Falling for Grace

by Robert Farrell Smith

  “Sister Cravitz, I’m honored, but—”

  “Trust, you’re a sharp-looking man. I’ve always thought that. I can’t say that I’m giddy about all your choices, but I’m well aware of how handsome you’ve become.”

  I hadn’t thought I could become any more uncomfortable.

  “Grace and I—” I attempted to say.

  “I know,” she said soberly. “Things aren’t the best for you and her. So that’s where that liberty I took comes in. I e-mailed my sister back in Georgia, and she’s going to see about getting me a picture of Cindy for you. I know, I know, it seems mighty shallow to swap pictures, but you can’t be too careful these days. Did you see who Margaret Chad married?”

  “Actually, I did, I—”

  “Well, I suppose he’s got really nice insides. Anyhow, I don’t have a single picture of Cindy past the age of twelve, and honestly, Trust, she didn’t bloom until at least three years after that. I could have sworn I had a picture of her in a sweater and poodle skirt, but my sister tells me I’m getting Cindy mixed up with pictures of myself when I was a girl.”

  “Oh.” Dear merciful me.

  “My sister says she’ll get me a current picture of Cindy,” Sister Cravitz went on. “Who knows, there might be one in the mail as we speak. In turn, however, Cindy needs a picture of you.”

  “Really, Sister Cravitz,” I tried to inform, “Grace and I are doing great. I’d hate to get this Cindy involved when I’m already committed to someone else. Do you see what I mean?”

  “So, do you have a picture?”

  I don’t know what I was more bothered by, the fact that Sister Cravitz wasn’t listening to me, or the fact that she thought me to be the kind of person who carried around a picture of myself.

  “I don’t,” I answered.

  “No big deal,” she scowled. “I brought my camera.”

  From her huge handbag, Sister Cravitz pulled out the oldest-looking camera I had ever seen. It had a giant lens and an accordion-like body that seemed to blend with the folds of her old hands. On top of it was a big row of square flash bulbs.

  “Stand up against the building and I’ll snap a couple of you.”

  “Sister—”

  “Trust,” she scolded. “Let’s make things happen.”

  “But I need to get inside.”

  “It will only take a moment,” she insisted. “We’ve got a good five minutes before church starts.”

  “Actually,” I insisted, “I’m teaching gospel doctrine today and I wanted to set up the room before sacrament meeting.”

  “Set up your room? With what?” She called my bluff.

  “Um, I was going to see if the library had a tablecloth or something.”

  Sister Cravitz eyed me suspiciously.

  “They’ve got two of them,” she said. “Donated them both myself. I must say it’s sort of refreshing to see a man take the time to pretty up a room. Doctrine sits much easier when there’s a homey feeling about.”

  “Isn’t it the truth,” I agreed, slipping away and into the building.

  Sister Cravitz followed me in. I began heading straight for the chapel before she informed me that the library was the other way. I begrudgingly went to the library and checked out one of Sister Cravitz’s tablecloths. I ran to my classroom and threw the tablecloth over the table. Then I hurried into the chapel. I took a seat by Grace just as the prelude music stopped.

  “I missed you,” Grace said kindly.

  My sweater was working its magic.

  Sacrament meeting was rather uneventful. Brother Jack talked about gospel hobbies, and how we Saints would be best to avoid them altogether. He then went into great detail about how he had mapped out the stars and made timelines of all prophecy dealing with the last days. His conclusion was that Noah Taylor’s December seventeenth date was off by maybe two weeks, give or take a day.

  I had noticed that Noah was not around this morning. I knew that he visited other wards, and had even been peddling his services to some of the other denominations in town. I figured he was simply off doing the fraud thing. My thoughts of him continued to mellow. Sure, he was a two-faced phony, and yes, this December seventeenth thing was made up, but at least he was getting our ward prepared. I’d have to hope that a few wrongs would make this all right.

