Queen Bee Goes Home Again

by Haywood Smith

  A light went on in Miss Mamie’s kitchen, and I saw her beginning to make her usual Easter luncheon feast, as she had every year since Daddy had come back from the war. My stomach growled in anticipation of homemade biscuits and cinnamon rolls, sliced melons, Georgia Belle peaches, cheese-egg soufflé, strawberry flan, tons of crisp bacon, sliced ham, sawmill and redeye gravy, and grits that melted in your mouth. But that wouldn’t be ready till one, after church.

  So I dressed warmly in jeans, winter boots, and a heavy white cotton sweater under my purple windbreaker, then poured myself a second mugful of coffee for the trip and set out for the lake, doing my best to absorb the peace of this special morning.

  I was only the fifth person to arrive at the simple pavilion on the little hill overlooking the marina, but the view from there was gorgeous: the marina, then the lake, dotted with islands, then the black, lacy silhouettes of trees against the now-crimson horizon.

  As the minutes passed, thirty more people came in from the marina on foot, and a few more in cars, but there was no sign of a minister. So we all watched the sun rise together with a quiet sense of reverence.

  I thanked God for pouring as much of Himself into a human body as it could hold, then walking among us as the Christ, and I praised the beauty and intricacy of His creation.

  Particularly in space. When I got to heaven, where there is no time, I planned to ask God if I could take an eon or so to cruise the universe and witness all the wonders of His hand, then come back and serve Him forever. I’m convinced He’ll let me.

  Fifteen minutes late, the young minister arrived, his plastic nametag identifying him as Bob, associate pastor at a splinter denomination’s huge church in Oakwood.

  His flustered apologies seemed loud and raucous after the cooperative silence, so I prayed for him to relax and focus.

  Then I sat on a bench to hear his Easter message, but Connor had spoiled me. I expected something wonderful and hopeful and inspiring, but got only recited Bible readings about the Resurrection. No application, bless his heart. Clearly, this young man of God was nervous standing before us.

  I prayed again for God’s peace on him, then did my best to take something from hearing the familiar words of Christ’s Resurrection in the King James version. But I couldn’t help thinking about Connor and what he would say at First Baptist.

  Then I brought myself up short. Holy cow. I was being just as judgmental about that poor young minister as the old biddies in Connor’s church were about me.

  Judge not that ye be not judged, in spades.

  I hadn’t made it to seven before I’d messed up. Sorry, God. I don’t want to think like that. Help me mind my own little red wagon and keep my eyes on You.

  He, more than anyone, knew I couldn’t do it on my own.

  I sensed an affectionate shake of the Godhead.

  After the brief service dismissed, I shook the young minister’s hand and thanked him for volunteering, then headed home for breakfast.

  Mama must have seen me coming, because she’d laid out two plates on the kitchen table, with soft-scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, buttery grits with just the right texture (not dry, not runny), and two fresh biscuits with a side of homemade blackberry jam. And coffee with semisweet chocolate morsels added to the grounds. I could smell the faint hint of chocolaty sweetness rising from the pot.

  “Wow, Mama. That looks perfect, as usual.”

  She plopped down beside me with a satisfied sigh. “Tommy’s asked three people to lunch, so I decided to make fresh dinner rolls. They’re rising now.”

  Yum. An appropriate choice, considering the day.

  Sitting there, I decided it might do Connor some good to stew a bit. “Will you help hook me into that cutwork dress when I change for the eleven o’clock service?” I asked Miss Mamie. “You won’t have to leave the kitchen. I’ll come over here.”

  “I thought you were going to the nine-thirty,” she responded.

  “I changed my mind,” I told her with my best duchess face. “Let him wonder where I am for a change.”

  Mama got it immediately. “Great idea. Won’t hurt to have him see what that feels like.” She dabbed her mouth with her damask napkin. “I think that white dress will be perfect. I told you when you bought it, you look gorgeous in it. Just like an angel.”

