At Home in Mitford

by Jan Karon

“I’m feeling as miserably guilty as I should, and I want to promise you that I’ll become fastidious again—at once. What I don’t want to do is let us confuse this issue with the deeper issue.”

  “I’m not convinced that this issue isn’t part of the deeper issue. Bodily fatigue, which nearly always accompanies this hateful malady, can wear down the spirit. And how can the Holy Spirit work with a vessel that’s leaking as fast as he can fill it?

  “If I know you,” the bishop continued, kindly, “you are not resting. You are not recreating. You haven’t been on vacation in a very long time, as I recall.”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “What have you been facing recently? Let’s look at the last few months.”

  “A boy, I’ve been given a boy, he’s nearly twelve. Dooley.” He missed Dooley, he realized suddenly. “That’s been . . .”

  “Rough.”

  “Yes. For an old bachelor like me. Then, the jewels, of course. All that was morbidly unnerving, though the results, as I told you on the phone, were glorious.

  “And Barnabas—my dog—was snatched from me on the street, and a man has been shot over the whole affair.”

  "I’m sorry . . .”

  “Not to mention a parishioner and friend who’s just had a heart transplant against some very dire odds.”

  “So. No recreation of any sort, and a series of stressful circumstances superimposed over your usual round of duties and the symptoms of diabetes. Has sleeping been a problem?”

  “The worst.”

  “Seen your doctor lately?”

  “Not lately. He’s been very caught up with the transplant logistics.”

  “Lousy excuse. No good! See your doctor immediately.”

  He nodded. “You have my word.”

  “Now, I want to exercise my authority as your bishop and ask you to do something else. I want you to go away for two months.”

  “But there’s the boy, and—”

  “I’m not interested in the boy, or in any other condition or circumstance that presently exists in your life. That sounds cold and hard, but it’s neither. You are my interest, not because you’re my friend, but because you’re exceedingly valuable to this diocese, and I very much want to keep it that way.

  “You’ve always known how to take care of everybody and everything but yourself. I can say that freely because I’m afflicted with the identical weakness, and, trust me, it is a weakness. I’m blessed with a wife who monitors me, but you have no monitor. If you’re going to extend your life in the body of Christ, Timothy, you must act at once to restore, to revive, to refresh your energies.

  “You tell me you’ve gone stale, but the sound health of your parish disproves it. ‘Wherefore, by their fruits ye shall know them,’ Christ said. That’s how I know you, my friend, by your fruits. You haven’t let Him down, you haven’t let me down, and you haven’t let your parish down. But you’ve been letting yourself down—shamefully.”

  He was suddenly chilled and peevish. He wished he had never come. Why hadn’t he kept his own counsel, made his own determinations? To be scolded like a child was a rude shock, and he felt his skin grow damp with a disagreeable sweat.

  “Do you think I like to speak to you this way?” Stuart asked. “I do not. But it must be done. If you need money to go away, that will be taken care of at once.”

  “It isn’t money.”

  “I recall that your mother left you a considerable sum, if you haven’t given it all away.”

  “Not all,” he said, coloring.

  The bishop waited a moment. “Tell me . . . what about Cynthia? Does she mean something to you?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “You seem uncertain.”

  “I’m not uncertain about whether she means something to me; I’m uncertain about what that implies.”

  “You mean whether it could imply marriage?”

  “Yes. And if so, is that what would be right and good at this stage of my life, and good for her . . .”

  “I think she feels tenderly toward you.”

  He realized it felt better to discuss Cynthia than to hammer away at his backsliding. “She asked me to . . .” he cleared his throat, “to go steady.”

  Stuart laughed heartily. “Why, that’s wonderful! That’s terrific!”

  He waited impatiently for the laughter to stop. Blast! Why had he brought it up?

  “That must have taken some courage on her behalf.”

  “She said as much.”

  “What was your answer?”

  “She asked me to think about it—and I’m still thinking.”

