The Thorny Path

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  * * *

  Once fed, Eldon and the baby fell asleep—Eldon in the bishop’s arms, as he couldn’t stand to see the little fellow sleeping on the hot, hard patio, and his father didn’t seem inclined to take him. Sue occupied herself by leaning her tummy over the seat of the lowest swing and walking around in circles to make the chain twist as tightly as possible so that when she released it, she pulled her knees up and twirled back to normal. The bishop hoped she wouldn’t fall. He didn’t want a lawsuit. Mallory had retreated back inside the house, her hosting efforts rebuffed.

  “So do y’all belong to a ward or branch, back in Missouri?” he asked pleasantly.

  The woman looked at her husband. “To tell you the truth, we ain’t been to church real recent. It’s hard, what with the babies and all.”

  “I can imagine,” he responded. “Are you folks converts?”

  “Yessir, that’s what we are,” Brother Lubell responded. “Only belonged to the Church for a coupla years. We just moved to Missouri, though. Joined in Arkansas.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. The Church is really growing. Where in Arkansas were you baptized?”

  “A little tiny church just outside of Fort Smith,” the husband said.

  “So, did you get to be baptized in a font, or did you have to use a swimming pool or river or such?”

  “Umm—it was in a font, in the church house.”

  “Oh, good. What was it that attracted you folks to the Church?”

  “I liked the women’s meeting,” volunteered Sister Lubell. “What’s it called?”

  “Relief Society?”

  “That’s it. I thought that was neat.”

  “And how about you, Brother?”

  “Well, the thing that always impressed me the most about the Mormons was how they—or we, I should say—look out for each other. Never let one another go hungry, for example. Kind of like you done here, today.”

  “M-hmm, the welfare program is a great thing, isn’t it? Have all your children been baptized?”

  The mother nodded. “Well, older two have been. Not the baby yet, ’cause like I say, we ain’t been too regular at Church for a while.”

  “Ah-hah. Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the changes the Church has made in recent months? For example, Sister Lubell, you’ll be glad to hear that the priesthood has been extended to worthy women.”

  “Oh, really? That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.”

  Her husband shifted his weight in the lawn chair and recrossed his legs. “Only a matter of time, I reckon, till that come about,” he remarked. “What with women’s rights and all.”

  “Exactly,” the bishop agreed, straight-faced. “Then the latest thing is, converts are allowed to choose their mode of baptism. It can be by immersion, pouring, or sprinkling. What do you think of that?”

  “S’pose it makes sense, don’t it?” the man opined. “Not ever’body wants to get all wet.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. So, I take it you folks find yourselves in a bit of a predicament, do you, moneywise?”

  Hank Lubell scratched his head. “Well, you know—travelin’ cross-country’s pretty dang expensive. Some places, you even gotta pay for air to put in your tires.”

  “That’s how it is, all right. How’s your van running?”

  “’Bout on its last legs. It overheats real easy, specially in summer weather. We run a lot at night.”

  I just bet you do, the bishop thought. “Tell you what,” he began, frowning as he tried to come to grips with what should be done. “Why don’t y’all plan to camp out here at my place tonight? You can come in and bathe, and I guarantee it’s good sleeping out here on the patio at night. Feel free to use the cushions, either on the lounges or on the floor, wherever you’re comfortable. I assume you have a carrier or bed for baby, there.”

  “We got a carrier,” the mother agreed.

  “Then first thing in the morning, we’ll go down to my grocery store and get you outfitted with enough food and ice to take you down the road a ways. And diapers and formula,” he added, nodding toward the sleeping infant.

  The two parents exchanged glances in which the bishop read both triumph and relief.

  “We thank you, sir—knew a good bishop would come through for us,” Hank said.

  The bishop nodded. “I’m sure you felt real confident in that,” he agreed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  * * *

  “ . . . To calm our doubts, to chase our fears”

  “James Dean Shepherd, you have got to be kidding me!” his wife unwittingly echoed their daughter, in a voice that warned him that she meant it. “People like that are absolute freeloaders and thieves! You can’t encourage that kind of behavior—they’ll keep it up all across the country!”

  “I know, and I’m going to try to do something about that part,” he soothed. “But the thing is, Trish, I kept thinking about that passage in the fourth chapter of Mosiah, where it tells us to impart of our substance to the poor and not turn away the beggar, even if we think he brought his problems on himself—remember that?”

  “Sure, but . . .”

  “And then I looked at those three pathetic little kids, and I knew I couldn’t just turn them away.”

  She sighed. “You’re right, you can’t. But what about using the fast offerings given by faithful members to help dishonest nonmembers? It doesn’t seem right to use Church funds that way.”

  “No, and I wasn’t planning to, although if I had to choose, I reckon I’d rather err on the side of kindness than on letter-of-the-law strictness. But I thought I’d just do a little personal giving, if it’s okay with you. A little money, and some food and ice from the store. What do you think, babe?”

  She shook her head, but smiled. “I think ‘you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.’ You’re generous to a fault, and I’m glad of it. But I’ve got to admit, I’m also glad you didn’t invite them to use the guest room. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep. I wouldn’t feel secure with them in the house.”

