Gone to Green (Green (Abingdon Press))

by Judy Christie

  He put up his hands, as though holding me back. “No offense intended. I’m sure it's a great little paper. But the company has a job they want you to consider, the top editor's job down in Asheville. The guy who's there is being promoted, and they’re hoping you’re ready to come back into the fold.”

  I was caught totally off guard. Asheville was a great city, and the Asheville Advertiser had done terrific work in the past couple of years, including being named one of the best small dailies in the country. This was one of those jobs that people who played the corporate-move game always put on their lists.

  “I thought you were mad at me for leaving,” I said. My move to Green had not pleased the powers that be.

  Ed used to joke that this was a company that did not like breakups. “They can be ready to fire you,” he said, “and they’re still mad if you leave.” I focused my attention back on Zach.

  “Oh, we all hated to see you go,” he said, “but everyone knew that Ed had left you in a real pickle. What were you going to do? But now the year's almost over, and we want you back. This is a good job, Lois, a great opportunity.”

  I could not immediately say no to this, any more than I could turn Zach down for lunch. “Let me think about it,” I said. “What kind of timetable are we looking at?”

  “They want to get someone in there within the next sixty days or so,” he said. “Let's get you down there for an interview.”

  We walked back to the paper, talking logistics, and shook hands. Somehow our conversation had moved from my saying I would think about the job to planning to call Zach before I left Dayton to give him possible interview dates.

  “I’ll set things in motion,” he said, “and get the publisher in Asheville to call you, follow up with a corporate call, get you some copies of the paper. You know the drill.”

  Maybe this was the sign I needed. My time in Green was wrapping up, and this would be a good job, a place that clearly said I was moving up in the chain. Marti and I had visited Asheville on vacation several years ago, and it was a beautiful town in a booming area. People bought vacation homes there, for heaven's sake, so it must be a good place to live. Things were falling into place. I would know the next step in my life when I left Green.

  Marti, though, wasn’t as excited about the job as I thought she would be. “It would be a good place to live,” she said, “and the paper's good. But you know how corporate works. Do you really want that?”

  “Marti, you know I have to do something. Plus, I’m getting tired of a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. You know we’d have fun if I were in North Carolina.”

  My preliminary talk with the publisher the next day went well. “I’ll overnight you some papers and get my secretary to get you some flight options. I look forward to sitting down face-to-face,” he said. “We know you’ve been running your own show down there in Louisiana. We’ll keep that in mind as we work up your compensation package.”

  Marti and I both cried when I headed back to Green.

  “You think long and hard before you jump back into this world,” she said. “You seem happier than I’ve seen you in a long time. Something is going on with you. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something's definitely happening.”

  “Oh, you’ve been hanging out with the preacher too much,” I said, trying to make light of the moment. We gave each other another long, hard hug, and I headed back to Green.

  Everyone was so happy to see me when I returned that I felt ashamed.

  “Welcome home,” they all said, most giving me the standard hug. “We sure missed you. How were things up north?” Tammy asked.

  Fairly quickly I went to my desk and set up a meeting at the bank with Duke. By the end of the next afternoon, he had lined me up with Jim Mills, a business broker in Shreveport, a nice man with experience in media properties and eager to help.

  “I handled the sale for the McCullers,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about your friend. I’m sure this has been a terrible strain on you this past year.”

  His observation was wrong.

  “Thanks, but it's worked out okay,” I said. “This year has strangely enough been a good one. Lots of nice people, some interesting situations. It's not a bad little town.”

  I didn’t mention that I liked myself better than I had a year ago.

  “How long do you think this sale might take?” I asked. ”Can we keep it super confidential?”

  “No problem with keeping it quiet,” he said. “And it should come together quickly. No guarantees, of course, but this should be a strong property. Sit back and wait. Just sit back and wait.”

  During the next few days, the Asheville job kept me tied up in knots. I knew The News-Item sale would work out. Some of Rose's optimism must have rubbed off on me. I was less sure about the path that lay beyond that.

  A call from Marti brought it all pouring out. “The timing on all of this stinks,” I said. “I want a job precisely at the end of the year. But if I walk away from Asheville, I’ll probably be out of the company for good. Unless I’m willing to work night cops in Danville or Midland or something like that.”

  “You’ll know,” Marti said. “You always do.”

  When the package arrived with the copies of the Advertiser, I left early and took them home. As I looked through them, I found myself comparing what The News-Item had done, ideas we executed better than this much bigger staff. The paper was full of wire copy and did not give me a feel for the people who lived there. I knew I was looking for things to dislike, but I kept thinking, “This is one of the best little papers in the country?”

  I went to wash the ink off my hands when I heard someone tapping lightly on my front door. “Lois, it's Jean, Jean Hours from the church up the road.”

  Her visit surprised me. She had not dropped by once since I had moved in, and she apologized for doing so tonight.

  “I know people hate preachers who come calling at all hours of the day and night, interrupting, acting pushy.” She laughed. “But I was headed into town to pick up some groceries, and I asked God to show me someone I could help … and you popped into my mind. I decided to drive down here and see if you were home.”

