The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String

by Kris Knorr

  Micki pointed to her empty napkin then the brownies. Kay pulled the pan closer to her chest, giving her a smiling snarl.

  “Isn’t hell a place where ‘the fire never dies’?” Nan said boldly, tickled at her foray into the verbal volley. “Sounds to me like evil enjoys a good fire.”

  “Well, duh. No wonder the bonfires don’t work.” Hettie swatted at Micki as the large woman reached for her stockpile of brownies. Peering at her over the rims of her glasses, she admonished, “You know you have to take what you want before it gets to Kay.”

  “The chocolate doesn’t make it past Kay.” Micki translated for Allie, and shook her head when the new member offered her own brownie.

  “Do you think it would be okay,” Micki said, “if we had the Halloween party and everyone dressed as a character from the Bible? It would be a positive outreach with outstanding role models. I’ve always admired Esther. She was obedient and generous.”

  The silence lasted about five seconds while everyone tried this in their imaginations.

  “What’s the difference between how one Bible character looked from another?” Nan said. “We’d all be running around in bathrobes with scarves over our heads. It’d look like the Christmas play.”

  “There are sheep in the Christmas play,” corrected Hettie.

  “I could be a camel,” offered Allie, “or an animal off Noah’s yacht.”

  “And Mary, Jesus’ mother, looked different. She always wore blue,” Hettie said.

  Nan wound herself up and jumped into the gush of jabber. “I’ve always thought that was crazy. I know all the paintings have her in a blue dress, but no woman, except Little Orphan Annie, had a wardrobe in only one color.”

  “It’s symbolic, like a halo.” Vera sighed as though she were explaining art literacy to a wall.

  “I’m dressing as a harlot,” Kay announced. “I’ve still got some skull and crossbones tattoo-stickers left.”

  “Then you’ll look like everyone else in bathrobes.” Vera rolled her eyes. “Just don’t wear a scarf. A harlot advertised by leaving her head uncovered and showing off her beautifully braided hair.” The room stilled as heads turned toward Vera. “What?” she asked.

  “Harlot-dress-code Police,” whispered Kay, popping a brownie chunk into her mouth.

  “How about if we…” started Allie. Eyes switched to the new member. “Instead of celebrating Halloween, we could invite the neighborhood for pumpkin pie around Thanksgiving? Maybe some special music? We could…uh…” She withered into silence, feeling eyes on her.

  No one said a word. Cars could be heard passing by outside. The muted chords of someone practicing the piano in another room drifted into the silence.

  “So moved,” Kay said.

  “Second,” Hettie called. “All in favor?” Ayes sounded before her words faded out. “Oh sorry, Vera, did you want to call the vote?”

  The white-haired woman stared around the room. Indeed, the ladies pushed the edges of their usual skylarking. And did she hear a tone of disrespect in their taunts? That needed to change. “Nan.” Vera pointed her pencil. “We’ll be looking forward to the special music you come up with. Maybe handbells and the choir?”

  The organist slouched back into her chair silently flogging herself. It was her own fault. This happened every time she opened her mouth at these meetings. She always left with more work.

  “Okay. New Business—” Vera began.

  “I'm wondering,” Kay said, “in order to adjust my Biker-Chick Code of Ethics, did we ever figure out whether a Halloween party was right or wrong?”

  “Anything that motivates you to dress as a harlot can’t be good,” Hettie said.

  “So, if I were inspired to be a saint instead of a sinner, we could have a party?”

  Micki leaned toward Kay, rapping on the table to draw her full attention. “I think if we were trying to be saints, we’d give kids: schools, health, safety, and hope instead of luring them to God with candy.”

  Kay smiled and pushed the pan of brownies toward her.

  Vera’s mouth tightened. She couldn’t even get to the first item on her agenda. This had to end.

  God’s Sense of Humor

  “IS EVERYTHING READY for the Autumnal Feast?” Lorena paced the narthex.

  The old property manager watched her tug at her jacket. It was hard to hide thirty extra pounds, even if she tried to squeeze it under a coordinated suit. He was wary of her perfect blonde hairdo and manicured hands. To him they screamed, “I can think of a lot of chores for you to do!” He nodded and began inching away, relying on The Rules to save him.