  “It’s a clear, beautiful summer night, and they’ll be fine out back. Way more comfortable than in their old van. They seemed okay with it.”

  “So—what’s your plan to keep them from continuing their hopscotching from ward to ward?”

  “I’ll just get out my Church directory and make calls to a few stake presidents, who can spread the word to their bishops as they choose. These folks aren’t hard to spot—they haven’t done their homework very well at all.”

  Trish shook her head. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t out there when you ran your little test on them. I’d have cracked up and ruined the whole thing!”

  He grinned. “It was hard not to—but I reckon I was caught somewhere between outrage and humor at that point, which is probably what saved me. They still don’t know they’re busted.”

  “Are you planning to tell them?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll play it by ear.”

  * * *

  “I reckon y’all’s neighbors didn’t know what to make of a slew of people sleepin’ in your backyard,” Mr. Lubell said the next morning, as Trish served his family a hot breakfast.

  “Oh? Neighbors on which side?” the bishop asked.

  “Right over yonder, where that big fence is at. Coupla women kept peekin’ over the fence when we was tryin’ to settle the young’uns down for the night. It weren’t late, but maybe we was makin’ a mite too much noise. Our Sue’s kinda loud when she don’t want to go to bed.”

  “Our Sue” chose that moment to push away her glass of milk, spilling it across the table.

  “I hate white milk. I want brown!” she said.

  “She means chocolate,” her mother explained. “She won’t drink plain milk.”

  “Well, we have some chocolate syrup,” Trish said, patiently wiping up the spill. “Will that do?”

  “I’ll mix it,” her mother said, reaching for the milk bottle and pouring another glass. “She likes it real chocola
tey.”

  “So, did the ladies next door say anything to you?” inquired the bishop in an offhand tone.

  “Nope, but the old one kept mutterin’ to herself to beat the band. Put me in mind of a mean old witch, though I reckon I shouldn’t badmouth your neighbors, and all.”

  “That’s okay. She’s just not real happy with us, right now. I’m glad she didn’t call the police.”

  Hank looked ready to jump and run. “The police! On account of you had comp’ny sleepin’ out?”

  “She’s called them on us for less. But don’t worry—if they haven’t come by now, they probably won’t. Sorry if she bothered you, though.”

  Hank Lubell laughed. “I gotta admit I felt like doin’ somethin’ real naughty, just to give ’er an eyeful, but Candy Lee here made me be good. She said no, not in a good Mormon bishop’s yard.”

  “Well, I do appreciate that,” the bishop said, nodding in Candy Lee’s direction. His appreciation was sincere.

  * * *

  “Here you go, folks,” the bishop said, as he loaded the last box of groceries into the van. “And here’s a little cash to get you down the road.”

  “We sure do thank you, sir,” Hank Lubell said, climbing behind the wheel. “It’s a great thing, to belong to a church that looks after its own, ever’where you go.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Reckon I should tell you, though, I haven’t used Church funds for any of this. This is just a friendly hand-up from me to you, because I can see you’re in need, but you and I both know you folks are not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

  “You mean Mormons? Why, sure we are! What d’you mean?”

  “No, sir. You’re not. And you’re real easy to see through, so I don’t suggest you continue trying to pass yourselves off as members. I think an honest job somewhere would be your best bet. You know, we have a scripture in our church that says that a man who doesn’t support his family is worse than an infidel. Now, whenever you’re ready to straighten up and do things right, you might want to look into attending our church, where you can learn the truth and how to live by it—and how our welfare system really works. I invite you to do that. Y’all have a good trip, now.” He slammed the door and patted it a couple of times before going back inside his market, where he took a scrap of paper from his pocket and jotted down the van’s license number.

  * * *

  “So, Dad—these people that are coming, the ones that don’t like us—what d’you think they’ll do?” Jamie asked Wednesday evening, as they sat side by side on the family room sofa, watching a video recording of the previous Sunday’s Nascar race.

  “Oh, I s’pose they’ll rant and rave and yell and say all kinds of insulting and ignorant things about us, and try to get people not to listen to our missionaries, and to think we’re some kind of weird cult instead of a real church.”

  “What’s a cult?”

  “That’s a good question. One fellow said that a cult’s just a religion that you don’t like. But usually it means a group that brainwashes its members and takes away their freedom and identity and sometimes their money and property and makes them do whatever the head man says they have to do.”

  Jamie’s face screwed up into a frown as he thought about that. “Well, our church doesn’t do that stuff, so why do they call us a cult?”

  “Because they don’t understand us very well, and they don’t believe we need a living prophet in our times. They think having one makes us a cult. They also don’t think there can be any more scriptures, except for the Bible.”

  “Why not?”

  The bishop looked at his son, whose face was turned to him instead of to the automotive excitement on the screen. This, Dad, he told himself, is one of those rare teaching moments you hear about.

  “Well, mostly, I think, because they haven’t been given any more scriptures, and they don’t have a living prophet. But some of them say it’s because in the last book of the Bible, the Book of Revelation, there’s a verse that says nobody should add to or take away from that book. They think the verse means the whole Bible, instead of the Book of Revelation, itself.”

