but maybe it was ‘misery’ I don’t want to—” I stop myself just in time.

  “You don’t want to what?”

  But I can’t say it—not to her. I can’t say I don’t want to spend my whole life waiting for a chance that might never come.

  “It’s too hard, being so close to what I want and knowing it will never be mine. That’s why I agreed to the interim job. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to getting what I want, even if it’s only temporary. And I have to have a job for the next six months until school starts.”

  Velva’s hands caress the pages of the Bible in her lap. “Is it what God wants for you, Betsy? Or are you like Jonah, running away because things aren’t going according to your plans?”

  I know the answer, but I can’t say it. Velva’s right, though she probably won’t actually offer her opinion. No, she’ll ask supportive, nonthreatening, and open-ended questions and in the process make every point she wants to make.

  I sigh. “I can’t cut it in the church, so does it really matter?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “I’m not sure I do anymore.”

  “That’s fear talking.”

  “Yes, well, fear has a lot to say these days.”

  In the bed by the wall, Dottie snorts and snuffles. Velva releases my hand. “How long would you be willing to wait for God to lead you to the right place? What’s your limit?”

  I have the grace to lower my head. I know what Velva’s saying. God works in the Divine’s own sweet time. I’ve read enough Bible stories to know that. Fourteen years for Jacob to finally get the right bride. Forty years of the Israelites’ wandering in the wilderness. But doesn’t God know the world moves at a faster pace these days?

  “I’ve reached my limit. I can’t wait anymore.”

  With great difficulty, Velva rises from her chair and shuffles to the counter that runs along one side of the room. She plugs in her electric teakettle and begins to lay out the tea things. It’s a familiar ritual I’ve come to rely on over the past six months.

  And, as always, I feel compelled to fill her silence with words. “I thought you would understand better than anyone.”

  “If you’ve come for a blessing, I can’t give you one. But I suspect you knew that before you got here.”

  We’re both quiet for several minutes. The kettle whistles, and she shakily pours the water into the teapot. “You made a commitment to God. You’re the only one who can give yourself permission to unmake it. Have you done that?”

  Once again, Velva’s nailed my problem perfectly. Because, of course, I haven’t done that. Even though I’ve decided to leave, I haven’t let go.

  “Can you walk away under your own power?” Velva places the teapot, cups, and sugar on a tray. That’s my cue. I leave my chair and go to her side. It’s my job to carry the tray to the little table by the window.

  “Until two minutes ago, I thought that’s what I was doing.” Coming face to face with your own self-delusions is never a pretty prospect, as the knot in my stomach indicates.

  “If you truly wanted to leave, wouldn’t you just turn in your resignation today?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Is it?”

  Velva slowly sinks back into her chair and smiles with bliss as she settles into the cushions. I pour the tea and hand her the little china cup on its matching saucer.

  We both sit quietly for a few minutes as we sip our tea. Dottie mumbles something from her bed, and it blends with the birdsong from the tree outside. Velva had the maintenance men hang several feeders outside her window, and she cajoles and shames the staff into keeping them filled.

  “Sometimes things aren’t complicated. We just make them that way.” Velva looks into her teacup as if the answers to all my questions can be found in its contents. “Honestly, Betsy, what’s keeping you from leaving the church?”

  I can lie to myself all day long, but lying to Velva is another matter. I grimace. “Because hope won’t die. No matter how hard I try to kill it. I keep thinking something will happen to make it all work out somehow.”

  Velva smiles and sips her tea. “I know, my dear. I know.”

  Fifty years of waiting for two years of ministry. The longest advent season ever. Velva was woman enough to manage it, but I don’t think I am.

  “Thank you.” I set my cup aside and reach out to squeeze her hand again. “I’d better go.”

  “You haven’t finished your tea.”

  “That’s okay.” I get up from the chair and reach over to kiss her papery cheek. “Sometimes it’s not the tea you need. It’s the tea ceremony.”

  Velva smiles. And so do I, in spite of my tears.

  I return to the church more confused than when I left it. Angelique is waiting to pounce the moment I walk through the office door. She clutches a fistful of pink phone-message slips in her fir
e-engine-red acrylic talons.

  “The Judge called, and he wants to vet your sermon before you preach it Sunday.”

  “Great. My own personal critique service. What else?”

  “Mrs. Tompkins wants you to make a run to Kroger for salad dressings before the next ladies auxiliary meeting.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was her personal shopper as well as her minister. Next?”

  “Um, some lawyer. I didn’t quite catch his name. He says the Longworths are suing the church over their wedding.”