  The 60+year-old volunteer custodian was at least a foot taller than most women, but felt like a sullen teenager when he had to deal with them, which was often. The church widows kept poking into his life. After cancer had claimed his wife, he’d discovered he could take care of himself middlin’ well. His chosen uniform, a flannel shirt and carpenter jeans—usually the same pair for a week—saved laundry chores. He didn’t need much. Mostly, he enjoyed the silence.

  Everything Walt knew about women, he’d learned on the Property Committee. He’d discovered that you had to be careful around these ladies. Rule Number #1: Complain about everything. If you didn’t gripe that all tasks were a royal pain, they’d have you repainting the Sunday school rooms and re-caulking toilets just because there was a wedding, or a sing along, or Betty Lou had a whim for the color ecru.

  “Oh, Walt!” A perfect, toothy-smile appeared on Lorena’s fifty-trying-to-be forty-face. “Could you change the marquee?”

  He stood round-shouldered and solemn-faced, looking at her. Rule #2: Never give ’em too much information.

  “Please?” she urged. “I’d like for it to read:

  Take an Autumn Walk with God

  Nov 25 7 PM”

  He recognized the sticky tone in her honeyed voice and gruffed, “I’ve already got a literary work posted. Nobel prize stuff:

  Thanksgiving service.

  7 PM”

  He shuffled toward his tool pantry. Rule #3: Try to get away as quickly as possible.

  Lorena followed, crowding him into a retreat inside his closet of ladders, wrenches, and extension cords. “It needs to look more special,” she said. “The other Lutherans are coming to celebrate.”

  “Huh?” Walt mumbled, rubbing the back of his bald head. Stillwater’s other Lutheran church was full of Missouri Synod belief which differed from Evangelical Lutheran doctrine. Most members couldn’t name the differences, but they knew they were big sticking points because the two groups rarely worshiped together. “I thought we were only doing this for the neighborhood.”

  “Yes, it started out that way but grew. Now I have to decorate for everyone. Could you change the marquee?”

  He squinted one eye at her. “Vera’s in charge. You’re not even on the committee.”

  “Brynn and I are the Sanctuary Arts Team. We’re willing to help if we don’t have to go to meetings, and we don’t need Vera’s permission for everything. C’mon, Walt, The Episcopals and Methodists are coming too.”

  “Oh that’s different.” His big hand held out the box of plastic letters. “You’d better change it.”

  “We need to dress up for the Autumnal Feast. Just like you do when company visits your house.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that.” He shook the box back and forth, rattling the letters at her. She turned and began rearranging the harvest display.

  Hettie caught the end of their conversation as she lugged a bucket of flowers to the Fellowship Hall. “It’s a Thanksgiving service, Lorena. ‘Autumnal’ is a scary word. It sounds like something requiring a stomach sedative and a bed rest.” She winked at Walt as he made his getaway. “And Vera spent a lot of time on that fall arrangement; what’re you doing to it?”

  “It needs a dash of color right here, that’s all.”

  *

  “Lorena’s up there redoing the Thanksgiving display.” Hettie thudded the flower buck
et onto the counter.

  “What could she do to it? Rearrange the nuts?” Brynn shrugged. Her long, dark braid swung back and forth as she pulled vases from the box on the floor.

  “Look, you know how Vera is hung up with boundaries?” Hettie said then waved the thought away as an understatement. “She’s getting worse. At the last Ladies Circle, she was actually glowering at us. She needs to take a break.”

  Brynn shoved the box back into the closet with her foot. “She’s casting around for her position—her identity—since her husband’s gone. Nudging her out might make it worse.”

  “All right, Miss Social Worker, you’d better see if you can get Lorena to stop messing with Vera’s display, or we’ll feel the repercussions of more lost identity.”

  “You’re a teacher; treat it like you would in your classroom—redirect her.”

  Hettie went to the stairway and yelled, “Lorena, we desperately need you down here. Help us set up tables.” The two women grinned at each other when the full-figured blonde appeared in a few minutes.

  “You know how I like to put the finishing touches on things,” Lorena said. “Vera’s display needed a splish of color. I added a little wow.”