  Stuart eyes shone with happy amusement. “When you’ve thought it through, I hope you’ll let me know the outcome. I like her, she’s tonic. And that is, after all, what you seem to be needing.”

  They had veered off course, and it was clearly up to him to veer back. “Are you suggesting that I carry on? That I take a break and carry on?”

  “I am. Since your letter a few months ago, you haven’t done anything differently. It’s time to do something differently, to rest, to seek God’s heart on this matter with a fresh mind. I’d like to see you settle your affairs quickly, and be off. We can put Father John in your pulpit, if that’s agreeable. He’d be like a hand slipping into a glove, and you can trust him not to turn the place upside down in your absence.”

  “Very well,” he said, smiling. “You’ve pushed me to the brink once again.”

  The bishop chuckled as the two men stood and embraced. “But I only do it once every thirty-five years!”

  So it had been thirty-five years since his friend had helped him make the decision about Peggy Cramer.

  “Stuart,” he said, as they stood for a moment at the door of the study, “I’d like to do something rather unorthodox.”

  “I trust your orthodoxy enough to trust your unorthodoxy.”

  “I’d like to put an old Baptist preacher in my pulpit now and again. He has a lot to say to us, I believe, and I trust him. He’s self-taught and has pastored several country churches for many years. His theology is sound as a dollar, and his spirit is fervent in the Lord. I believe the very oddity of it would cause many to listen who haven’t had ears to hear.”

  “Do it, then.”

  "Thank you. Now, where do you and Martha want the corn?”

  He was relieved that Cynthia didn’t look at him but at the dashboard of the car, which she addressed with great feeling. “I cannot—no matter how hard I try—believe that you did not tell me that stupid curler was banging around back there. I could have died when I found it! There we sat, civilized as you please, and that stupid curler sticking in there. What’s worse, it was on the side next to the bishop!”

  “It was only Stuart,” he said, mildly.

  “But why didn’t you say something?” wailed Cynthia.

  “I tried to. I did! I kept pointing to my head, I thought that might . . .”

  “I thought you were scratching your ear, for heaven’s sake!”

  “I have never been fluent in body language.”

  “When you were in the study, Martha just reached over and said, ‘Do you know, that’s exactly where I always forget and leave one, myself,’ which was the most dreadful lie, since she’s never rolled her hair in her life, it’s straight as a stick!”

  If he dared even glance at her from the corner of his eye, he would howl with laughter.

  “Timothy, you’re laughing at me, I can tell! Your stomach is jiggling! Why not come right out with it, and laugh your head off, then? Go on, you’re most cordially invited!”

  He cleared his throat, unable to speak.

  “I mean, what if your fly had been open?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, think about it! If your fly was standing open in broad daylight, don’t you think I’d have informed you?”

  He had to admit that was a sobering thought. “Cynthia,” he said, still looking attentively at the road, “I’m sorry. I’m trul
y sorry. I did try to tell you. Forgive me.”

  A long silence. “Oh, poop! I do forgive you.” She sat back in the seat, as if exhausted. “Will I never get it right?”

  “I think you have it far righter than most people, as a matter of fact.”

  “You do?”

  “Indeed, I do. And so does the bishop. He says you’re tonic. Tonic! Is that the cruel judgment of a man who was appalled by the sight of a mere hair curler?”

  Though he wasn’t inclined to be careless at the wheel of a car, he reached over and took her hand.

  “Well . . .” she said, brightening.

  He awoke in the night and found himself drenched with sweat, his pajamas clinging wetly to his legs. Water! That’s what he wanted. He was burning with thirst.

  With great effort, he sat up, then forced himself to go to the bathroom and fill his empty glass. Dear God, he felt strangely weak and bereft.

  Tomorrow, he would begin the medication with a vengeance and would be up and running by six. It would be good to get on schedule again. He recalled how terrific he’d felt during those early months of running, seeing Mitford from a new perspective. Life changing!

