Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  I walked in without knocking, closed the door behind me, and strode up to Norma, who was sitting at her desk. Unhappily, when Pastor Ledbetter retired, she had not.

  “Norma, I need to see the pastor.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her eyes barely flicking up toward me before returning to the paper on her desk.

  “No, I do not, as you well know, since you make the appointments. But I know he’s here because his car is parked in his reserved space. This is important, Norma, tell him I’m here.”

  She blew out a long breath, then very deliberately put down her pencil, got up and walked to the door of the pastor’s office, went in, and closed it behind her.

  I was boiling at the rudeness of a paid employee. I knew what was going on behind that closed door. As Pastor Rucker was so new to our congregation, Norma would be giving him a summary of who I was, how much I gave to the church, and her own assessment of my standing in the community. And I knew what she thought of me—pretty much the same as I thought of her.

  Finally, Norma returned, walked slowly to her desk, and took her seat, carefully smoothing her skirt behind her before settling in.

  “He’s very busy,” she said, “but he can see you for a few minutes. You might note, Miss Julia, that he tries to be available to the members’ concerns. Even,” she said with a sniff, “if they are minor ones blown out of proportion.”

  “Norma,” I said, so angered that I could barely control my voice, “I do hope that you have a good retirement plan, because you’re going to need it.”

  Then I walked into the pastor’s office, closed the door behind me, and quickly took note of the room. It was pretty much the same as when Pastor Ledbetter had occupied it, but I had noticed on the budget an item for refurbishment of the pastor’s study. I made a mental note to specifically designate my pledge for items of which I approved. And refurbishing the pastor’s personal space was not one of them. The room was perfectly fine. In no way was it worn or soiled, and the only reason to redo it would be to change the color scheme. As far as I was concerned, Pastor Rucker could live with it as it was. There is absolutely nothing wrong with beige.

  “Pastor,” I said, approaching the large mahogany desk, “I am Julia Springer Murdoch.”

  “Ah, yes, of course I know who you are.” He stood behind the desk, looking shorter and younger than he did when he was in the pulpit. His fine, sandy hair was meticulously combed, and perhaps gelled to stay that way. “Please, have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  He reseated himself before I could move one of the visitors’ chairs closer to the desk.

  “Pastor,” I said, “I’ve just read the article in today’s paper and I am appalled to learn that our church and you, yourself, are supporting this group of newcomers to our town in their ill-advised project of housing latent juvenile delinquents in a stable neighborhood. And not only is it a stable neighborhood, it’s a neighborhood in which some members of our congregation live who have small children. I would like to know by whose authority you have done such a thing.”

  “Why, Miss Julia,” he said with a condescending smile, “I’ve done it by the authority of our Lord. ‘Let the litle children come unto me,’ you know.”

  That almost stopped me, but not quite. “I take that to mean that the session has not approved it. Is that correct?”

  “Well,” he said with a smile, “they will. Fact of the matter, though, I’ve discussed it with two or three of the elders and they’re most supportive. I’ll be presenting the total program at the regular session meeting next week.”

  “So you’ve discussed it with a few elders, but not with any of our members who will be directly affected. I am speaking of the Pickens family, Mrs. Helen Stroud, and Sam and myself—all members of this church and all directly affected by the close proximity of that house and its problematic inhabitants.”

  “Miss Julia,” the pastor said with a small sigh, “we must all be willing to sacrifice for others. Although I am sure that the house will be well run and that the children in it well supervised. You need have no worries.

  “Now,” he said, scooting his chair closer to the desk as if he had a point he wanted to make, “since you are here, there is something I’d like to discuss with you. I am selecting several members to represent us on a relocation committee which has been formed by several like-minded churches. Would you be interested in doing that?”

  “Relocation? Of whom and to where?” Then suddenly I understood. “Oh, you mean to relocate the Homes for Teens? Yes, indeed, I would be delighted to help find a more suitable place.”

  He turned his head and with a condescending smile said, “No, that isn’t what I have in mind. We, and I’m sure I can include you and Sam in this, are most concerned about the displaced people in the war-torn areas of the world. An active and highly committed ecumenical group is making plans to accept a few of those families to relocate here in Abbot County.”

  I was too stunned to answer immediately, but finally managed to ask, “Displaced Christians?”

  “Oh, Miss Julia,” he said, shaking his head as if disappointed in my response. “We mustn’t judge people on the basis of their faith.”

  “Isn’t that what’s being done to Christians?”

  He discounted my question with an abrupt shake of his head. “But it’s not our way to do something simply because someone else does it. Now, I would love to continue our conversation, but I’m due to make a hospital visit. Please think over what I’ve said, and remember, Miss Julia, we must ask ourselves in all situations this one important question: What would Jesus do?”

  And he ushered me, temporarily speechless, out the door.

  By the time I got to the sidewalk I was boiling. Not only was he foisting junior criminals on us, he intended to settle among us foreign refugees who probably believed that ecumenical cooperation involved beheading unbelievers—which was one way of getting a consensus.