  Hettie rolled her eyes. “Please, could you let Vera be in charge? We volunteered to do the kitchen work.”

  “What would Jesus do since she’s not here?” Lorena sing-songed as she ducked into the kitchen.

  “I think He’d zap her,” Hettie mumbled.

  “Hettie!” Brynn grinned. “Jesus never zapped anybody.”

  “Couldn’t you just see her at the last supper? ‘None of these plates match. We only have one cup for the wine? Who made this bread?’”

  Lorena stuck her head out the kitchen door, eyeballing Hettie into silence. “Where are the pies?”

  “People will bring them when they come.” Brynn floated a round, orange table cloth onto a table. Hettie followed her, centering a vase stuffed with sunflowers and sweet-smelling eucalyptus on the tabletop. “Come help us.”

  “We need to slice and plate the pies before the service.” Lorena patted her lips, studying the kitchen. “I’ll make the coffee so it’s not so strong that the lame get up and dance after a sip. I’m afraid you two are going to have to skip church and stay down here and cut pies.”

  “I know what Jesus would do in this situation,” Hettie sing-songed.

  “What?” Lorena yelled over the sound of water pouring into the 20-cup coffee urn.

  “This is like the Bible story where whiny Martha bellyaches about preparing supper. And Jesus tells her that it’s more important to trot upstairs and be fed from His word, than to stay downstairs and cut pies.” There was no reply from the kitchen.

  The first dessert arrived before Vera did. “Doesn’t that seem weird?” Lorena said, tugging her jacket over the strained waistband of her pants. “She’s been queen bee-ing every function as long as I’ve been here. Either she’s ill or the world is spinning backward.” With a grin, she took over, stationing herself at the kitchen door. She greeted pie bearers with compliments and gracious smiles, sliding their pastries across the counter. Apple crisps, cherry almond tarts, blueberry cheesecakes, and even chocolate custard doodled with caramel paraded into the pass-through window so Brynn and Hettie could slice them.

  The deep aroma of coffee wafted around the room. Hettie had finished whipping the cream in a chilled bowl when the muted sounds of the hand bells traveled through the walls and floorboards.

  “Oh, it’s the prelude,” Lorena exclaimed and disappeared up the stairs. In a minute she came hurrying back down. “I met Vera in the narthex with her pie. It’s still warm,” she said, rushing it to the pass-through.

  Her quick release dropped the dish on its side. The contents catapulted onto the counter with a juicy plop.

  Lorena froze. The chimes of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” rang out. All three women edged toward the pie as though it were a corpse.

  “Vera’s Secret-Pumpkin-Delight.” Lorena grimaced.

  “We just won’t serve it.” Hettie shrugged.

  “No, no, no. You can’t throw it out.” Lorena grabbed Hettie’s arm. “Can you imagine what would happen if word got around that we ask people to bring desserts then serve some and throw others out? Oh no! We’d never get anyone to trust us with their baked goods again. We’d have to drive that pie five miles away in order to hide it a garbage can where no member would find it. Maybe a porn shop’s trash can.”

  The pie had fallen upside down on the counter with the plate landing on top of it. Half of the orange custard was in the broken crust, half out. “We’ll confess,” Hettie said, “that you massacred her pie.”

  “This took all afternoon for her to make. That’s why she was late. You should’ve seen her face when she gave it to me. You’d have thought she’d just given birth.”

  Brynn rolled her eyes.

  “Well, we’ll do what Jesus would’ve done.” Hettie gave Lorena a dry stare as she pulled a pancake turner out of a drawer. “We’ll serve ourselves this mess.” She scooped up pieces and splatted it into the pie dish.

  *

  It was fortunate the organ and congregation began the first stanza of “Now Thank We All Our God” at the exact moment the ladies came upstairs into the narthex; otherwise, the congregation and guests would have heard Lorena squealing, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Who did this?”

  A faint smile curled across Brynn’s mouth. “It was Roger,” she said. “He called earlier and said he was bringing a pumpkin.”

  The elephantine specimen was three feet tall. It had taken several grown men and a wagon to lug it into the church. Rather than have it huddle in the corner, Roger had dumped the contents of the big cornucopia and wiggled the butt end of the pumpkin into it, like a baby’s sock on a basketball.