  After sacrament meeting everyone drifted off to their classes, flowing down the halls like leaves in a crowded gutter. Grace came with me and took a front row seat in the classroom where I would be teaching. I wrote a couple of things on the chalkboard as people continued to stream through the doors and fill up the room. By the time I turned around, we had a full class. I stood there in relative amazement. I had thought that most people would avoid my classroom when they saw that it was me teaching. Instead it was like a feeding frenzy. The smell of blood had drawn a nice-sized crowd. Even Doran was there; he had taken a seat right next to Grace. He and she exchanged a few words as Brother Morose looked at his watch and coughed, calling attention to the fact that I was running two minutes late.

  “Good morning,” I began. “When I got the call to teach this morning I was excited to find out that we would be covering Alma, chapter 32. So if you would all . . .”

  Brother Morose raised his hand.

  “Yes,” I responded.

  “Usually we begin class with a prayer, Trust,” he said as if he were auditioning for the part of an undertaker.

  “Of course,” I apologized. “Sister Barns, would you mind?”

  She obviously did, looking visibly upset about me picking her. Of course she really had no choice but to say yes. If she said no everyone would be forced to spend the entire class period wondering just what she had done to prevent her from praying. So rather than suffer the wondering imaginations of her fellow classmates, she stood and prayed.

  “Amen,” the class said in unison.

  “Thank you, Sister Barns,” I nodded. “Now if everyone would please open their scriptures to Alma, chapter 32.”

  People pulled out their scriptures and opened them as if they were presents they had received from a cheap aunt. I could tell this was going to be one enthusiastic class period.

  “Before we begin,” I started, “could I get those of you who have already read the lesson to please raise your hands?”

  Three arms went up. I acted like I was okay with this, counting the three hands slowly to make it seem like they were more.

  “All right, Brother O’Shawn,” I asked. “Could I please get you to tell the class what the definition of faith is?”

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I think what Alma is trying to say in this chapter is that if you lose sight of the Savior, your vision, or your spiritual eyes as it may, becomes blinded. Making us less than our Father expects.”

  “Okay,” I replied, suddenly remembering why Brother O’Shawn was never called on in class. “So the definition of faith is . . . ?”

  “I’m not sure you can put a definition on it,” Sister Treat replied for him, trying to sound intellectual.

  “Actually, you . . .”

  Sister Cravitz’s hand went up.

  “Yes,” I motioned.

  “Would it be possible for you to remove your sweater?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Your sweater,” she insisted. “I just don’t think your skin will photograph well against it.”

  “Really, Sister Cravitz, I’m not sure this is the appropriate—”

  “Faith is believing in something not seen,” Brother Morose spoke out.

  “Thank you,” I sighed. “Believing in something unseen. Sister Luke, will you read verse 28 for us?”

  “Can I say something first?”

  “All right,” I nervously agreed.

  “I don’t know if many of you remember Richard Dot. He was in this ward about ten years ago. Tall, sold trampolines, kept gum in his pockets for the Primary children.”

  A number of heads nodded.

  “Well, he used to tell
that story about that father in the manhole.”

  “I remember,” a few members said.

  “I’m not great at retelling other people’s tales, but the story was about a father who was down in a manhole fixing or cleaning something. And I guess his little daughter came to visit him one day. She was delivering a message, or just stopping by. Well, either way, when she looked down the hole all she could see was pitch, dark, black darkness. Close your eyes,” Sister Luke instructed us.

  Everybody except Grace and me quickly closed their lids. We used the sudden privacy to make eyes at one another.

  “Imagine a darkness ten times stronger,” Sister Luke continued. “Now open your eyes.”

  Everyone opened and blinked like blind men receiving sight.

  “Well,” Sister Luke went on. “This girl’s father told her to jump down into the manhole and he would catch her. Remember, she couldn’t see him. Then this little girl . . .” Sister Luke paused to find a Kleenex in her purse. Unable to locate one, she settled for a crumpled grocery store receipt. She dabbed her moist eyes. “I’m sorry, but this part just kills me.”