  She fidgeted with her car keys. “Am I crazy or incredibly intuitive?”

  I sat down slowly in an old oak rocker and laughed sheepishly.

  “I would say you’ve probably got intuition covered at the moment. I am struggling with a big decision. I guess God knew I needed some help.”

  15

  “Neighbors out in the Pelican Place community are concerned

  about a remodeling project on the south side of

  town, converting the old Sears mail order center into Bud's

  Beer Barn. I hope you’ll join me in complaining to Mr. Bud

  and seeing if we can’t stop this before it goes too far.”

  —The Green News-Item

  Katy was right.

  Talking to Pastor Jean helped immensely.

  “What next step feels best to you?” she asked. “What would you most like to do with your life?” She was a good listener, one of those people who let you finish a thought before they jump in. She didn’t throw out a lot of advice, but asked several questions that made me think in new ways. Mostly she encouraged me to believe in myself, to trust that I would make the right decision.

  “It's tough sometimes to do what you’re supposed to do. I know it's tough.” She paused. “I’ll admit it was plenty hard to give up my life as a teacher and a good retirement plan and go to seminary. And coming here was a bit of a shock.”

  “So,” I asked. “Why did you really do it? Why not just keep your comfortable life in Baton Rouge?”

  “Well, I did cry some, I’ll admit. And I demanded that God tell me why he was leaving me out in the wilderness, apart from my husband. Sending me to this little country church where people often seemed more worried about getting out on time than about the sermon. But I knew that wherever I went, God would go with me. That's why I d
id it. God is with me.”

  She took a Kleenex out of her pocket and wiped her nose. “I sometimes over-think things. It is very hard for me to trust God completely with my life. Too often I believe I know better than he does.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “I have to tell you that I don’t trust God to help me know what to do. Ever since my mother died and then Ed, I figure I’m on my own—that I have to make decisions and be prepared for the consequences. I gave up on that whole faith thing—no offense—in my mid-twenties. Besides why would God be interested in my life when he's got the whole world to take care of? I’d say there are lots of things more important than my needy self.”

  My speech was blunter than I intended, and I took a deep breath before continuing. “Oh, that's not a hundred percent true. I didn’t really throw my religion in God's face when my mother died. I let it shrivel from benign neglect. I was hurt and mad, and my life was busy. I kept looking in other directions, mostly work, and ignoring anything to do with God.”

  I shrugged. “My faith got smaller and smaller until it disappeared from my daily routine. No prayer. No Bible study. No church.”

  “Lois, I must tell you I believe God has great plans for your life, no matter how much doubt you have. I think God wants great things for you and that He plans for you to succeed.”

  She smiled. “When I look at you, I see so many gifts just waiting to burst out—like those gorgeous blooms on the hydrangeas at the parsonage. I didn’t even know they were down in there, but they did. And when they shot out, they took my breath away. But, man, do those bushes take attention.

  I nearly let them die this summer, till I realized they need a little drink of water every evening.”

  The pastor's talk was inspiring. The hydrangea analogy was more poetic than Jean's usual matter-of-fact speech. Aunt Helen's hydrangeas awed me. When I arrived they were basically only sticks, but by early summer they were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. They did require time and attention every day.

  “I’d like to think there is a grand plan for my life,” I said, “that I was meant to do something special. I sure hope I have not been put on earth to flounder. But what am I supposed to do about Asheville? If God has this great purpose for me, what is it?”

  “Well, I usually tell people their purpose in life is to love God and to love others, wherever they are and whatever they’re doing and to make sure they’re enjoying life along the way.” She paused. “But something tells me that isn’t going to be specific enough for you.”

  “I’m going to need more than that, Pastor.”

  “Take a tiny step and ask God for help. Listen for an answer. See what happens.”

  Her response wasn’t an easy how-to list, but over the next few days, I did just that. I suddenly remembered asking for “help” in Dayton, not praying exactly but knowing I could not make the big decisions about the managing editor's job and moving to Green on my own. I recalled the rainbow and the voice telling me to “go.” Had that been God trying to nudge me along or my own subconscious, knowing my life needed a change?

  The weather had turned cooler, and fall was definitely coming. The light had shifted in the sky. I would get up early and sit in my porch swing and return there at the end of the day. I began each of these sessions, as I thought of them, by saying, “Help.” And I sat and waited and listened.

  Before long everything that happened was subject to scrutiny. Was this God talking? Was that? Or was this evil trying to lead me away? Was I on the right track? Who should I sell the paper to? Nothing was clear. I was confused and feeling a little crazy.

  “Help,” I said a hundred times a day. “Help, help, help.”

  Somewhat embarrassed, I called Pastor Jean and asked her if I could stop by on my way home from work. “I need help,” I said. “This listening thing isn’t working out for me, and I’m going nuts.”

  When I arrived late that afternoon, Jean was at the church, straightening hymnals in the sanctuary and picking up old bulletins.

  “It's so much easier than writing a sermon,” she said. “And it keeps me from getting too stuffy.”

  The sun looked different than it had the other times I had been in this building. It came in from another angle and was dimmer, a glow that softened everything. We sat on the front-row pew, each on one end. I started to say something, but Jean held up her hand and smiled.