  “Suing the church? For what? The wedding was perfect.”

  “Mrs. Longworth is upset there was a lady minister in all the wedding pictures. Says it ruined the whole thing. She wants money for her pain and suffering.”

  “Tell her to get in line.” I start walking to my office, but Angelique follows. “Don’t tell me there’s more?” I ask over my shoulder.

  Just one.

  I stop and turn. Knowing Angeliques penchant for drama, I’m sure she’s saved the best for last.

  “Yes?”

  “Mavis Carter’s son called. She passed away.”

  “God finally gave in and took her, huh?”

  Okay, I know that sounds harsh, but if you’d known Mavis, you wouldn’t blame me. Her favorite pastime was causing misery and suffering. Mostly for the ministerial staff at church.

  “Her son says the funeral is Saturday at 11:00 a.m.”

  Smack in the middle of my date with David.

  “Who’s doing the service?”

  “He didn’t say. It’s at some little country church. Here’s the info.”

  I take the slip of paper from Angelique and stuff it into my purse, and what’s left of the Pasta YaYa in my stomach turns to lead. That’s one of the realities of ministry. All your best-laid plans count for nothing when duty calls. Normally I’m philosophical about it. Doctors have it worse. But the closer I get to leaving the ministry, the more I resent its demands.

  “Okay. I’ll adjust my schedule.” Don’t I always?

  Having dropped all the proverbial shoes, Angelique evaporates back to her desk and her nail file. She’s supposed to be practicing her keyboarding skills, but I’m not sure she’s even figured out how to turn on the computer yet. On the other hand, parishioners love her because she always has time to chat with them.

  I head straight for my office and close the door firmly behind me. It’s a risk, that closed door. The parishioners of Church of the Shepherd seem to take it personally if their ministers aren’t constantly available. I find this compulsory open-door policy ironic. When exactly am I supposed to have time for prayer and contemplation, not to mention sermon preparation?

  Fortunately, my voice mail doesn’t contain any more heavy breathing. Just the usual stuff. A salesman from a video company who wants me to buy a series of tapes on dealing with divorce. His take on it is that if the woman would just submit to the man as it says in the Bible, the divorce rate would drop dramatically. I hit the pound key and delete him without further ado.

  E-mail is the same old, same old. A few quick notes from friends across the country. Some spam for a service where you can download prefab sermons. And something from David.

  My heart picks up its pace.

  I double-click, and the message opens. It would be nice if it was a declaration of undying love, but it’s a joke he’s forwarded to me.

  How many women ministers does it take to change a light bulb?

  Only one, but if she messes up, they’ll never hire another woman to change a light bulb again.

  How true.

  I click Reply and type in the painful words that delay our bowling date until Saturday afternoon. And, like Scarlett O’Hara, I invoke God as my witness—once I’m out of the church, I will never again let my professional life interfere with my personal life.

  The last place I want to be today is the Mt. Carmel Community Church in Podunk, Tennessee. I’m supposed to be meeting David at the bowling alley. The fact that I’d rather be lacing my feet into stinky bowling shoes tells you how I feel as I race into the tiny parking lot. Of course I ran into a traffic snafu on the way here. The service begins in five minutes, so there’s just time to sign the guest book and slip into the back row. I wonder what poor schmuck Mrs. Carters son roped into doing the service. Thankfully, I’m not the schmuck du jour.

  The funeral director, easily identifiable in his dark suit, waits at the entrance and swings the door open for me as I approach.

  “Reverend Blessing?”

  Uh-oh. I guess my reputation has preceded me. Matt Carter has resented me since I objected to his attempts to get his mother to sign a new will while she was still under the influence of anesthesia.

  “Yes, I’m Betsy Blessing.”

  His furrowed brow relaxes. “I’m Fred Brown. We were worried you weren’t going to make it.”

  A shiver starts at the base of my spine and works its way heavenward. Either this man is the most hospitable funeral-home director in the history of mortuary science, or I’ve been had.

  “Waiting for me?”

  He chuckles. “Well, we can’t exactly start without you, now can we?”

  I will not allow my knees to give way beneath me. My fingers curl around the strap of my purse.

  This is what’s known in the business as The Irate Relatives Revenge. And here I thought I’d learned all the tricks. Matt Carter made a practice of ignoring the calling cards I left when his mom was out of it and then telling her the “lady preacher” never bothered to visit. As I mentioned, he did his best to change his mother’s will when he found out the church was among the beneficiaries. But hoodwinking the preacher at the funeral service is a new low. How many people would be willing to ruin their mother’s memorial service to get payback on the preacher?

