Ties That Bind

by Marie Bostwick

  “Seed money?” Wendy asked. “What do you mean seed money?”

  “Well,” Alma said, “the money from Waldo’s bequest, together with the money we would get selling our current organ, perhaps another ten thousand, would just be the down payment. A truly grand pipe organ, of the sort I have in mind and which I’m sure Waldo would want us to have, costs upward of one hundred thousand dollars, probably closer to two. But this initial investment would be a grand start to our capital campaign ….”

  I didn’t really hear much of what Alma said after that. That two-hundred-thousand-dollar figure she tossed out sort of rang in my ears, shutting out all other sound. Even some of the choir members looked stunned.

  Needless to say, the purchase of a new pipe organ was quickly eliminated from the list. However, a motion was made and passed to give our current organ a tune-up and fix one of the sticky draws. Everyone seemed satisfied with this solution, even Alma. Ted returned to the microphone to discuss his plan for bringing the Sunday services of New Bern Community Church to the airwaves.

  I looked at Philippa, wondering what she thought of Ted’s proposal, but her expression gave nothing away. In fact, with her elbow resting on the arm of her chair and her chin resting on her hand, her eyes closed, unmoving except for an occasional shallow nod of her head, she appeared to be deep in prayerful thought.

  “A thing like this could be a wonderful outreach to the community,” he said, pumping his fist for emphasis. “And think what a help and comfort it would be for the elderly and shut-ins of our congregation if they could simply turn on their televisions to attend church. This is a forward-thinking—”

  Ted wasn’t finished speaking, but Miranda stood up and interrupted him.

  “Excuse me, but I don’t see who we’d be helping. We already have a CD and tape ministry for people who are too ill or infirm to attend services. We send recordings to more than a dozen people every week. It seems to be working perfectly well, and the program costs less than five hundred dollars per year, whereas what you’re proposing would cost tens of thousands. To what end? There are already radio and public access broadcasts available from several churches in the area. What’s the point in adding our congregation to an already crowded bench?”

  Ted, who had been listening to Miranda’s objections with barely disguised irritation, leaned forward and put his mouth right next to the microphone. “The point!” he said, inadvertently popping his “P” so loudly that everyone, including Philippa, whose eyes were still closed in prayer, jumped. Ted moved slightly back from the microphone, cleared his throat, and tried again.

  “Ahem. The point is that people may find something here that they have not found in those other congregations. Wait just a minute, Miranda,” he said, holding up one hand to stave off another interruption. “I’m not suggesting we suddenly start competing with other congregations, but this church has been a thriving part of the town of New Bern since before it was a town! I’d like to see it continue to grow and thrive. And it seems to me that a TV and radio show could help us do that. If people hear or see us on the airwaves, they’ll be that much more likely to come visit in person—”

  Miranda, whose right foot had been twitching during Ted’s entire speech, couldn’t hold back any longer.

  “Or not!” she cried. She pushed past me into the center aisle and stood facing Ted with her feet planted apart and her hands on her hips. “I talked to one of my Lutheran friends, and she told me that the whole TV and radio thing has been a wash at best for them. Yes, they have attracted a few new people who came after they saw the broadcasts, but they also lost a few people. Some of the people who used to come to services in person, including a few formerly active members, stopped attending when they realized they could just watch the whole thing from the comfort of their living room while drinking coffee and eating waffles in their pajamas.

  “If somebody actually can’t get to church because they are physically unable to do so, then watching a broadcast is the next best thing. But, Ted! Church isn’t a spectator sport! We’re supposed to be here, serving, supporting, and learning from God and each other. Loving our neighbors as ourselves!”

  While she spoke, Miranda had moved slowly down the aisle, nearer to Ted and the front. Now she turned to face the congregation, her eyes flaming and her hands spread wide. I leaned closer, anxious to hear what she had to say. So did everyone else.

