by Bill Myers
I decided to Google what this great leader was supposed to do and . . . well, there went the rest of my morning.
There were hundreds of links on this guy. And plenty of nut jobs claiming to be him. There were also plenty of references about him in the Bible. And it seemed everyone and everybody had an opinion. Most figured he’d be a great political leader, come to straighten out the mess we’re in. Others said he’d be a prophet, like in the Bible, only bigger. A few on the fringe even said he was supposed to suffer and die—which was pretty ridiculous since how do you save a world by suffering and dying?
But no matter how much I searched, my mind kept going back to that verse Mary had given me.
* * *
“THEREFORE THE LORD himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive
and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.”
* * *
AND TO WHAT the angel had said: “What is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son and you are to give him the name Jesus because he will save his people from their sins.”
Suddenly, out of the blue, Coghill’s words swept in: “If you know ‘em, really know ‘em, sometimes it’s just a matter of trust.”
Know them. That was the key. Really know them. I didn’t have the facts, and if I did, I was clueless how to put them together. But I knew Mary. I knew who she was. There was little the two of us hadn’t shared.
“Sometimes it’s just a matter of trust.”
I glanced at the time. 9:25. She’d be up now. I pulled out my cell and hit speed dial, hoping she’d take my call. There were still a thousand questions to answer, but maybe now, like she said, maybe now I might at least be able to listen.
My call went to her message. “Hi, it’s Mary. I’m out, you’re on.” Beep.
I hung up and looked out the window. That’s when I noticed Dad’s pickup in the driveway. What was he doing home? Shouldn’t he be at work? Shouldn’t he— Wait a minute. It was Sunday. Sunday morning. And that meant church. She’d be at church in–the clock clicked to 9:26–four minutes!
I leaped from my chair, grabbed my coat and scarf, and stumbled down the stairs. Incidentals like a shower or changing clothes never crossed my mind. We had to talk.
And I . . . I had to listen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I shot through town pretty fast, one hand on the wheel, the other wiping away fog that kept coming back on the inside of the windshield. (The pickup’s defroster worked as good as its heater). Up ahead, our one stoplight blinked red. My side windows were coated in ice so I rolled them down to see as I blew through the intersection. If old man McDermott was anything, he was punctual.
I slid into a parking spot at 9:38.
I half-ran, half-slipped along the sidewalk. I took the steps two at a time and could hear them singing one of those chorus songs that keep repeating. Definitely not McDermott’s favorite. He liked the old-fashioned hymns. “Something with depth and meaning.” But that’s not what his little flock wanted. And forcing them to do something wasn’t his style. When possible, he liked to nudge folks, but never force them. Despite his rigid, button-down ways, he was gentle and sensitive. You could see it in his eyes.
And in his oldest daughter.
I yanked open the door. It was a small church. More like a chapel. Exposed beams in the ceiling, about a dozen rows of wooden pews, and worn green carpet running down the aisle. Up front, sitting on a stool, with his guitar and dreadlocks, sat worship leader, Joel Lambert. Behind him was an altar of polished ash. To his left a matching pulpit. And to his right hung the mandatory screen displaying the mandatory PowerPoint of lyrics.
My entrance startled Mr. Swenson. The old guy sat at the back so he could usher. Actually, that’s not true. Yes, he was the usher—he’d been doing that for as long as Mary could remember—but the truth is, he sat back there so he could doze off without anyone noticing. Anyone but the pastor who never called him on it. Like I said, McDermott was a thoughtful man.
Swenson struggled to his feet but I motioned him to stay put. I knew where I was going. He did, too. I looked to the front. There was no way of sneaking past the congregation unnoticed. By now, everyone was locked in place, including the McDermotts . . . all four of them in the first row.
I sucked it up and started down the aisle.
Heads turned, looks were traded. I pretended not to see, keeping my eyes up front until I reached McDermott’s pew. That’s when I turned around and saw every eye of the congregation on me. I should have charged admission.
Mrs. McDermott, a handsome, graying version of her daughter, sat on the end. When she saw me, her face lit up with that big welcoming grin of hers—before stealing a nervous glance down the row to Mary who must have noticed but kept right on singing. Next to Mrs. McDermott stood her husband. As I passed, we traded nods . . . before he arched an eyebrow at my wrinkled clothes and uncombed hair. He probably wasn’t crazy about the smell, either. After him came twelve-year old Rachel, all knees and elbows, who gave a quiet squeal of delight as she threw her arms around me.
That left Mary.
I freed myself from Rachel and looked to her. She gave a polite smile and stepped to the side, making room for me between her and Rachel. That was it. No fanfare. No drama. I don’t know what I was expecting, but she continued singing like she wasn’t the least bit surprised. Maybe she wasn’t.
I found my place in the song and joined in—my heart giving a tiny leap as she silently slipped her arms through mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
How did you know it was an angel?”
“I think it was the name tag,” she said.
“You’re kidding me.”