  “What does he think this is? The county fair? I can’t believe all those people saw this and think this is how we decorate for them.” Lorena’s acid stare burned into the display.

  “Let Vera know it was fine when you changed her hard work—before Roger changed it.” Hettie winked as she stepped into the sanctuary.

  *

  With the ending notes of the service, Vera judged the event as a joyful accident. Somehow it had all come together while she was at home with her unfaithful water pipes, which had begun breaking at every opportunity in order to have a tryst with the plumber.

  She hadn’t had time to twist any ears over wrecking her display, but it could wait. For now, the pews had been full. Children were home from college. Many of the “other” Lutherans had attended. Even the Episcopalians and Methodists had a good showing. Perhaps this neighborhood outreach was more successful than a Halloween party. Even Walt seemed full of rare friendliness as she watched him usher a herd of unfamiliar faces down the stairs toward the pie social. She waved. He replied with a chin tuck.

  Walt had treated the occasion as “spiffy” by wearing a pressed, blue shirt. When he arrived at the kitchen counter, his eyebrows shot up as he surveyed the plate he was handed. “What the heck is this?”

  “Oh, shut up. It’s your piece of pie.” Lorena’s earlier hospitality had evaporated. She plopped whipped cream on top of it, scanning the crowd for Vera.

  “It looks like it’s already been eaten and spit back out,” he said.

  “Just help us out. We had an accident. We gave you a really big piece.” She gobbed more whipped cream on top.

  “I already helped you. I changed the marquee like you asked.” He nodded.

  Lorena patted his arm. “See, Walt, look at all the new people your sign brought to our service tonight.”

  “You’re right.” He winked. “It pays to advertise.”

  Behind him, Roger got the same treatment on an even bigger ball of pie. Lorena put so much whipped cream on his goo-and-crust combo, it appeared he was carrying a plate of foam.

  “I don’t know if I can eat that much,” he said, eyeing his serving.

  “Oh, I know you like b
ig things.” Lorena scowled. “Anyone who’d bring that King-Kong pumpkin to church must’ve worked up an appetite.”

  “I wanted to give my biggest and best to God.” Roger offered an innocent smile. Brynn, manning the dishwasher, gave him a thumbs-up.

  For most of the evening, tension bounced around the kitchen as they waited for Vera’s discovery of the pie-wreckage. Lorena cut out early, saying a hurried good-bye after everyone was served, leaving Brynn and Hettie to clean up and lock the doors.

  “I told Vera we’d served all of her Pumpkin Delight.” Hettie dug through her purse for her keys. “It was weird; she didn’t say a word. I think she’s sick.”

  “The church she knows is fading away. Some confusing new creature is taking its place.” Brynn paused next to her car. “Hymns have morphed to Christian rock. Sermons are available anytime on podcasts, not just Sundays. You can stay at home and go to a meeting via streaming video. It’s frightening. She’s losing the history that molded her faith. The same foreboding happened to my Norwegian parents when they no longer could find a church service in the old tongue.”

  Hettie unlocked her cars doors. “Someday Vera’ll go off like an asteroid hitting a nuclear plant. No telling what’ll happen to this place.”

  “Until then, we’ve got God’s sense of humor and Walt’s bald-faced honesty.” Brynn pointed to the church marquee.

  FREE PIE

  Walk-ins Welcome

  7 PM

  Advent

  “LADIES, I TRIED to avert this disaster, but it seems my knowledge of our history isn’t useful or needed.” Vera sniffed as she tapped her pencil against the agenda and scanned the women. The conversations around the table at the Ladies Circle faded or paused. The meeting should have started ten minutes ago, but the chocolate hadn’t arrived yet.

  “What disaster?” asked Hettie as she carried a coffee pot from the kitchen. She locked eyes with the older woman as she sat with a heavy plop. She shouldn’t enjoy the way Vera’s mouth turned down when challenged, but the dynamics were one of the interesting things about these meetings. She felt a bit guilty about poking Vera’s sore spots, but in the past when Vera’s husband, the pastor, was alive, there hadn’t been any chance of influencing a discussion. Now, after a bit of nudging, a few fractures were appearing in Vera’s decisions. Unheard of.