  She was not alone.

  “Anyhow,” she continued. “This little girl just jumps down and her father catches her. Blind faith, Brother Williams, blind faith.”

  Brother Rothburn raised his hand and I pointed toward him.

  “If you don’t plant a mustard seed, you can crush it to make mustard.”

  I wasn’t sure where that had come from. Luckily no one was really listening anyway.

  “Thank you, Brother Rothburn, and thank you, Sister Luke. I think that’s a great example of faith,” I said with less than complete honesty.

  “Wait a second, Brother Williams,” Sister Leen said, coming to life. “Why would a caring father ask his young daughter to jump in a deep dark hole?”

  “I think it’s just an analogy.”

  “Well, it’s a poor one,” Sister Leen huffed. “Besides, what kind of work does a man do down in a manhole? The one in the alley behind us is filthy and infested with cockroaches.”

  “I hate to say it, but this warm winter’s not going to help that,” Brother Rothburn commented.

  “I think the point is,” Sister Luke defended her story, “often we have to take spiritual leaps into dark places.”

  “I thought God was a God of light,” Brother Treat said.

  “I have been reading this book by a Mark Lemon,” Brother O’Shawn began talking. “In it he tells about how this life is all just a giant computer program and we all are a virus. I find that very interesting, and not entirely contrary to doctrine.”

  “Is Mark Lemon one of the General Authorities?” Sister Leen asked.

  “No,” Brother O’Shawn replied. “Actually, he’s not a member at all. But if you remember, the thirteenth article of faith talks about us seeking after all good in all things.”

  “That doesn’t sound good to me,” she said.

  “Well, in context it’s—”

  “Sister Luke,” I interrupted. “Would you please read verses 30 through 33,” I motioned, desperately trying to bring the lesson back on track.

  Sister Luke begrudgingly read the verses. Then we all sat there in silence for a moment. I raised my finger as if to make a point and was temporarily blinded by the flash of Sister Cravitz’s antique camera. A giant blue dot now hovered above everything I saw. Old Sister Timmons looked normal, but everyone else had suddenly aged.

  “Sister Cravitz,” I began to protest.

  “I think it’s an interesting use of the word ‘the’ in verse 28,” Brother Morose interrupted, backtracking just a bit and speaking louder than I felt was necessary. “‘The’ can mean so many things, but Alma clearly meant it to say ‘the word.’ Not ‘a word,’ not ‘thee word,’ not just ‘word,’ but ‘the word.’”

  My word.

  “Interesting observation,” I commented. “I think that every word in the scriptures actually can—”

  Sister Cravitz shot picture number two. I held my hand in front of my face, trying to will my sight back.

  “Don’t mind me,” Sister Cravitz said.

  It was too late for that.

  “Let’s read the next couple of verses,” I said, discouraged about how poorly my lesson was going. “Who would like to read?”

  Sister Cravitz raised her hand.

  “Please,” I acknowledged.

  “Actually, I just wanted you to move over in front of the chalkboard more, those curtains behind you seem to wash you out.”

  “Please, no more pictures,” I pleaded.

  Sister Cravitz snapped one more.

  “Okay,” she then agreed.

  I caught Grace smiling, and suddenly it wasn’t all that bad.

  “Grace, will you read verse 34?” I asked.

  Grace did so.

  “And 35?”

  She did.

  “And 36?”

  “Brother Williams, I advise that you break up the reading,” Brother Morose scolded. “People lose interest if they are not involved.”

  “Sister Laramie, would you please read verse 36?”

  Janet Laramie read the verse and then told a short, unrelated story about a niece of hers that had recently had such a hard time finding a modest prom dress.

  “Thanks,” I sighed. “We’re running out of time and I wanted to get the main point of this chapter across. And that is that Alma wasn’t . . .”