  “We have a chance to do that with this money. And isn’t that what church is supposed to be?” she asked, her voice building in volume and intensity as she went on. “We’re a community! A family! Let’s start acting like one!”

  When she finished, she pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees, facing Ted, who stood there with his hands dangling at his sides, clearly in shock.

  What had come over Miranda? The mild-mannered, hand-raising elementary school teacher expressed herself with a passion and fire that would have done a tent revival preacher proud and a message that was difficult to dispute.

  Ted shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his shoes. After a long moment, he looked up and addressed the crowd.

  “You know, it’s never fun admitting you’re wrong, but I hope I’m man enough to recognize it when it’s true. Miranda is right. There are bigger needs and better ways for us to use this money. I’m going to withdraw my proposal to buy broadcasting equipment. Assuming,” he said, turning to the right so he could see Philippa, “that our minister agrees with my assessment.”

  The room was silent. All eyes turned to Philippa, who was sitting in the exact same position, with her chin resting on her hand and her eyes closed, as she had been for the last several minutes. We waited.

  Her chest was rising and falling in a slow, constant rhythm, but she didn’t move. Ted, looking a bit alarmed, walked over to her chair, laid his hand on her shoulder, and gave her a little shake. “Reverend Clarkson? Reverend?”

  Her head fell forward and her chin thumped against her chest. The crowd gasped; I think they were afraid they’d driven yet another minister to death’s door. Philippa’s head jerked up and back as if attached to a spring. Her eyes flew wide open and she blinked a few times, as though she was having a hard time bringing the room into focus.

  Ted dropped to his knees next to her chair and started slapping her hand, as if trying to bring her back to consciousness. “Philippa? Philippa? Are you all right?”

  She looked at Ted, then the crowd, then at Ted again. “Yes, yes. I’m fine. I just …” She shifted in her seat, still sounding a bit groggy. “I guess I just fell asleep.”

  Ted drew back, affronted, got to his feet, and stared down at her. “You fell asleep. In the middle of an important meeting of the entire church, you fell asleep?”

  Philippa, suddenly much more awake, exclaimed, “No, no!” and lifted her hands as if she were trying to wave off a swarm of flies. “It’s not what you think! I’m not sick or anything. I’m just pregnant.”

  There was another collective gasp, and then a murmur as two hundred heads turned toward the back of the room and stared at Paul Collier.

  He had a very guilty look on his face.

  47

  Philippa

  “I’m just pregnant.”

  If you want to silence an entire room full of people, be an unmarried minister and say those three words out loud.

  If I hadn’t been so groggy and been woken so abruptly, I would never have blurted it out that way. The congregation was in shock, and I could understand why. What I didn’t understand was why everyone was staring at poor Paul Collier. Neither did Paul.

  When all those pairs of eyes turned toward him, Paul turned around to see who everyone was staring at. When he realized there was no one sitting behind him he blushed right to the tips of his ears, ducked his head, and pulled on the end of his nose.

  I coughed. Two hundred heads snapped forward in one movement and two hundred pairs of eyes stared at me. That’s when the lightbulb went on. Somehow, for reasons I could not be
gin to fathom, everyone in that room had gotten the notion that Paul was the father of my unborn child. Where in the world would they get such an idea?

  I got up, pushed past Ted, and stood at the microphone, looking straight at the crowd, moving my gaze from left to right and back, pausing to peer into individual faces, some shocked, some confused, some accusing.

  “I think I need to clarify a couple of things.” I pulled the microphone out of the stand and held it in my hand so I could descend the steps in front of the altar, moving closer to the crowd.

  “As most of you know, I am a widow. When he was diagnosed with colon cancer, my husband, Tim, decided to have his sperm frozen before undergoing chemotherapy. We had always intended to have children together, so this seemed like a wise idea to both of us. At the time, we believed that Tim would recover and, eventually, we would be able to go on and live the lives we’d always planned to live, having a family and growing old together.”