  Back in 1980 when I’d seen Somewhere in Time with my ALTA tennis group in Buckhead, I’d looked for the closest thing I could find to Jane Seymour’s white dress in the movie, right down to the white stockings, hat, and shoes, because Phil and I had been invited to a high tea and croquet party given by one of his wealthy clients.

  When I’d modeled the outfit for Phil ahead of time, he’d frowned and said I looked ridiculous, then ordered me to take it off and find something more conventional. “The nail that sticks up always gets hit,” he’d chided (one of his favorite Japanese sayings). So I’d worn a pale pink silk suit and white silk camisole, instead.

  But I’d kept the Somewhere in Time dress and hat for all these years, knowing that the day would come when I’d have the perfect occasion to wear it, and this was the day.

  I indulged as much as I dared in breakfast, then rolled from my seat to go put on my face and my fancy white dress and hat for the eleven o’clock service at First Baptist.

  I even rummaged up my skin-colored body shaper and French bra for underneath.

  This time when I walked into that church, I wanted to attract attention. I wanted to look like an angel for Connor, no matter what the congregation thought. Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.

  Sixty-four

  My arrival at First Baptist stirred a flutter of whispers behind hands and overt stares as the nine-thirty congregation came down the front stairs on their way to the parking lot.

  Before, I’d have been mortified, but not today. Today was my turn to start over and rise from the ashes of my past, and the more who knew it, the better.

  I smiled and nodded to everyone.

  A little girl broke loose from her mother and ran to touch my skirt. “Are you real?” she asked with the candor of her age. “Because Mama says people aren’t angels, but you sure look like one.”

  I crouched to her level and gave her a hug. “Mama’s right. I’m not an angel, but I sure do like this dress.”

  “Is a dress a getup, because that’s what Mama called it,” she told me as her red-faced mother caught up with us.

  I rose and extended my hand. “Hi. I’m Linwood Scott. You sure have a darling daughter, here. She remembers every word you say.”

  The woman colored even deeper as she shook my hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Forgive and be free.

  I smiled. “It’s okay.”

  At the top of the stairs, I kept smiling and nodded to the slightly frozen greeter, then accepted the service bulletin. After only a brief arrow prayer, I braved the sanctuary, where more whispers and stares greeted me. Wherever I made eye contact, I smiled and nodded, remembering that Christ’s people were still just people, with all the same flaws and weaknesses I shared.

  Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.

  I still needed plenty of forgiveness, so how could I refuse to forgive them?

  Something huge and humble broke loose inside me, and I began to see them as Connor did when he looked at his congregation. And suddenly, I wasn’t afraid to be a minister’s wife anymore.

  Assuming I’d ever get the chance, which was a big assumption.

  As I had on New Year’s Eve, I went down to the first row, left, and took the first seat from the aisle, staking my claim.

  The low hum of conversation behind me swelled, then cut short as the organist signaled the start of the service when Connor and the minister of music mounted the front platform.

  The minister of music greeted everyone, then asked us to stand as Connor took his place beside the altar, facing the congregation. And me.

  I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. He p
eered at me as if I were a dream of Glory.

  Yes, yes, yes. Even though I was an old woman, my dress and hat had done their job. Along with my underpinnings. Halleluiah!

  We all started singing “Christ Our Lord Is Risen Today” (one of my favorites), but Connor remained transfixed. Then the choir sang a beautiful Easter special about being renewed.

  While they did, Connor bowed his head, and I could see from his expression, he was struggling to shift his concentration to the upcoming message.

  When we’d all finished the praise choruses, the minister of music motioned for us to sit, and Connor came to the pulpit, his eyes filled with compassion for those who faced him. “Praise be to God, for on the first Easter Day, our Lord and Savior defeated death and rose again.”

  Applause and amens erupted behind me.