  Brother Rothburn raised his hand. I hung my head, realizing that now I would never be able to make my point.

  “Yes,” I said in defeat.

  Brother Rothburn stood up, indicating that he had more to say than the circulation in his sitting legs would allow. “When the Saints assembled in the Kirtland Temple, most people thought that they had achieved Zion. But as we all know, Zion was far from established. I’ve got a cousin that moved to Missouri just so that he could be ready—”

  “Brother Rothburn,” I interrupted. “Since you’re standing, would you mind giving us a closing prayer?”

  “Not at all,” he said, having been properly tricked.

  Ten minutes later class was dismissed.

  “So?” I asked Grace after the room had emptied.

  “You did great,” she replied affectionately.

  “I used to think the branch in Thelma’s Way was so weird,” I remembered as I put my things into my bag. “Brother Rothburn’s almost as bad as Jerry Scotch.”

  “I don’t know,” Grace debated. “I just think that time has faded your memory.”

  “I’m sorry about what I did to Noah,” I apologized as we walked out together.

  “I know,” she replied. “You just don’t know him.”

  “I know he’s not telling the truth.”

  Grace was quiet. We parted ways in front of the foyer bulletin board. Grace went off to Relief Society, and I stood around to read what was posted. There was a fireside coming up on manners, taught by a Dr. David Nuckols. There would be a stake choir retreat in two weeks at the Dintmore Lodge. Members were encouraged to bring both their voices and spouses. And, of course, there was a large piece of orange poster board encouraging folks to get prepared before the seventeenth. In big letters on top of the poster it said, “Those prepared will be spared.”

  By the time I had finished reading all the posted information, priesthood had already begun. Not wanting to interrupt, or at least trying to make myself believe that was the reason, I stepped outside to enjoy the beautiful day. I walked down the side of the building and sat down next to a big tree that was growing by a row of bushes. The sun smashed through the leaves above, making me look cracked and broken. The large park across from the church was filled with people playing and acting as if Sunday were Saturday. A couple kites flew low in the thin December sky. I was just beginning to feel guilty about not going to priesthood when a pair of hands came up behind me and covered my eyes.

  “Guess who?” the voice said, the inflection letting me know it was Leonard
.

  “Leonard.”

  “Not so loud,” he whispered.

  I turned around to see Leonard Vastly. He looked like I had last seen him, except now he had what appeared to be magnets strapped all over his body. He was crouched down behind the tree and leaning into the bushes. He had on a hat and dark clothing so as to be less obvious.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I came to talk to you,” he said softly, wincing ever so subtly.

  “What’s with all the magnets?”

  “This Bio-Doom isn’t exactly a moneymaker,” he said. “I’m looking into a few business opportunities.”

  “Magnets?”

  “Multilevel magnets. They help balance out your electrolytes,” he said as if rehearsed. “These on my ankles help firm up my skin. The ones on my forearms are actually rearranging the molecules in my hands to make me stronger. How about you, Trust, have you noticed a lack of energy in your life lately?”

  “I’m not buying any of your magnets, Leonard.”

  “They’re your electrolytes,” he said, as if I were condemning myself to poor physical health by not taking him seriously. “I’ll leave you with this,” he offered. “These magnets have changed my life. I can’t imagine . . .”

  Leonard paused and then pulled a pamphlet from out of his shirt pocket. I could see him read a line to himself, trying to remember what to say. He pressed a hand to his head as if in pain.

  “I can’t imagine a pain-free day without them,” he finally finished.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, noticing that he was wincing quite a bit.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said bravely. “It’s just a little headache.”

  “Did you take some aspirin?”

  “Phhheww,” Leonard scoffed. “Aspirin is so passé. I’ve got a four-pound magnet in my hat. That’ll cure it.”

  I tried not to smile.

  “So, did you come to sell me magnets?” I asked.

  “Nope, I did some checking on this Noah Taylor.”