  I paused for a moment, lifting my eyes to the ceiling and blinking. I wanted to get through this without losing my composure.

  “When it became apparent that my husband was not going to recover, he urged me carry on with our plans and undergo artificial insemination treatments after his death. For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. However, a couple of years ago, I decided to begin the treatments, as my husband had wanted. By that time, this was what I wanted too—very, very much.

  “As you can imagine, I was very excited about the prospect of having a child. Before he died, Tim had said that he considered the possibility of us having a baby together the ‘chance of a lifetime’ and I agreed one hundred percent.”

  I stopped again, just to give myself a moment, and saw Sara Pierce, a woman a few years younger than me, whom I didn’t know very well but who I knew was childless. There were tears in her eyes and in the eyes of her husband, Tom, as well. He put his arm over Sara’s shoulders. As she leaned close to him, resting her head in the crook of his arm, and looked up at him with a teary smile, I remembered something one of my seminary professors had said: “Most people are in way more pain than anybody knows.” So true.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed a silent prayer of blessing on Sara and Tom Pierce before going on.

  “Though I tried many times, the treatments didn’t work. My doctors could find no reason for this and so I began to wonder if motherhood simply was not part of God’s plan for my life. After much thought and prayer, I determined to undergo a certain number of treatments and then, if I was still unable to conceive, to accept that as God’s will and go on with my life.

  “In December, I underwent a final fertility treatment. I knew this would be my last chance at that chance of a lifetime Tim had spoken of, but after so many trials and disappointments, I was resigned, sure that this attempt would fail too.

  “Soon after, as you know, I received a very important phone call.” I smiled, remembering all the emotions that had washed over me when I’d heard the news that I was being called to my first pulpit—elation, excitement, anxiety, humility, and back to elation again. “The days between receiving the call and arriving in New Bern to serve this church, as well as the weeks following, were so busy I didn’t have time to think about that final treatment.

  “Coming here, getting to know all of you,” I said, looking out to Margot Matthews, and Miranda Wyatt, and Paul Collier, and these many, many faces that had become so familiar and dear to me in such a short time, “was, and continues to be, an incredible blessing. I could not imagine asking for more. And so I was caught completely by surprise when I discovered that last treatment had worked and that after all those years, I was pregnant.”

  At this there was a smattering of applause and a few sniffles as people wiped their eyes with the backs of their hands or tissues they’d pulled from their pockets. Even through tears, every face was smiling.

  I swiped at the tears in my own eyes and laughed. “I’m pregnant!” I said again, because it felt so good to hear the words aloud at last. The congregation laughed with me and there was more applause, louder this time, and from every corner of the room.

  When the applause died down, I went on to explain my reasons for keeping my condition secret, how I had been bursting at the seams to share the news and how glad I was to be able to tell them at last. Everyone seemed to understand, and nothing more was said about my falling asleep in the meeting.

  Miranda Wyatt raised her hand and Ted yielded the floor to her.

  “This is such wonderful news, Reverend Clarkson. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we all want to do whatever we can to support you during your pregnancy.” Miranda turned slightly, addressing her comments to the group.

  “When I was pregnant with Mark, my oldest, I could barely summon the energy to sweep the floor or make dinner. I think it’s just terrible that our own minister didn’t want to tell us she was pregnant because she was afraid that we’d think of replacing her if we knew ….”

  “Now, Miranda, I didn’t say that.”

  “Maybe you didn’t say it, but I’m sure you were thinking it. I just think we expect too much from our ministers. Look what happened to Reverend Tucker. And now here you are, working ten-, twelve-, even fourteen-hour days.” She made a tsk-ing noise. “I just don’t think that can be good for the baby.”

  Wendy Perkins, who was one of the first church members whose faces I was able to recognize and remember because she wore rhinestone-encrusted reading glasses with wingtips so shiny and pointy that they reminded me of the tail fins on an old Cadillac, bobbed her head so that light from the ceiling bounced off the rhinestones and danced against the wall like reflections from a mirror ball.