  “Listen,” she said.

  We sat there for fifteen minutes in silence. It was so quiet that I could hear the big old clock in the back of the church ticking. I heard a bug flying up to the light, making an odd buzzing noise. I heard Jean when she took a deep breath, as though she was cleansing her lungs. It was strange at first, and I fidgeted. Slowly I relaxed.

  I took a deep breath and felt it flow throughout my body. I calmly looked at everything in front of me, as though I observed it through another person's eyes—the beautiful spider lilies on the altar, still fresh although they had been there several days, the handmade doily they sat on, a homemade banner that said, “My peace I leave with you.”

  Peace. I took another breath.

  Jean saw me looking at the banner and spoke softly.

  “That was made by the Hope Small Group for Iris Jo when Matt died. They wanted to do something more than just cook, and they came up with that idea. They did it in three days and gave it to her for the memorial service. It's been hanging here ever since. We all get a lot of comfort from it, and Iris Jo said it belongs here.”

  She read from the banner. “‘My peace I leave with you.’ That's what you can call upon, Lois. Peace not as the world gives. Listen for God's peace. Watch for those red flags that tell you something isn’t right, that you’re going in the wrong direction. You’re smart enough to see them. Notice when things feel right. Take things a step at a time, the best next step and the best next step and the next. When you’re in doubt about something, don’t do it. Wait for the peace.”

  She stopped. “‘My peace I leave with you. Peace not as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid.’“

  I took another deep breath and said, “Thanks.”

  “I just want to say one more thing. This peace goes beyond what we can understand. You can try all you want to fit it into some neat little package, but it won’t go. God's greater than you are, understands more, loves more. God wants more for you than you have even begun to imagine.” She stood up. “You ready for some supper?”

  Jean and I had a great visit that night. She showed me pictures of her family and told me more about her move to Green. We ate a meal she had in the freezer. “It's one of the great perks of my job,” she said. “I am fed incredibly well. In cities, people don’t cook much anymore. You know, they bring Kentucky Fried Chicken or store-bought cookies. But here—all homemade. I’ve put on twenty pounds in just over a year, and I don’t even care.”

  The next morning I went out and sat in my swing and said, “Help.” Almost immediately I postponed my interview in Asheville.

  “The time is not right for me to leave town again,” I told the publisher. “Plus, I’m not ready to commit to another newspaper job just yet. I have many details to take care of with the paper I own.”

  Following the phone call, an immense sense of relief washed over me. I knew I had done the right thing. If they wouldn’t wait to talk to me, I would have other opportunities, after The News-Item sold.

  It was a good thing I hadn’t gone. The week I would have left, Alex's story on the housing development finally came through. He had several great stories that implicated Major in a series of potentially illegal moves and had big-time scandal written all over it.

  “Alex, you know we’re just a little newspaper, and we are about to take on one of the most well-known men in North Louisiana,” I said to the young reporter, both proud and scared. “You know that, right?”

  “Lois, have a little faith in me,” he said. “I’ve been working on this for months. I’m not going int
o it willy-nilly.”

  Demanding to know his sources and to see data, I regularly grilled Alex. Excited about what he had come up with, he was remarkably unflappable, only losing his cool a couple of times. “Basically, Lois,” he said, clearly delighting in his news, “Major hired a friend's firm to do the environmental study on the first development, Mossy Bend. His friend conveniently overlooked key problems, such as septic tanks emptying into the lake. The same firm was lined up to do the study on Cypress Point.”

  “And there's more?” I tapped my pencil on his desk, feeling a knot in my stomach.

  “A memo from the state environmental office was ignored. It said plainly the Mossy Bend development was too close to the lake, opened up flooding and pollution issues. Gave it a no-go to be built.” He fished around in a pile of papers on his desk. “The memo says, and I quote, ‘It would be a travesty to build in the wetlands area and would do irreparable harm to the lake.’”

  In addition, Major had been getting federal money to redo his rental houses in Lakeside, with the government paying exorbitant subsidies for shoddy work. The tenants were caught in the middle. Alex had taken pictures of the work, including electrical outlets with huge gaps around them, roofs that were patched, and basic carpentry that was clearly substandard. He had copies of invoices for the work, outrageous bills for small jobs. “The tenants told me they got government checks for the work and gave the money to one of Major's employees, getting to keep twenty dollars as a handling fee.”

  The man's greed and gall astounded me. The facts were so explosive I became extraordinarily cautious, reminding Alex not to talk with anyone except Tom and me and to lock up his notes. He used the telephone in my office to interview sources, so no one could overhear.

  “This is extremely sensitive,” I said to Tammy and Iris Jo, “and we must not let it leak out until we are ready.” I knew Major would not roll over when the stories appeared, that he would attack the paper and try to discredit us. My journalistic experience warred with my responsibilities as owner of the paper. I had visions of us being sued and losing everything, of Major sitting in my office, crowing that he had beaten me and taking over The News-Item. As a reporter, I had been annoyed when an editor or publisher wanted to lawyer my story, as they called it, but I wasn’t about to let these go without letting a lawyer take a look at them.