  And, I fumed, the nerve of the man, quoting Scripture to me and referring to Jesus, neither being frequently mentioned from the pulpit. Almost unfailingly, Pastor Rucker took the texts, illustrations, and examples in his sermons from some movie he’d seen.

  I was beside myself.

  Chapter 7

  The house was quiet that evening, as it usually was with just the two of us, Lloyd and me, there. With Sam gone for a few weeks, it was a comfort to have the boy in the house. Not only was he good company, he helped fill my empty hours. Lillian had left earlier, leaving the kitchen spotless, as she always did, and Lloyd was upstairs doing homework.

  I was sitting in the library tracing Sam’s itinerary on a map of Europe that he’d left so I would know where he was and what he was seeing each day. If I was following the list of his stops accurately, he would be visiting the stunning cathedral of Chartres with its rose window the next day. I knew he would be thrilled to see it, and I was glad that he had taken the trip, even though his absence left me at loose ends.

  The television was on, turned low now that the news hour had passed, and good riddance, I thought. Not one report had been the least bit edifying. In fact, just the opposite, each report only confirmed Sam’s stated conviction that the world was going to hell in a handbasket.

  At the sound of Lloyd’s huge sneakers clomping down the stairs, I put aside my gloomy thoughts and anticipated a talk with him.

  “Miss Julia?” he said from the doorway of the library. “Want some ice cream? I’m having some.”

  “No, I think not, but thank you for asking. Come back and talk with me a little.”

  “Okay.”

  I heard the freezer door open in the kitchen and the clank of spoon and bowl as he dipped out ice cream. In a few minutes he wandered back into the library, holding a cereal bowl full of rocky road in one hand and a spoon in the other.

  “Man, this is good,” he said, licking
the spoon. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing in particular. How’s school going?”

  “Pretty good. Same old, same old, you know.”

  It was obvious that he wasn’t in a talkative mood, so I couldn’t steer a conversation that didn’t exist around to what I wanted to talk about. So I just asked him straight out.

  “Lloyd, I have come up against a spiritual problem.”

  His head jerked up from his ice cream bowl as he stared at me. “A spiritual problem?”

  “Yes, and I’d like to hear your thoughts on the subject. What do you think Jesus would do if He lived in Abbotsville and somebody asked Him to help bring foreign refugees to this country and settle them here in our town? And keep in mind that these people are in pitiful condition and truly need help, but that they are also highly unlikely to want to blend in with the neighborhood. Taking all of that into account, do you know what Jesus would do? Or what He’d want us to do?”

  “Oh, sure,” Lloyd said, scraping the bowl with his spoon, not at all thrown by the question. “He’s already told us. Remember the parable of the Good Samaritan? There’s the answer. You sure you don’t want some ice cream?”

  “No, thanks,” I murmured, taken aback both by his knowledge and by his confidence in that knowledge.

  “I’m gonna have a little more, then go to bed. Have to get to school early to help Freddie Pruitt with algebra before class.”

  “Sleep well, honey.”

  As soon as I heard him climb the stairs, I made a beeline for the Bible—the one with the concordance in the back—on Sam’s desk and looked up the parable.

  I had to read it three times before the meaning as it related to my current situation dawned on me. Then I closed the book, murmuring, “Thank you, Lloyd, and you, too, Jesus,” and went upstairs to bed with a lighter step. I wasn’t as heartless as Pastor Rucker seemed to think I was.

  * * *

  —

  On the dot of ten the next morning, I phoned the church and waited for Norma to answer.

  “Norma, it’s Julia Murdoch. I need five minutes with the pastor this morning, and I’m doing you a favor by calling before coming over since it’s difficult for you to adapt to unscheduled visitors.”

  “He’s very busy today,” she said, stalling, as she usually did. “I’m not sure—”

  “Norma,” I said, exerting great patience, “he asked me a question, so I assume he wants an answer. That’s why I want five measly minutes of his time—so I can give him what he wants.”

  “In that case,” she said in that sullen way of hers, “you might as well come on.”

  So I did, marching into Norma’s office confident of being able to put that little snip of a preacher in his place. Then I had to wait while she went through her routine of announcing my presence and waving me in.

  “Well, Miss Julia,” Pastor Rucker said, rising from the executive chair that almost swallowed him, “how nice to see you again. I hope this visit means that you’ve changed your mind about serving on the relocation committee.”

  “Sorry to dash your hopes, Pastor,” I said, breezily. “My visit today is to answer the question you posed relating to the placement of displaced persons. I will admit that it distressed me until I found the answer, but I’m here to give it to you. I must say, though, I am quite surprised that you don’t already know it, being so scripturally well read as you must be—seeing that you’ve been to seminary and all.”

  A slight frown appeared between his fair eyebrows, looking somewhat incongruous with the smile on his mouth. “The answer to what question?”

  “The one you asked to sidetrack me from my main concern, namely, the inappropriate location of that nonprofit home for the homeless. Mind you, I said location, not relocation. And as for my participation on that relocation committee you brought up—no, thank you. And I’d advise you not to take part in it yourself.”