  “Huh. But it doesn’t?”

  “No. I think it just means the book it’s written in. You see, Jamie, the thing is that the Bible’s actually a whole collection of books, written at different times, and collected into one volume over the centuries. There are still lots of different versions of it. In fact, we don’t even know that the Book of Revelation was the last one of the New Testament books to be written. It might have just ended up being put at the end of the Bible because it talks about times to come.”

  Jamie chewed on this information and turned back to the race. “Okay. Hey, look—Mark Martin’s in the lead! Cool. I really like him.”

  His father smiled. He knew, from the sports section of the paper, that Mark Martin had done very well indeed for himself in this particular race. But he wouldn’t tell his son that.

  A while later, Jamie’s active mind brought forth another question. “Dad?”

  “Yes, son?”

  “On Sunday, my Primary teacher was telling us about how the old-timey Church members got beaten up and killed and their houses burned, and they had to run away in the wintertime on the icy river and stuff. Are these guys gonna do stuff like that around here?”

  “No. We have better laws now to protect us. They wouldn’t be able to get away with such things. They’ll probably just yell and wave signs and try to get people not to believe anything we teach. But try not to worry about it, okay, James? Heavenly Father will protect us.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  They leaned back and watched the race. The father didn’t know if his son’s concerns had been adequately addressed, but he found that his own attention to his favorite sporting event was somewhat distracted. He was surprised at the extent to which Jamie had internalized the news and the threat of the expected unwelcome visitors. His mind was working the material, coming at it from different directions. Other young people in the ward were undoubtedly doing the same thing. He hoped they would ask questions of their parents, and that the answers they received would be reassuring. He looked sideways at Jamie’s close-cropped brown head, and reached out and pulled the boy close to his side. Jamie didn’t object, but leaned against him as the cars screamed round and round the track, juggling for position. Neither father nor son moved for a long time.

  * * *

  “Here’s another poison pen from Maxine, by way of Miss Hestelle,” Trish said later that evening, handing him a typewritten sheet. “Looks like she knows about the rally.”

  “Huh! She probably invited them to come here,” replied her husband, taking the paper and examining it under the dining room light. He sat at the table, with his Rhys genealogy spread before him. He had been enjoying the spirit of that work.

  “Jim—you don’t think she might really have instigated their coming here, do you?”

  “Probably not. But it’s others like her who did. Well, let’s see what she has to say.”

  “To all concerned Christians,” she had written. “The time of redemption is surely coming. Those who practice deceit will have their wickedness turned upon their own heads. You can join in the effort to expose their lies and their false religion by coming to the Rally for the True Jesus, which will be held at seven p.m. on the third of August at the Fairhaven Fair Grounds. Plan to bring your whole family to this celebration of real Christianity. All can be true Christian soldiers in this war against the menace of Mormonism! Come as individuals, come as couples, come as families, come as whole congregations! Simply come, and have your eyes fully opened regarding the river of filth and untruth that is flowing like a torrent through our community! Do not be deceived, and do not let false ideas of religious tolerance stop you from attending this important community activity. Tolerance has no place in this great fight. Evil must be eradicated. Your Christian friend.”

  “Isn’t that disgusting?” Trish remarked.r />
  “Actually, she’s a pretty good persuasive writer,” her husband replied. “Governor Lilburn Boggs would’ve loved her.”

  “She’s a person after his own heart, that’s for sure. I keep wondering how many people are persuaded by this stuff. And how many read it. I’m sure she must hand these out at her church, whichever one it is, as well as here in the neighborhood. And, for all we know, in other neighborhoods, too.”

  He nodded. “You almost have to admire her for being so proactive in a cause she really believes in.”

  “I know. She obviously truly believes this is a way of serving the Lord.”

  “Well, the missionaries have a saying they often use—‘It’s not enough to be sincere. You also need to be right.’”

  “I’ve heard that. And I’ve never seen a better example of misguided sincerity.”

  * * *

  The bishop took Chuck Stagley aside in a quiet moment at work.

  “How’re things going for you, Chuck?” he inquired. “You’re sure doing a good job for us.”

  “Thanks, Jim. Or, I reckon I should say, Bishop.”

  “Jim’s fine. Answered to it all my life. How are you coming with the missionary discussions?”

  Chuck smiled. “Real good. They’re fine young fellows, ain’t they? I look forward to every visit with ’em. And I gotta tell you—I been readin’ the Book of Mormon, and I don’t care what anybody says, it wadn’t no ordinary uneducated guy like me that wrote that! Parts of it are real deep, and you can just feel it’s right and true.”

  The bishop felt a thrill of joy and testimony run through him. “That’s exactly how I feel about it, Chuck, and I’m glad you see it that way, too.”

  “I hatn’t never thought much about angels comin’ to earth, and God talkin’ to people face to face, but the way the elders explain it, it makes sense that it needed to happen. I’ll tell you one thing—I do believe it would’ve come to a young boy like that Joseph Smith, if it come to anybody. It likely would’ve been harder to convince an older man, somebody already trained and steeped in his church’s view of things, you know? I figger the Lord needed a fresh, young mind to train up in his way.”