  He put on another pair of pajamas and went back to bed, speaking aloud from the Psalms, to the still room: “Withhold not they tender mercies from me, O Lord; be pleased, O Lord, to deliver me . . .”

  An image of Cynthia in the dazzling yellow dress came to him just before he slept.

  He stopped by the hospital in his running clothes and spent a half hour with Joe Joe, who was eager to come home. Then he ran by to see Russell and Betty Craig, who appeared to have struck a happy truce. After a light breakfast at the rectory and a brief visit with Puny, he went to the office to do what the bishop had asked him to do.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” said the nurse when he called, “but Dr. Harper is out of town for a week. Dr. Wilson would be happy to see you, I could work you in . . .”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll wait for Dr. Harper. Better put me down right after he returns.”

  “Let’s see. I don’t have anything the week after he gets back, but if we have a cancellation, I could call you.”

  “Excellent! Do that,” he said.

  There. He had a full prescription on hand, he had taken his medication, he had run, he had eaten a sensible breakfast and cut back on caffeine, and he had called the nurse. All that was easy enough. It was the other, the planning of the two-month sabbatical that he dreaded.

  As odious as the prospect seemed, he was, however, grateful. Another sort of bishop might have trusted him to take care of the problem on his own. But Stuart had used his authority to issue a command, and he had been absolutely right. His bishop had done what he hadn’t the gall to do himself. That feeling of being stuck to this place like moss on a tree, like lichen on a stump, would have to be gotten over.

  “Hello, Walter? Timothy. Is this a good time? Well, then, if it isn’t too late to get in on the trip with you and Katherine, I’d like to come along.” There was a stunned silence. “Walter? Walter! Hello?”

  Had the Enemy tricked him all these years into believing no one could do without him?

  Wasn’t Russell in the best of circumstances? Didn’t Olivia have a new heart, and wasn’t she improving daily, with no signs of rejection?

  Wasn’t Lord’s Chapel enjoying an especially smooth state of affairs just now, with as little wrangling and backbiting as he’d witnessed in years?

  Wasn’t the Sunday school gaining momentum and fulfilling a need? Wasn’t the new youth choir gearing up for a full program in the fall?

  And wasn’t Miss Sadie in better shape than ever, with the secret off her heart and Louella under her roof?

  He searched his conscience for anyone who might need him. In a day or two, he would approach Miss Rose about the life estate and whether they could move ahead at once—after resolving, of course, the statue of Willard.

  There would be no final drawings of Hope House for some time, and when they came, Ron Malcolm was infinitely able to judge them fairly and make interim decisions with the vestry.

  Emma would be back any day and could handle things without him. Father John would be an agreeable fellow, if a bit lazy. Cynthia would take the rabbit in, surely. Puny would continue to cook and clean on the two days the vestry paid for, very likely causing Father John to think he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, if he promised to bring her a Waterford goblet, Hessie Mayhew would chip in to turn the sprinkler on the roses in the memorial garden.

  But what about Dooley? The last thing he wanted was for Dooley to feel uprooted and pulled apart.

  “I’d like to have a boy,” said Cynthia, looking brave. “I could . . .”

  “You could what?”

  “Draw him!”

  “Aha,” he said, unconvinced.

  “I’ve had a boy in my life, my husband’s nephew. His mother died, and Elliott and I took him in while he was in college. David and I got to be the fastest of friends and comrades, he was such a blessing to me when Elliott was away for weeks and months at a time. You’ve never met him, but you shall.”

  “I appreciate your offer, but God hasn’t yet shown me what to do about Dooley.”

  “He will show you, of course, so just relax, why don’t you?”

  Relax? Yes. Well, that was a good idea.

  The door to the office swung open.

  “They got ’em,” Rodney said, proudly. “Down in Holding is where they nailed th’ scumheads. Th’ law down there had up a roadblock, checkin’ licenses. This little ol’ boy on th’ force remembered hearin’ th’ statewide when it went out, and recognized ’em. They’d painted their van an’ all, but he was onto ’em. Pulled ’em over for a dead headlight, radioed in without ’em knowin’ it, and three cars of Holding’s best jumped over there like blue ticks on a coon. Dadgum!” said Rodney with considerable joy, hitching up his holster. “That was the biggest bust Holding ever did, a whole vanload of dope.”

