The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String

by Kris Knorr

  Kay scanned the darkness for Kevin and Marcus. They were the ones who’d begged to come to this vigil. She’d rather be home in her warm bed. She’d dutifully awakened them at 4:30, pleased they were finally showing an interest in worship. She should’ve known their motivation was to explore a cemetery in the dark. Another expectation dashed.

  And what a lame service. Pastor Poe was trying to add variety. She wondered how much after-whine he’d get about standing around in a cold, dark graveyard. The only reason Vera probably supported this event was so she could have Easter with her husband.

  Kay’s stomach clenched. Many times, she’d wished her ex had attended church with her and the boys. She unlinked her arm with Vera’s, now somehow uncomfortable by the association. What were they doing here? A graveyard, in the dark, made a forlorn Easter.

  They sang a short, mournful song. The ragged words fell from their mouths to the ground without accompaniment. Elke had offered to bring his accordion, but Pastor had said no. Another expectation dashed.

  A gray band had materialized in the eastern sky, enough to outline the tops of tombstones surrounding the tiny garden where they stood. Kay stared at the markers. Each one erected over a soul who’d cried, fought, or piled day upon day, chatting, giving, worrying…living. They all had a story until death tapped their shoulder. They’d moved on. Now, the only sign they’d been here were stones sticking out of the ground.

  She’d expected more from an Easter vigil. Insight. Heavenly music. Worship with her loved ones. All mystery revealed. Vera dropping to her knees and renouncing her pushiness. This service was none of these things. Several more expectations—dashed.

  The trill of a bird brought her to the here and now. She could make out letters and pictures on headstones. Pink streaks smudged the eastern sky. One yellow ray fanned upward. Staccato bird chirps encouraged the dawn. Kay could discern the details of faces formerly hidden by darkness. She knew all of these people. She knew their stories.

  Pastor had left the Old Testament journey with the night. He was now reading the Gospel of Matthew 28: Two women went to Jesus’ tomb at dawn. Kay listened, eyes closed, and knew the exact moment the sun broke the horizon. The surrounding trees came alive with birdsong. Pastor Poe stopped in mid-sentence. The sun, a white sliver, flooded the sky with light as they eavesdropped on nature worshiping.

  The verse that had gotten Kay through many nights rose in her mind: His mercies are fresh each morning. She’d come to this graveyard with expectations and found nothing. Yet in the absence of candles, pianos, hymnals, and sermons, she’d found more. These stones didn’t mark spots, but honored people who’d finished the journey. It seemed quite clear in the break of dawn, that like all circles, the end was another beginning.

  Pastor Poe had finished reading about the empty tomb from a red Bible. Colors were discernible now. Pink and brown faces surrounded her. Blue ribbons on flowers fluttered in the breath of morning, small pleasures emerging from the nothingness of the dark.

  A thousand diamonds reflected off the grass as Pastor shouted, “He is risen.”

  The tiny group matched the birdsong. “He is risen indeed!”

  *

  Kay walked past headstones, uncaring how wet she was getting. Kevin and Marcus had not returned, but their footsteps were marked by the dew. Purple and yellow flowers nodded over graves. Sweet smells spiraled around her.

  “Mom! Up here! Look what we found,” yelled Marcus.

  “I thought you wanted to attend the service.” She could hear the irritation in her voice as she hiked the path up a small hill toward them.

  “Is it over already?” Marcus asked.

  “What do you think? It’s dawn. We need to get to church. There’s the youth breakfast and another—” Kay topped the spine of the ridge. A small, white mausoleum stood like a tiny cottage under a fragrant cedar tree. A brook burbled nearby.

  Marcus watched her face. “Neat, huh? You shoulda seen it when the sun hit it. The stone glows. And the birds, they started singing like somebody turned on an i-pod. Even the creek sings.” He pointed to the two-foot wide stream. “And look at the crypt-thingy. It looks like somebody’s house.”

  Kay nodded. “All it needs is a flamingo and Christmas lights to make it a home.”