  “Why, Miss Julia, I’m both surprised and deeply disappointed.”

  “Don’t be. I am doing exactly what Jesus would do, just as you posed in that question to me yesterday. Listen, Pastor,” I said, putting my hands on the edge of his desk and leaning forward so he would get the full message. “All you have to do is read the parable of the Good Samaritan, which I’m sure you already have a dozen times or more.” I wasn’t at all sure of that, but I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Take note of what that kindly Samaritan did. First of all, the wounded man lying on the side of the road was, I think we’re safe in assuming, an Israelite, and therefore an enemy of the Samaritans. See how already the parable speaks to our current situation? But notice what the Samaritan does: he binds up the man’s wounds, administers oil and wine, then takes him to an inn for something like hospice care. The Samaritan pays in advance for that care, but tells the innkeeper that if more is needed, he will reimburse him on his return journey. Then the Samaritan goes about his business. That is what Jesus tells us we should do. But most important, please take note of what Jesus does not mention. He does not say that the Samaritan took the wounded man into his own home, and He does not say that He made the wounded man his next-door neighbor.

  “So,” I said, standing upright, “there’s your answer. We most assuredly should see to the wounds and the continuing care of those displaced persons you’re concerned about by sending aid and comfort to them. But nowhere in that parable do I see any indication that we’re obliged to take potential enemies to our bosom, that is, to relocate them in Abbotsville.

  “And,” I continued, “to put my money where my mouth is, I will match any funds you can raise in order to purchase bandages, oil, and wine—or their modern equivalent—to send to them, but I will not lift one finger to bring them here. And I am confident that that is what Jesus would have us do because He’s given us an example to follow, and He’s seen to it that I have the wherewithal with which to do it.”

  For a second I thought I had left him speechless, but he rallied. “Miss Julia, Miss Julia,” he said, shaking his head as if in disappointment, “you must know that we cannot take everything in Scripture literally.”

  “What? You mean that we can pick and choose what we want to believe and discard the rest? Every man—or woman, as the case may be—for themselves? No, Pastor, it seems as if that’s what we’re already doing and look where it’s gotten us.

  “Now,” I said, ready to turn for the door, “I’ve given you the answer you asked for, but you haven’t given me what I’ve asked for. Forget, for a few minutes, the plight of foreign refugees, and think of the plight of some members of your own congregation. Pastor, I would like you to use your influence to convince Madge Taylor that the house she’s chosen is unsuitable for her purpose, and that she should look elsewhere.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, still smiling, although it was getting a little wobbly.

  “Then our attorney will,” I said, and, my head held so high that I almost tripped on my way out, I took my leave.

  Chapter 8

  Pastor Rucker had almost detoured me by bringing up a problem I hadn’t known we’d had. But I had cogently explained my position to him, backed it up with Scripture, and no longer expected to hear another word about a relocation committee.

  So by the next morning I was back to concentrating on ousting Madge before she became fully embedded next door to Hazel Marie. To that end, I sat down and wrote a well-thought-out, dispassionate letter to the pastor, intending him to pass it along to the session. In it I laid out the case against the choice of the Cochran house in clear and lucid language, so that anyone with any sense at all would readily agree with my conclusion—namely, that the Homes for Teens belonged somewhere else.

  Then I took it to the post office and mailed it, feeling that I had done what needed to be done. By that time, the day had warmed considerably, in spite of the calendar, resulting in one of those beautiful aut
umn afternoons with a clear, blue sky and leaves turned golden in the sunlight. A perfect afternoon for a formal—more or less—visit.

  I had phoned Binkie earlier to report on my conversation with Pastor Rucker and also to get a progress report from her.

  “Miss Julia,” she’d said, “these things take time. You mustn’t expect a quick resolution. I’m checking the requirements of the type of group home they’re planning, and I’m drafting a letter to this Ms. Taylor pointing out exactly where they don’t meet those requirements.”

  “My word, Binkie, don’t do that! You’ll give them a blueprint of what they have to do. We don’t want them to meet the requirements.”

  “No, don’t worry about that,” she’d said with just a touch of impatience. “Copies of the letter will go to the members of the board of commissioners and to the zoning board. Then we’ll wait for Ms. Taylor’s response, and if her board has a smart lawyer, we’ll wrap this matter up in a couple of weeks. But if they have a dumb one, it could be strung out for months. But, Miss Julia, I will tell you right now, they cannot use that house for the purpose they’ve proposed.”

  Well, that was a relief, except it wasn’t. I wasn’t at all sure that Madge Taylor and Pastor Rucker would quietly fold their tents and slip away. Knowing, as I suspected, that possession was nine tenths of the law, I foresaw more sneaky sleights of hand on their part. It wouldn’t surprise me if Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens awoke one morning to find the Cochran house fully occupied by a bevy of teenage boys, their pants hanging low and their boom boxes blasting.