  “Barnabas. What about . . . ?”

  “Nope. Sorry. That’s th’ bad news,” said Rodney, taking off his hat. “No sign of your dog. I tell you, Father, that might be just as well, if you know what I mean.”

  He didn’t know, exactly, and probably didn’t want to.

  “Hey,” said Dooley, coming to the phone.

  “Hey, yourself. How’s it going?”

  “Great.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Me’n ol’ Kenny McGuire rode th’ hair off ’em horses this mornin.’ Then we played softball with ’em boys down at th’ pond, and whipped ’em s’ bad they was about t’ bawl. You comin’ agin Sunday?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I want you t’ see me ride Goosedown. I got ’er t’ likin’ me s’ good, she’s jist like a little ol’ baby or somethin’.”

  “Speaking of which, how is Rebecca Jane?”

  “Cryin’ after me s’ bad, I have t’ git out of th’ house. Dools this, Dools that. You know how ’at is.”

  “Oh, I do, I do,” said the rector.

  To some, he thought as he hung up, that might have sounded like an ordinary conversation. But in fact, it was music, yes music, to his ears.

  During the announcements at the eleven o’clock service, he drew attention to the meeting of the Altar Guild and the meeting of the lay readers, and issued another plea for youth choir recruits.

  He tried to drum up business for the Baptists, who were having a lawn sale for foreign missions, and the Presbyterians, who were having a bake sale for hymnals.

  “Are there any other announcements?” he asked.

  “Why, yes,” said Hal Owen, coming to the steps in front of the altar with something in his hand, “I’d like to announce, on behalf of the entire congregation, that we’re sorry to have taken so long to celebrate your birthday.”

  He felt his face grow warm.

  “You see, we had to wait for everybody to get their frequent
-flier points together, so we could give you this envelope. It will take you nearly anywhere you care to go . . . and we’d appreciate it if you’d come back.”

  As he took the envelope, the congregation applauded enthusiastically. “I don’t know what to say,” he blurted.

  Hal grinned. “Oh, just anything that comes to mind will do.”

  “Hallelujah!” he exclaimed, through the lump in his throat.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Emma, who had gotten a tan, stepped up the amount of henna in her rinse, and was wearing earrings that looked like small hands of bananas.

  “Just start at the beginning,” he advised.

  “I’m goin’ back to bein’ a Baptist,” she declared, flatly.

  “Emma, you definitely got too much sun. Baptists quite often become Episcopalians, but Episcopalians seldom ever become Baptists. You will be going against the tide.”

  “Peedaddle on th’ tide. Harold and I talked it over, and we decided it was foolish for him to head off in one direction on Sunday and me to head off in another. Because the truth is, Harold will never be an Episcopalian.”

  “True, Emma, true.”

  “He said for me not to mention this to you, but if he had to keep singin’ that ol’ stuff in our hymnbook, he’d jump out the window.”

  “That would be a sight for sore eyes. Headfirst, I take it.”

  “Now you want to hear the good news?”

  “I’m always ready to hear good news.”

  “I’m going’ to keep workin’ just like I’ve been doin’, keepin’ the same hours and all. That part won’t change a bit.”

  Blast.

  “And I’m goin’ to report to you on how the Baptists do things. It will be a big help around here. For example, do you ever see First Baptist hurt for money? No way! That’s because they don’t have any of this ‘tithe on the net or tithe on the gross’ business. Baptists do it on the gross, just like the Bible says, period.”

  Perhaps he would jump out the window, head-first.

  “Anyway, Esther will take the collection home on Sunday and bring it to me on Monday. In the winter, I told her to carry the money bag under her coat, and in the summer, stick it in a book bag under some library books. You never know, these days.”