  “I couldn’t agree more. Why, when I was expecting my Ruthie, I could barely lift my head off the pillow for the first six months!”

  More heads bobbed as other women in the group nodded their understanding and a murmur arose as ladies turned to their seat-mates and began whispering fascinating tales of the trials of their own pregnancies.

  The nausea! The weakness! The emotions! The fatigue! Oh, poor Reverend Clarkson. A widow alone in the world! And look how hard she has been working. Tsk-tsk! Who knows what kind of effect that might have on this poor unborn child!

  The murmurs rose in number and volume until it sounded like a gaggle of geese had invaded the church. Ted, who seemed to have no clue as to how he had lost control of the meeting or how to regain it, dropped his arms to his side, looked at me, and shrugged.

  I tapped on the microphone with my index finger, trying to get everyone’s attention, but it didn’t work; they went right on talking to each other. I briefly considered sticking my fingers in my mouth and letting out one of the ear-piercing whistles I used to call Clementine, but remembering where we were, decided against it. Instead, I began clapping my hands, loudly but methodically, until one by one, the group settled down and only Wendy Perkins was still talking to her nearest neighbor, Betty Pringle.

  “And you should have seen my feet! Swollen like coconuts they were! But would my husband lift a finger to help? No. Even then, he was the most worthless, inconsiderate—”

  Betty hissed and gave her a nudge in the ribs. Wendy looked up, startled. “Oh. Sorry about that. Go ahead, Pastor.”

  “I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me. Or the baby.”

  Miranda, who had kept to her feet throughout the uproar and was still standing, shifted her gaze to Ted and said, very sweetly, “I’d like to hear what the president of our board thinks about this. Ted?”

  And that was the end of our discussion about Waldo’s legacy, at least for that evening. Ted told the story of his late wife’s four pregnancies and how he’d helped with the housework when she was too tired to clean and taken over the meal preparation when she was too nauseous to cook, a story greeted with more smiles from Miranda and nodded approval from the women. The men, I noticed, were less enamored of Ted’s story. A few even r
olled their eyes, but Ted didn’t notice. I don’t think he noticed anybody besides Miranda.

  And somehow, this led to a discussion of helping our neighbors as ourselves. The next thing I knew people were volunteering to help with hospital and shut-in visitations, edging and weeding the flower beds, and editing the church bulletins and newspapers. Barbara Stadler, a retired accountant, said she’d take the job of church treasurer, a position we’d been trying to fill for months. And Jim Demming volunteered to lead the discussions of the Early Bird Bible Study so I didn’t have to get up at five o’clock on Wednesdays.

  It felt odd, having all these people step up to do things I had been doing up until then, things I had been hired to do, and I worried that Miranda had manipulated the situation. But as I was sitting and watching all this play out, a conversation, not a voice, more an impression, came to my mind, one I had not put there myself.

  This isn’t Miranda’s doing. Did you really think it was? Have you ever heard her speak so forcefully before? Rest now. You weren’t brought here to do everything for them, but help them learn to do for each other. They need this. Be still.

  When the meeting was done, I was encircled by well-wishers offering hugs and congratulations. Sara and Tom Pierce were among the first, which touched me so. I know how hard it is to be happy for someone who is expecting when your own expectations have been dashed again and again. I covered Sara’s hand with both of mine when I thanked her. Tom’s arm was over her shoulders as they walked away, and I could see him patting her.

  Evelyn, Virginia, Margot, and Charlie came up to me in a clump, beaming.

  “Aren’t you the sneaky one?” Virginia said. “And to think I actually bought that story about you only being able to take class in the mornings.”

  “Wonderful news,” Charlie said and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Tomorrow, I’m going to make a batch of chicken soup and bring it to the parsonage. Just the thing if you’re feeling under the weather.”