Mary gave me a look. I guess she was.
She stared back out the pickup’s windshield. It was after church and we were at our spot on the river, next to the leaning cottonwood, its lowest branch skimming the icy water. This was where we’d parked on cold winter nights, sharing our dreams and fears. Where we picnicked on summer afternoons, planning our future, debating how many children we’d have—she wanted three, four, five; I figured two would be enough–and, of course, where we decided their sexes.
This was where she’d cried when I told her my need to serve our country. And this was where we both wept the night she said yes and accepted my ring.
Now, under the afternoon’s slate-gray sky, she explained what little she knew . . .
“I was sitting over there, on that big rock above the water, when suddenly he’s beside me. One minute I’m all alone, the next he’s standing above me—tall, NBA tall, dressed in white—white jeans, white tee-shirt, everything white, so white he’s almost glowing.”
“Were you scared?” I asked.
She cut me a look.
Another stupid question.
She continued. “And then he spoke. Real gentle, but powerful. Soft, but roaring like a waterfall.” She got quiet, obviously remembering. Finally, she went on. “‘Greetings,’ he said, ‘you who are highly favored. The Lord is with you.’” She frowned. “It made no sense but I was too scared to speak.”
“Because you thought it was an angel.”
“Because I knew it was an angel.”
I nodded.
She cocked her head to the side, still remembering, but with a growing sense of wonder. “He said, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary. You have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus.’”
“Jesus?” I asked. “You sure he said to name him, Jesus?”
She nodded. “Why?
“Because that’s the same thing I heard in my dream. ‘You are to give him the name Jesus.’”
She looked at me, eyes widening. I nodded.
She turned back to the windshield, quietly continuing, “‘He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High.’”
“‘Of the Most High,’” I softly repeated.
If she heard, she didn’t answer. She was too lo
st in the memory. Her voice became a whisper, “‘But how?’ I asked him. ‘I’m still a virgin. How can I possibly have a son?’ And he said, ‘The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So, the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.’”
I felt the hair on my arms rise.
We sat in the silence, trying to grasp it all. She shivered and scooted closer. I fired up the car, grateful the heater decided to cooperate. I wrapped an arm around her, and she continued:
“But he wasn’t done.”
I waited, knowing she’d go on when she was ready.
“‘Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Your relative, Elizabeth, who has been unable to conceive is going to have a child in her old age. Even now, she’s in her sixth month.” Mary paused, then repeated the next words with emphasis. “‘For no word from God will ever fail.’”
I finally spoke. “Elizabeth, your aunt? The one you visited?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“Their baby boy just celebrated his five-month birthday.”
I swore softly. Probably not the right response when talking about God and angels and miracles, but I’d pretty much run out of words.
“So what did you do?” I asked. “What did you say?”
Her voice thickened with emotion—part fear, part awe, but also that quiet determination of hers. “I said, ‘I am the Lord’s servant. May your word to me be fulfilled.’”
I don’t know how long we sat there, or what we said, if anything. I mean what could you say? All I remember was thinking, if this is true, and it seemed to be, then Mary had done her part. She had agreed and she had obeyed.
Now it was time for me to step up and do mine.
CHAPTER NINE
I didn’t expect my dad to believe, and he didn’t.
Miracle dreams and guest appearances by angels were just a little too much to swallow. Nobody doubted God could part the Red Sea or perform all that other stuff in the Bible . . . He just never did it today, not on our watch.
That didn’t mean Dad didn’t support us. He liked Mary. And, if in her naive innocence, she’d been seduced by some guy and was now doing her best to protect him, well, that was her business. And mine. If it’s what I wanted, Dad would be there to watch my back . . . even if it meant punching out some punk at the mill.
The thought still made me smile.
And Mom? She was a tougher sell. Still, she did her best to be civil—even when she felt her boy was falling for a line of . . . well, she was too polite to use the real phrase, but we all knew what she meant when she said, “Bovine feces.”
The wedding would be small, not because of embarrassment, but because that was Mary’s style. A quiet celebration with just her family and closest friends. Yes, there would be flowers and music and whatever else our two mothers needed, but for Mary all she wanted was to be with those she loved in the church she loved. Oh, and to be married in her mother’s wedding dress. As a little girl, more than once she’d been busted for sneaking into the back of her mom’s closet and trying it on. Sure, they’d have to make a few alterations, particularly in the baby bump area, but she’d asked for so little—to be married in the dress of the woman she loved, by the father she loved, in the church she loved.
It was that last point that started all the problems . . .
Not with her dad. To be honest, McDermott probably felt like he was eating crow every time he stepped out the front door. But he never stopped believing in us — even without the help of angels. No, it wasn’t the good Pastor, it was his church—less than two weeks before the wedding.
According to McDermott, the leaders or deacons or whatever they’re called, had summoned him to an emergency meeting. When he got there, they were already sitting around, sober-faced, at a long table down in the church’s kitchen. Six men. No women. Brent Wilson, the head guy, broke the news. He was perfectly dressed like he always was—wool sweater, color coordinated tie, freshly pressed Dockers . . . and a face so scrubbed it practically glowed. “I’m sorry, Pastor,” he said. “But as much as we love you and your family, as much as we support your leadership, we cannot allow the wedding of your daughter to be performed on the premises.”
McDermott, a poker player though he’d never touched a card, simply looked at him. “Because?” he asked.
Wilson answered, “Because of the testimony to the community, to the members of the church.”
Martin Henderson, taller, thinner, but just as scrubbed, added, “It’s imperative we don’t give the impression that we are somehow endorsing pre-marital sex.”
McDermott answered, “No one here’s endorsing—”
“Exactly,” Wilson said. “To hold a ceremony on the premises as if there was nothing in the world wrong with that type of behavior sends a message that neither you, nor the congregation would want to endorse.”
“But kids are having babies out of wedlock every day,” McDermott said.
“My point exactly.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re endorsing it. No one’s endorsing it. Mary isn’t endorsing it.”
Wilson looked down at the table. Cleared his throat. “Mary is a role model for the young people in this church. Teaching Sunday school since she was in middle school, working with the youth—”
Henderson eagerly interrupted. “A role model for the entire community.”
Others around the table agreed.
Wilson continued, “All the more reason we have to be careful how we handle this . . . situation.”
McDermott sat there, waiting. He figured there was more, and he wasn’t wrong.
Wilson continued. “That’s why we feel there is a solution. I mean we all know how much your daughter loves this church, how devoted she is to-”
“A solution?” McDermott said.
“Yes.”
“Which is?”
“If Mary would come before the congregation. If she would stand before the congregation and publically confess her sin, if she would make it clear that—”
“No.”
“Make it clear that her behavior was—”
“No.”
Wilson stopped, didn’t have to wait long for clarification.
“My daughter will not be publicly humiliated.”
Looks were traded around the table.
Henderson pressed in. “Pastor, what we are offering is a reasonable solution that everyone—”
“My daughter will not be put on display.”
Wilson chose his words carefully. “Every day your daughter comes to this church she is on display.”
McDermott took a deep breath. He told me later that he’d almost lost it. But I guess you learn a few things about patience being a pastor all those years. “Brent,” he kept his voice calm and even. “You and I, we started this church . . . 24 years ago from a small Bible study in my home. We’ve poured our lives into it. My family has poured their lives—”
“No one here is doubting your sacrifice.”
McDermott looked around the table. “I’ve married some of you here. And your kids. Josh, we just buried your mother.” Eyes faltered, examined the top of the table. “Mary grew up in this church. You’re our family.”
Silence, except for Wilson’s quiet cough.
“No.” McDermott shook his head. “You will not make an example of my daughter. You will not shame her in front of the congregation to satisfy—”
“Your daughter has already done that,” Henderson said. “She’s already shamed herself.”
Talk about a low blow. McDermott could have easily exploded, thrown a chair or two, turned over a table. But he didn’t. Somehow, he kept it together. He never told us the rest of the story. Or how the meeting ended. But they should be grateful it was him sitting across that table and not my old man. Or me.
Later that evening, when he broke the news, when we all sat in his living room, Mary never said a word. She nodded, she briefly touched her eyes, and that was that. I didn
’t learn ‘til later that ever since middle school she’d been secretly rehearsing walking down the aisle of the church.
The news broke Mary’s heart. But not her faith.
And mine? I wasn’t sure what it did. It certainly didn’t make me a fan of church goers. And God? All I could do was ask, “Why? Why, if she was so special, if He loved her so much, why did He make things so hard?”
He never answered. At least then. And it only got worse.
Another week passed. We’d agreed to have the ceremony in the old grange hall. Same guests, same decorations, same dress . . . until the registered letter from McDermott’s denominational headquarters arrived. Brent Wilson and his band of self-righteous twits were not content to bar the wedding from the church. They used the same arguments to bar McDermott from performing the wedding:
“An embarrassment to the denomination,” the letter said. “An endorsement of sin.” But something that could, “easily be remedied if Mary would simply confess her sin, if not publically, then in an open letter to the congregation.”
That’s when McDermott hit the ceiling. He may have a longer fuse than me or Dad, but the explosion was just as intense.
He called for another family meeting—same living room, same chairs, same sofa, but with the addition of a lit powder keg. The man’s voice wasn’t any louder, but the bulging veins in his neck and the crimson red of his cheeks said things had definitely escalated.
Mrs. McDermott saw the clues, tried in vain to settle him down. “I’m sure Reverend Katzenberger, just down the street, would step in,” she said. “He’s been a friend since before Mary was born.”
“No.” His voice was ominously quiet.
“Or Dr. Cooke, we always enjoy having him—”
“No.”
“Sweetheart.” There was no missing her concerned tone. “We can’t—”