  “So what do we do with this gift?” he challenged. “We who have given our hearts to Him so that we may take our cares directly to the holy God who made us? Do we use it as a license to sin? Paul said no, in most emphatic terms. Yet many of us do. We judge others instead of forgiving. We sin and fall short. We fail to forgive ourselves when we see the error of our ways. Yet Christ has covered all our sins with His sacrifice.”

  I could see he was homed in on his message, and what a message it was.

  “The best part of being a Christian is that we can start every day anew, as if we, too, have risen from the dead, as long as we sincerely repent our shortcomings and want to grow closer to God.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes I make it till nine A.M. before I need to repent. Sometimes, my feet don’t hit the floor before I have to say, ‘Oops, God. Sorry about that,’ and start over.

  “But the message of this day is that those of us who have given our lives and hearts to Christ can start over, as many times as it takes, without having to drag the guilt of our past shortcomings with us.”

  He scanned the rows. “As Dickens depicted with Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol, our past mistakes can be a heavy burden till we release them to God through Christ. Once we sincerely turn away from our wrongs—no matter how many times it takes—we no longer have to bear the weight of those chains.”

  The choir—to a person—listened, intent. As for the rest of the congregation, I was glad I was sitting in the first row, or I’d have been tempted to look around to see how they were taking this gentle admonition. God knew that I needed to hear it as much as anyone.

  “So criticism about past failures,” Connor went on, “our own or other people’s, has no place in the Christian life. We don’t have to beat ourselves up for failures that are over and done with.

  “Turn from them? Yes.

  “Learn from them? Yes.

  “Use them to remind us of a better way? Yes.

  “Our own shortcomings and those of fellow Christians.” He leaned forward, cupping his ear to the congregation as a signal that he expected a response. “Does it say anywhere in scripture that we’re allowed to stuff our resentments into a grudge box and nurse them?”

  The congregation responded with a halfhearted, “No.”

  “No!” he echoed with zeal. “What are we to do when someone—Christian or not—despitefully uses us?”

  He waited, but no one responded at first. So he waited some more.

  At last, one of the deacons said, “Pray for them!”

  Connor cupped his ear again. “We all pray for those who love us. But how often do we pray for those who do us wrong? Praying for the people we have every right to hate, my brothers and sisters, is the mark of a Christian.”

  He looked over the congregation with affection. “Can you let go of your grudges and surrender them to God so you can rise anew every morning without dragging those with you?”

  I didn’t think I had any grudges. Except for Connor. And Phil. And my human biology teacher.

  So I’m human, all right? I’ll pray for them, I promise.

  Connor went on, telling us how we could turn away from our shortcomings and start clean every day, confirming every step with scripture. By the end of the sermon, a fresh energy and resolve pulsed through the congregation.

  As always when I heard a wonderful sermon, I thought, God, maybe between the two of us, we can do this.

  Connor paused, then said, “The ushers are now going to pass among you for the offering. If you are visiting and have been blessed this day, we invite you to come back. Our arms and our hearts are always open to those who seek God.”

  While the choir sang and the ushers passed the plates, I pondered Connor’s message, and chewed on the idea that I really could leave the past behind and start anew every day. Even without Connor.

  When the collection special was done, Connor returned to the pulpit to give the altar call, during which I pondered again.

  But I came to abruptly when I heard him say my name.

  “A blessed Christian woman whose friendship”—uh-oh, friendship?—“I cherish, and whose faith leaves me in awe,” Connor said, eyes on me. “I hope you will all welcome her back and cherish her as I have.”

  A spark of mischief flashed in his eyes. “Lin, would you please come down front to allow us to welcome you back after the service?”

  Had he lost his freaking mind?

  The shock on my face twisted to an outraged glare witnessed only by the choir, some of whom smiled with glee.

  What nerve! I hadn’t told him I was going to come back to the Baptists!

  Anger set my face on fire.

  Pray for those who despitefully use you.

  Okay. God, please open the skies and show that man what he just did to me.

  Connor’s ambush was every bit as bad as what the old preacher had done: singled me out as a prodigal.

