by Kris Knorr
“What’re you going to do?” Hettie asked.
Lorena shrugged, turning her glass, watching it spiral sweat rings on the glass tabletop.
“You’re considering one of those evangelical churches, aren’t you? This is an intervention after all.” Kay reached across the table and gripped Lorena’s forearm. “Don’t let the threat of fire and brimstone dazzle you. Sure, sure, their no-dancing, no-card-playing policies sound fine because you’re too old to rap and play poker, but there’s more to religion than good singing and being saintly.”
“Stop it, Kay,” Hettie hissed. She turned to Lorena. “I thought about bringing Vera, but you two…sometimes…compete.”
“There’s singing all the verses of all the songs, even if they sound like funeral dirges,” