Blessings of Mossy Creek

by Debra Dixon

  “I thought you’d know by now that Mondays are always taken.”

  “So are Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays . . . I thought I finally had an undisturbed evening to cook a nice meal. I’m happy to do my job as the minister’s wife, but I’d like to practice the ‘wife’ part with you a little more often.”

  Now, I’m usually pretty hardheaded, but that was one time I knew I had to tread carefully. “I’m sorry. Can we talk about this later? I have about fifteen minutes before I leave. I barely have time to eat.” I sat and grabbed the cloth napkin she’d folded into some sort of bird. She’d been hanging out with Josie McClure, Mossy Creek’s origami-napkin queen.

  “Fifteen minutes for a gourmet meal. Fine. I hope you choke on it.” She rushed out of the room, tears running down her face.

  I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew this was about more than hurriedly eaten chicken cordon bleu. I followed my distraught wife and found her angled across our bed, the covers all bunched up as if she’d thrown herself there. Her sobs cinched the knot in my gut tighter.

  “What is it, honey?”

  “You’re never here.”

  “I know. It’s the nature of my job. You knew that when you married me.”

  “No I didn’t. You were supposed to preach on Sundays and do weddings every now and then.”

  “And I’m going to be Bishop someday, too.” I rubbed her ankle. “What’s really bothering you?”

  As she reached for a Kleenex on the bedside table and gave a totally useless dainty blow, I sat beside her. “Go on. Give it a real blow. Then tell me what’s got you so upset.”

  She followed orders, then her pale face colored in embarrassment at the loud sound she’d made. She drew in a deep, quivering breath. “It’s Mal Rhett.”

  I’d realized one rushed meal couldn’t be the real issue, but the leap to Mal Rhett was a long one. “Honey, I may be slow to follow sometimes, but you’ve lost me on this one.”

  In a near whisper, she said, “She’s been calling around. Comparing you to the old pastor.”

  “That’s bound to happen when someone new comes in.”

  “No. She’s asking questions. Apparently, she’s been comparing our electric bill and water usage to the other family. She seems to think we’re wasteful.”

  “Wasteful?”

  “According to her, we’re not good stewards of our natural resources.”

  “And the person who told you this is . . . ?”

  “It’s just the talk going around. I don’t know where it originated.”

  “Don’t people have better things to do than keep tabs on the new pastor’s family?”

  “This is a small town, Mark,” she said as if that were a logical explanation.

  “Why on earth would any of this matter to Mal Rhett? The utilities are all coming out of our paycheck. It’s not like the church is paying.”

  With a pained look on her face — almost like shame — she glanced down at the wadded tissue in her hands. “I think it’s my fault that she’s being so nosy. The truth is, she doesn’t trust me to manage the utilities.”

  My breath expanded my ribcage. I had the ridiculous urge to beat my chest like some kind of gorilla. How dare someone hurt Amelia? “Of course she likes you. Everyone likes you.”

  That seemed to give her strength. Or at least a little starch in her spine. “I got ugly with her the other day. She hasn’t forgiven me.”

  “What could she possibly need to forgive you for?”

  “Promise you’ll forgive me once you hear what I’ve done?”

  I wasn’t so sure I liked the sound of that. A suspicious gleam in her eye gave me further pause. Hopefully my normally sweet-tempered wife hadn’t shortened my tenure in Mossy Creek. I nodded.

  “I called her a stingy, meddling, gossipmonger.”

  “You what?”

  With what could almost be considered a smirk, Amelia said, “You heard me right.”

  “Not to her face.”

  “I’m afraid so. I couldn’t let her talk about you behind our backs.”

  I laughed, and it rang loud in the tiny bedroom. Stingy, meddling was the truth. I couldn’t fault Amelia for telling the truth. “Is gossipmonger even a real word?”

  She swatted at my arm. “Quit trying to make light of it, because I haven’t told you the worst yet.”

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll appreciate the fact that she mistook an Italian proverb as Scripture.”

  “Which proverb?”

  Amelia flopped back onto the pillow and grinned at the ceiling. “You know the one I have posted on the side of my computer monitor? ‘He who sows thorns should not go barefoot.’”

  “Mal Rhett thinks that’s in the Bible?”

  “She started flipping through the big Bible she keeps in her giant suede organizer. Honey, the woman’s Bible has an alligator skin cover. I swear to you. Alligator skin. Anyway, I told her to let me know when she found that proverb and I walked away — head held high, I might add.”

  I ran a hand over my chin, trying to imagine the next time I would see Mal. Or worse, the next time Amelia would see her. “What a mess.”

  “I know. It’s unforgivable. But I had just found out Mal called the former pastor and asked what temperature he had kept the thermostat set on.”

  I watched as she grabbed a bottle of hand lotion off the nightstand, pumped one squirt and rubbed her hands together, never once cracking a smile. “You’re serious,” I said.

  “Of course I am. I don’t think I could dream up something so off-the-wall to kid about.”

  We’d already noticed Mal passing our house slowly a few times in the evenings. Apparently, checking on our usage of electricity. It made me want to turn on every light in the house and let them burn all night, just to send her off the deep end.

  Instead, somehow, I would have to smooth the feathers of that stingy, meddling gossipmonger, yet at the same time get her off our backs. I could deal with Mal, though. I figured every church had at least one of her type. But I refused to let her make Amelia’s life miserable. Besides, if I wanted to spend my whole paycheck on kilowatts of energy, it was no business of hers.

  “You’d think with a successful business, she’d have better things to do,” I said. “Of course, I’ve heard the rumors of her sister cheating assistants out of decorating awards.”

  Maybe the Purla sisters are just all-around sneaks. Or maybe Mal only wanted to get credit for saving the environment.

  “So what do you think we should do?” asked my overly-protective wife.

  “We could always send you to tell her off again. Maybe you’d scare her out of town this time.”

  “I would love to. But I’m afraid we’d be packing our belongings before they’re even all out of boxes. Then again, we could invite Mal over just to drive her crazy. When she visited that first time — what, two days after we’d moved in? — she had the nerve to say she was surprised — meaning appalled — that I hadn’t finished the unpacking yet.”

  That got my blood boiling. “Maybe I really should send you. I might not be very polite.”

  “Let’s give it some time. Surely she’ll get tired of meddling.”

  “No, I’m more determined than ever to demand that we handle our own bills. I’ll take it to the next finance committee meeting.”

  “Do you think they’ll change church policy?”

  “We won’t know until we try.”

  “Then I want to go to the meeting, too. I want to be sure they know what that woman has been doing. How she has tried to ruin your good name in the community.”

  Amelia wanted to fit in, to make her place in society. It’s what she’d grown up thinking was important. I wouldn’t let Mal Rhett mess that up for her. “You come if you want to speak your mind.” I smiled at my brave wife. “As long as you don’t call her names. Or quote proverbs you saw on the wall of an Italian restaurant.”

  She crisscrossed her hand ove
r her heart, but the wicked twinkle in her eye cancelled the solemn gesture. “On my honor, I’ll behave.”

  I called the church to say I couldn’t make the meeting that night. Amelia and I spent the rest of our rare evening at home in peace and quiet. As I was turning off the lights for the night, I happened to see Amelia’s Bible open on the table. Two yellow-highlighted passages in Matthew popped out at me:

  Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing . . . and can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?

  The thought of Amelia worrying about food and clothes made the ache in my stomach multiply tenfold. The fact that she’d had to find comfort in Scripture proved my worry that she was dissatisfied with our life. With the move to Mossy Creek.

  With me.

  At least I didn’t hear any sobbing or sniffles in bed that night. I pulled her into my arms, and her breathing became deeper, more even. “You know,” I whispered, “Mossy Creek is just another step up the ladder. Someday we’ll be at that big church you dream of. And I’ll make enough money to support a family. And you’ll have some of the nice things you’re used to.”

  She made a little laughing sound, half asleep, half awake. “And get rid of our purple and gold van?”

  “You bet.”

  “And have five kids?” she mumbled.

  “If we can afford that many.”

  “How about just one? Sooner. Not later.”

  The suggestion jolted me wide awake. “Once we’re able to save a little money.”

  “You said that at the last church.”

  “And I only got a five-hundred dollar raise moving here. That won’t even pay the obstetrician’s fee.”

  “This is about more than just money, Mark.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m simply not willing to add kids to the picture when we hardly make ends meet.”

  “We do fine. Please think about it.”

  Fine? She’d been relegated to driving a 1987 Dodge Colt Vista, for heaven’s sake. Forget designer clothes and real jewelry.

  I sighed and pulled her closer, tucking her head under my chin. “Okay, Amelia. I’ll think about it. But I’m not going to change my mind anytime soon.”

  A few minutes later, she scooted to her side of the bed. “It’s hot. We should turn down the thermostat.”

  Not long after, when she was so still I thought she was asleep, and the only sound was that of the whirring furnace, I heard a little sniff.

  I’d failed her again. I hadn’t protected her from Mal Purla Rhett’s insults. And I still couldn’t give her the quality things she was used to.

  How could I ever live up to her ideals?

  * * * *

  I waited for the date of the finance meeting to roll around. Mal remained blessedly quiet. Life was good. Church attendance had increased, too. Regular members seemed surprised to see Foxer Atlas, who hadn’t been to church since his wife Ellie died. I was also pleased to see Maggie Hart, since I’d heard the Unitarians were wooing her. Since Maggie was Mossy Creek’s resident new-age flower child, I’d better darn well impress her with my sermons. So far, so good. And where Maggie went, Tag Garner could be found. I enjoyed seeing the middle-aged, ex-pro-linebacker-turned-sculptor sitting in the front pew, his graying hair pulled back in a thick ponytail, the blue streak making an artistically manful statement. Or something.

  A few members complimented my preaching, but only with vague comments such as appreciated the sermon, or enjoyed the message. And who could figure out I’ll be digesting that one all this week? Did that mean it was thought provoking? Or that it gave them indigestion?

  Mayor Walker, a Baptist, came by after the service one Sunday. She said, “Tell me if I’m correct. Your theme was that God wants to save everyone, even those in hell. I’m not sure I totally agree, but you made your point well.”

  “Well now, Mayor, you’re the type of listener who keeps a pastor on his toes. You got the theme exactly right. I appreciate you listening.”

  “I hear you and Amelia are going to have an open house. Excellent idea. That’s always good PR.”

  The open house was a done deal. Amelia had made up her mind to follow Mal’s advice. “Yes. I hope you can make it.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” She leaned in a little closer. “Just a word of advice. Make sure Amelia personally invites all the Mossy Creek Garden Club. Plus the Mossy Creek Social Society. Not just the ones who are members of your church. Believe me, Amelia doesn’t want to slight them.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  She waved as she walked away.

  “Nice preaching today, Preacher,” Amelia said from behind as she wrapped her arms around my waist.

  I turned to face her. “You think so?”

  She smiled and, for a second, gave me The Look. It was fleeting, but it was enough to hang my hopes on for the moment.

  “Are you happy here?” I asked without thinking.

  Her smile faltered, and I wished like anything I hadn’t let the question slip.

  “I’m learning to like it,” she said diplomatically. “Once we get you-know-who’s nose out of our business, I think we’ll be okay.”

  “Not just okay. I want you happy.”

  “I’m still a little lonely. That’ll take time.”

  “I just heard you announced an open house. That’s a start. I know how you love to throw parties.”

  “Yes. I decided during Sunday School this morning.”

  “You need to make some personal friends, though. How about —”

  “Just this morning I made a lunch date with someone. I have a feeling she’s going to be that special friend that God always provides.”

  Considering I took Amelia from a lifetime lived in one house to a life of being uprooted every few years, Amelia was a trooper. But for the first time, I began to doubt the wisdom of becoming a pastor. What if Amelia wasn’t cut out for this kind of life? What if making new friends each time we moved wasn’t enough?

  “Come on, let’s go home,” she said.

  “Before I forget, the mayor says to invite all members of the garden club and social society to the open house.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve heard some of those women aren’t real crazy about your liberal preaching.” Her eyes sparkled, teasing me like old times.

  “Maybe I’ll convert them before then.”

  There it was again. The Look. “You probably could.”

  As long as she looked at me that way, I imagined I could do anything.

  * * * *

  Before we knew it, the day of the open house had arrived. Amelia was in the kitchen taking hors d’oeuvres out of the oven, and I was putting the vacuum cleaner back in the closet as the doorbell rang.

  Amelia appeared in the doorway from the kitchen and smoothed her dress. She was so beautiful it still took my breath away. Sometimes I wondered how she could look twice at a working-class boy like me. I’d grown up in a small house in suburban Atlanta with a dad who did factory work. He and my mom worked hard to send me to college and seminary. They loved me and were proud of me.

  Amelia was from an old-money Nashville family who lived alongside country-music stars in one of those mansions in the Bellemeade area. Her family was society-conscious and about had a fit when she took me home to meet them. But she stood up to her mother and daddy and married me anyway.

  With her long dark hair and chocolate brown eyes, she looked exactly like her mother. But the likeness stopped there. Amelia was warm and loving. She was funny, sensitive, generous.

  The doorbell rang again.

  She smiled at me.

  “Do you think we should answer it? Or should we ignore them and eat all the food ourselves?”

  “I didn’t do all this work for nothing.”

  She kissed my cheek, then wiped the lipstick off. “Thank you for helping me. I could
n’t have done it without you.”

  With a warm buzz flowing through me, I answered the door. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Mal Purla Rhett and five of the most humorless matrons in town.

  I resisted the urge to slam the door in Mal’s face. After the things she’d said, I couldn’t believe she had the gall to come to our party.

  Poor Amelia. Why did these six have to be the first to show up?

  For my wife’s sake, I bit my tongue. “Welcome, ladies. Come in.”

  Mal nodded her greeting. “Reverend.” Then she headed straight toward Amelia. I almost followed, but the first woman, a skinny blue-hair who wore a silver cross lapel pin, came in and grabbed my hand.

  “I haven’t met you yet, Pastor. I’m Adele Clearwater,” she said in a grating voice. “And these are some of the members of the Mossy Creek Social Society. In case you haven’t heard, the society is a non-denominational prayer group and political action committee. We consider it our calling to support issues of ethics and morality in Mossy Creek. Most of us are also charter members of the Mossy Creek Garden Club. We believe people reap what they sow.”

  As each old lady marched past and introduced herself, I asked where she attended church. A couple of the ladies belonged to Mt. Gilead. Then I realized Adele Clearwater hadn’t mentioned her home church.

  “Ms. Clearwater, you didn’t mention where you’re a member.”

  The room quieted, except for Amelia, who was chatting with an ancient red-haired gnome named Eustene Oscar.

  Adele harrumphed. Or maybe she was just clearing her throat. “I see you haven’t looked at the roll of Mt. Gilead since you got here.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance.”

  “Well, I’m officially a member. But I’ve been going to the First Baptist Church of Mossy Creek for forty-five years.”

  There was a story there somewhere, but since everyone looked uncomfortable with the topic, I decided to let it drop for now. “You ladies help yourselves to refreshments in the kitchen. Have a look around and see what Amelia’s done with the parsonage.”

  As I was about to close the door, Foxer Atlas walked slowly up the front path, leaning heavily on a cane. “Hello, Mr. Atlas. Come on in.”