  Behind me, the biddies muttered, shushed by Mary Lou, God bless her, but I was strong enough now to know that their problems with me were theirs, not mine.

  God, I know I’m supposed to forgive him for this, but this stunt is going to take some serious time. I’m just being honest, here. And while we’re being honest, I cannot fathom why You would let this happen.

  God held His peace.

  A quote from Corrie ten Boom came to mind: “Every experience God gives us, every person He puts into our lives, is the perfect preparation for a future only He can see.”

  Okay, then. I forgive him, I grudgingly prayed as an act of obedience, but my humanity wanted to haul off and kayo Connor Allen in front of the whole congregation.

  Not a good idea, the still, small voice said. Let it go.

  As if!

  He’d used me, without even asking.

  God’s thought-voice in my head spoke with authority. Let it go. I know the plans I have for you. Let it go.

  Still boiling, I had no choice but to obey, so I started reciting Bible verses in my head to clear the anger while the deacons welcomed six people who’d come down the aisle. All of them beaming about their decisions, they turned to face the congregation as we sang the final hymn, “Arise My Soul, Arise.”

  Connor said the benediction, then came straight for me, taking my hand and drawing me toward the four men and two women who’d professed their faith in Christ.

  Fortunately, I’d managed in the meantime to hide my fury behind my inner duchess.

  As the congregation rose and lined up to greet us all, Connor whispered softly, “You are the bravest woman I’ve ever met to do this. Looking like an angel, I might add.”

  I leaned close to his ear. “When I get you alone,” I said through a fixed smile, “I am going to kill your ass.”

  Connor pulled back in surprise. “Why?”

  Idiot man. He was just a man, as Granny had warned me.

  “If you have to ask, you are too clueless to live,” I murmured through my smile.

  Flummoxed, Connor turned his attention to greeting each congregant by name. When the reluctant biddies came through, he gently asked each of them to welcome me. If they remained stiff, he prodded with a grin, “Now, is that the best you can
do?”

  Of their group, only Mary Lou embraced me with kindness, prompting some of the others to relent. But more remained erect and said that it was the best they could do, then stomped off.

  Happily, though, the great majority of the congregation was warm in welcoming me.

  At least I knew that most of them were glad to see me. But I still wanted to do mayhem about what Connor had done.

  After everyone had come through the line, Connor removed his plain black robe and offered his hand. “May I walk back with you? Tommy invited me to your mother’s famous Easter brunch.”

  Seeing him reach for my hand, a few stragglers zeroed in on me, so I continued the outward charade of calm, ignoring his gesture. “Sure,” I murmured, “as long as you do not touch me in any way.”

  Again, he frowned at my hostility. “Why are you so angry?”

  “Because you are so unaware of how you just used me.” I sailed out, down the steps, then onto the sidewalk with him scrambling to catch up.

  Strolling ahead of Connor, I greeted all I saw, then nodded and smiled at the cars that passed us and waved.

  By the time we neared my house, I had calmed down enough to wonder who else Tommy had invited. Probably someone from the program who didn’t have any family here. He often invited those.

  Whoever it was, I was glad. I could talk to them instead of Connor.

  We reached 1431 Green Street, now adorned by red tulips in the wretched bathtub, tons of daffodils in the lawn, and budding azaleas.

  Before we stepped onto the graveled drive, Connor stopped and took it all in. “What a beautiful home you grew up in.”

  Trying to see it with new eyes, I admired it myself. “Yep.”

  When I started forward, Connor remained on the sidewalk, as if he didn’t want to go in.

  I turned to face him squarely with a hostile, “What?”

  He glanced at his feet, then back to me with apology on his face. “You deserve an answer from me, one way or the other, but I still don’t have one.”

  So what else was new? I started for the house, prompting him to catch up and walk beside me.

  “You said God had made us for each other,” I challenged as we headed for the front stairs. “Do you think He’s changed His mind?”