  She gazed at her oldest boy, Kevin, sitting motionless on a concrete bench in front of the cottage-mausoleum, staring at the sunrise. Motherly love nudged the corners of her mouth upward. “I’m sorry to disturb this moment,” she said quietly, “but we really need to get going.”

  “Just a little longer? Please, Mom? This is the kind of place God walks around,” Marcus said.

  Kay raised an eyebrow at her teenager. She sat on the bench next to Kevin and patted the empty space next to her. Marcus sat, chattering thoughts as they rolled out of his brain. Kevin kept quiet, staring at the horizon.

  Kay’s heart ached. She knew if she asked what he was thinking, he’d reply, Nothing. Her silent child. She sent a prayer that he was dropping all of his “nothings” into the hands of the God who gave hope with every sunrise.

  Then there was Marcus, barely squeezed onto the bench against her right side, popping like a toaster with a new idea every minute.

  “…and we could put ours right over there,” he was saying. “But we’re gonna put benches with backs on ’em so you can lean back and totally relax while you’re sitting here.”

  Kay put her arms around her sons. Kevin didn’t shrug her off. Marcus was yammering about putting a bridge over the creek. Thank you God, this wasn’t the type of worship I expected, but thank you.

  “This is cool. Sometimes I get wrecked with school, then when I see it like this…” Marcus pointed at the water, glinting with sunlight. “Was the service down there any good? You get anything out of it, Mom?”

  “I learned…” Kay thought for a long moment and held up a finger when Marcus tried to fill the gap. “I discovered that nothing is sometimes richer than all my somethings. I learned about nothing.”

  “Geez, Mom, you shoulda come with us,” Marcus replied.

  Kay caught Kevin’s eyes. He gave her a slight chin nod. They smiled at each other as they rose to leave.

  Holding Onto The Traditions of Men

  WORSHIPPERS IN THE cemetery watched the sun edging the horizon, while across town, Lorena drove into the church parking lot. It was an innocent beginning to a day that would be remembered for years at Shaded Valley Lutheran.

  Local church antics weren’t written down. They passed mouth to mouth, finally fading with the generations who lived it—except for Lorena’s escapade. She became a second-tier celebrity, garnering a catch-phrase: “It’s-a-Lorena.” For years it was a popular argument-stopper.

  Some said Vera was partly to blame for the situation by kidnapping the Lenten collection of black vases. If folks had looked more closely, they would’ve realized both women were pawns, puppets for the actual offender and instigator of the problem, but that name has been forgotten and only Lorena’s remains.

  Early Sunday morning, Brynn and the ladies of the Easter committee worked frantically in the conference room. When the shout of “Mother Mary and Joseph!” echoed down the hallways, they paused and looked at each other. Seconds later, Lorena burst through the door.

  “What happened? Did you forget?”

  One of the women sighed. The others resumed wrapping potted plants in gold foil.

  Lorena waved her hands. “It looks like someone died out there.”

  “That’d be your work,” a short-haired woman said and returned to ironing white banners.

  “It’s all right.” Brynn’s voice was quiet. “Everything’s under control.”

  “Vera and I put away my Lenten decorations—well, what was left of them after Vera’s meddling. Now they’re back out. Why didn’t you decorate on Saturday? Were the lilies late in arriving?” She grabbed a plant and smoothed a square of gold paper around the base of the pot.

  “You weren’t supposed to be in t
he sanctuary.” One of the ladies took the plant from Lorena. “There was a heavy cross barring the door.”

  “I moved it. What do you mean? It’s a church. I’ll go into the sanctuary if I want. A sanctuary that’s supposed to be all in white for Easter. Jesus has risen, if you hadn’t heard.” She snatched the flower back.

  “And why are you here so early?” another woman asked.

  “I thought I’d help, adding a splish of elegance here and there. I have a touch for that sort of thing.”

  “Why don’t you elegantly wrap more pots? We’re in a bit of a hurry here.” The short-haired lady turned her attention to clipping fake butterflies on flowers.

  Lorena picked up ribbon, but stopped half-way through tying a double bow. “This is not how Easter should be.” She grabbed the lily and walked away.

  “Lorena.” Brynn stopped her before she reached the door. “It’s different this year. During the six o’clock service, we’ll remove all your decorations and replace them with symbols of a living Christ and the resurrection. It’s part of the service. It’s a visual form of worship.”

  “That’s stupid. This is Easter!”

  “Yes, and this is a new Easter service. We’ve done the same old thing as long as I can remember. Some of us wanted something different. Pastor Poe agreed. We’re having one new service and one traditional. If you want everything decorated and the same as it’s always been, then come to the ten o’clock service. Right now, everyone is gathering outside. We’ll bring Easter into the sanctuary, just like the women returned from the tomb bringing good news. It will be transformed in a few minutes. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  “That’s still the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Lorena hugged the potted plant to her ample chest. “People don’t guilt their kids and relatives into showing up on Easter Sunday just to have them stand in a parking lot.” She peered through a window at the gathering crowd. “What’s Walt doing with that brazier?”

  “He’s lighting a ‘new fire.’ It represents the return of light and resurrection from the grave. The Christ Candle will be relit from it and carried inside to light the sanctuary.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. It looks like a Wiccan gathering. Fires in the parking lot. Strange ceremonies. This is Easter. You don’t mess with Easter!” Her lily snapped to and fro over her head as she talked. “Fix the sanctuary like it’s supposed to be. Where’s Vera when I finally need her?” She turned and walked out. The ladies were silent. A few rolled their eyes.

  “It’s off, Walt. We don’t need this fire,” Lorena said, still carrying her lily.

  He gave her a slow look. “Once again, I don’t believe you’re in charge, and you haven’t had your coffee yet have you?”

  “Don’t give me any crap; we’re not changing Easter.” She glared at him, a hand on her hip.

  Walt gently blew on the fire, encouraging the small flame to burn higher. “Well now, as I heard it, Easter changed a lot of things many years ago, and it’s been changin’ things ever since.”

  “This is not the way we do it.” Lorena tapped him on the chest. “People come to church on Sunday morning knowing what’s going to happen. It’s comforting that way. A worshipper can expect a grin-filled person to greet them at the door. They’ll sit in the pew they always do, or pretty darn close to it. Newcomers will notice our weird baptismal font, full of water, bubbling like a water feature.

  “We’ll sing favorite songs—all the verses—and it’ll be accompanied by normal instruments like an organ or piano, not goofball tools like spoons or plastic buckets. Our readings will come from the Bible. We’ll confess our sins, and a robed, ordained pastor will give us absolution. He’ll preach from the pulpit, not sashaying up and down the aisles. We’ll all stand and pray—in unison—and we’ll say the Lord’s Prayer and Nicene Creed with the real words we learned in our youth, not that mushy ‘save us from the time of trial’ mumbo jumbo.

  “Row by row, we’ll go for communion, not tromp up there all at once like a herd of hyenas. The church will be decorated in the liturgical colors, which should be white and gold this morning. Beneath the pastor’s upheld hand, we’ll receive a blessing, and we’ll leave, feeling comforted and forgiven because that’s the way we’ve always done it. That’s what we expect. That’s why we’re not mutating it.”

  Walt had inched backward until he was surrounded by the gathering crowd. Lorena took this as a signal to reach a greater audience. She pleaded, one hand outstretched, the other hugging the lily.

  “We don’t want to change Easter, do we? For some of you, it’s the only time you come to church. You expect it to be glorious when you walk inside. Flowers everywhere. Banners. Trumpets. A pure white altar. That’s what we’ve always done. That’s what we know. That’s our tradition.”

  Blank faces stared at her. The small fire made popping noises in answer to her protest.

  She felt a soft touch on her shoulder.

  “Many of us asked for this,” Brynn said. “Pastor Poe didn’t want to change it either, but it’ll be beautiful. A metamorphosis from dark to light. Let’s talk about it inside.”

  Lorena looked at people staring or whispering. Her gaze stopped at the fire. She straightened her back and lifted her chin. “No.”

  With one heeled foot, she kicked over the brazier. Embers and half-burned sticks bounced and scattered in front of the doors. She smacked her potted plant onto the concrete. Two petals dropped on the coals, sending whispers of smoke spiraling upward. “Leave that there.” She pointed at the lily then plowed through the crowd. “There’s got to be some sign of Easter for people who have to worship in a parking lot.” Faces hinged back and forth, looking at her then the plant. The gold paper caught on fire, making the lily appear to rise out of the flames. Low murmurs of the story began as she drove off.

  *

  Those who attended the service said it was quite transforming to see the old black symbols stripped away. New gold and white adornments filled the sanctuary with the accompaniment of a brass ensemble and many tiny, lit candles.

  The one-person revolution became part of church history. Of course, the name of the real culprit was never used; so thereafter, when people said, “It’s-a-Lorena”—they really meant “change.”

  Come Back

  THE OKLAHOMA SUN had become a heat lamp, baking each day of May a little longer. Evening brought a few degrees of relief. Its arrival was announced by the hum of lawn mowers and the shouts of children who’d abandoned the air conditioning. The maintenance man outside of The Cuppa Bistro pushed his mower back and forth, heedless of the cloud of translucent insects rising before him. Inside, diners ate as refrigerated air chugged through vents and dropped into the sun-drenched dining room.

  “I’ll take a cuppa.” Lorena stood at the counter, pointing to the menu with one hand while working the other under her short-sleeved, floral green jacket to tug the strap of her sundress. “Their gazpacho and garlic sourdough are really good.”

  Kay scanned the laminated, one-page menu, intermittently glancing at Lorena’s flower earrings, matched necklace, and purse. She looked down at her faded jeans and loose knit shirt. As a graphic designer, she dressed for comfort not customers. It was coincidence when the latest trend coupled with her style. She continued to stare at the menu, but was trying to think of the last time she’d changed her purse to match her jewelry or even the season. “I’ll have whatever she ordered,” she mumbled, handing the menu behind her.

  “Thanks, but I don’t need it,” Hettie said. Hints of flour-dust covered the front of her shirt. “Just berry gelato for me. A big cup.” School had been over for several hours, and even though she’d organized this little meeting, it had interrupted a baking project.

  “Okay. I’m here.” Lorena settled into a chair. “Is this some kind of intervention?”

  “I think interventions make you realize you’re out of control and convince you to commit yourself.” Kay folded a napkin in half. “You’re past t
hat.”

  “Now, Kay.” Hettie used her teacher-voice. “You said you’d be helpful.” She switched on a sympathetic smile as she turned to Lorena. “We’re here because you haven’t been to church in a while, and you weren’t at the last Ladies Circle.”

  “She rarely goes to Ladies Circle.” Kay sat her drink on the folded napkin, shrugging at Hettie’s pointed stare.

  “I can’t go back.” Lorena gave a single wave. “I miss you all, but I made such a scene. I can only imagine what people are saying. What’d Vera say?”

  “Nothing. Vera doesn’t talk about people. Only us cats hiss and growl.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Lorena eyed Kay. “How they got those changes by Vera is a mystery. Maybe that early Easter service would’ve gone differently if she’d been there to help me.”

  “You did a great job all by yourself.” Kay ignored Hettie’s teacher-stare. “I don’t think cremating lilies is Vera’s style. She’s more of a nip-it-in-the-bud sorta gal.”

  “Vera’s been busy.” Hettie spoke quickly. “Her aunt is coming to stay with her, and she’s more than a little distracted. Now, can’t we leave all that in the past and you return?”

  Lorena shook her head. “There is no past. Everything keeps changing. Next thing you know, we’ll be singing bluegrass to the accompaniment of a gut bucket.”

  “So you’re never coming back to Shaded Valley Lutheran?”

  Kay frowned. “Oh, rub a duck. Don’t you know that’s why there’re two Lutheran churches in each town? It has nothing to do with doctrinal differences. It’s so when someone gets ticked off, they can worship at the other Lutheran church until they get ruffled there. Churches don’t grow; we just exchange members.”

  “I’m not going back to the other Lutheran church either.” Lorena took a sip of her ice tea and stared at the table.