  I swallow, blink twice, and smile. “So sorry. There was a wreck on Charlotte Pike.” I have nothing with me. No notes. No Bible. Just a head full of Scripture and a depressing familiarity with funeral liturgy. Fortunately, in our denomination, when it comes to funerals, we make it up as we go along. But we usually make it up the night before instead of on the spot.

  The taped organ music is wailing “The Old Rugged Cross” as the funeral director, relieved to have lassoed a pastor for the service, leads me up the aisle of the church to the thronelike chair behind the podium. It’s ironic they give the best chair to the one person who will be standing for almost the entire service. For the moment, though, I’m grateful for the next three minutes I’ll have in that chair to collect myself and plan Mavis Carters funeral.

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths. My insides rumble ominously, not liking the sudden onset of adrenaline pumping through my veins.

  All too soon the tape shuts off with an audible click, and silence descends. I rise and step to the podium to look out on the twelve folks scattered among the pews. A lifetime of meanness, and the old biddy still managed to draw a dozen people to her service. Nice work, Mavis. Mrs. Tompkins and The Judge, our professional mourners from Church of the Shepherd, are seated together on the second row, no doubt rubbing their hands together in glee at my situation.

  “Friends, we are gathered here in the sight of God, to celebrate the life of Mavis Jewel Carter…”

  So far, so good. I can reel off the introductory remarks by heart. Or at least by mouth, even if my heart’s not in it. Which it isn’t; not today. Resentment, frustration, irritation—did you know sometimes that’s what ministers are feeling when they’re standing up in front of you preaching about the love of God? Fortunately for those of us of the clerical persuasion, God can use us anyway—even when we’re as recalcitrant as a six-year-old being forced to swallow medicine.

  The Scripture readings flow as easily as the introduction. The “in my father’s house are many rooms” part of John 14. A bit from Revelation about no more crying and God wiping away every tear, not that anyone here is shedding a tear for Mavis, the old harridan. Even Mrs. Tompkins and The Judge aren’t that good at pla
yacting.

  “Even as we come together to mourn,” I say, “we also gather to celebrate the gift of life that comes from God—”

  And then, as I’m mouthing the words, something twists in my midsection. The twist that happens from time to time when I’m doing my thing in the pulpit. One moment I’m a competent-if-uninspired preacher, and then—grace happens. The truth of the words I’m saying resonates through me, and suddenly my voice is not my own. Is this how all those Old Testament prophets felt? Maybe that’s why they compared their calls to having a burning coal pressed to their lips.

  The prayer flows so easily I’m practically singing it. This is why I chose ministry in the first place, this experience of leading and yet being led. “Use these moments of remembrance, O God, to open our hearts to you. Amen.”

  I look out at the dozen mourners to see if they can tell the difference. Do they know the minister is having a “moment”? Hard to tell. Mavis’s son is scowling. Guess he hasn’t caught on to the spiritual depth I’ve tapped into. One older woman with bluish hair and Coke-bottle glasses is blowing her nose, but that’s not unusual in Middle Tennessee, where allergy season lasts from January to December. Mrs. Tompkins never changes her expression, and The Judge is using the end of his penknife to clean under his fingernails.

  The eulogy presents a bigger challenge. My mother raised me to believe that if you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. That dictum doesn’t apply when you’re delivering the eulogy of a woman who didn’t like anyone and who wasn’t liked by anyone in return.

  “Mavis Carter was faithful to her church…” Okay, that’ll work. She was faithful to tormenting her fellow parishioners. But that one statement’s not going to be enough. I rack my brain for some memory, however fleeting, of Mavis engaging in any act of compassion or genuine feeling.

  For several long moments, the chapel is dead silent. No pun intended.

  And I realize I can’t talk for the next ten minutes about Mavis. Not without exposing her, me, and Church of the Shepherd. So instead of a eulogy, I say what I know to be true. I talk about the gift God gives to us when we find a community of faith. How much it means to be part of one, even under the worst of circumstances. How we struggle. How we fail. How we shine. In the midst of my eloquent delivery, I realize this is my chance to address Mrs. Tompkins and The Judge when they have no chance for rebuttal. So I say everything I’ve always wanted to say about church life. How we mistake showing up for being faithful. How power in church should be used to build one another up, not tear one another down. And how our life together in churches ought to be measured by a standard of love, not a standard of condemnation.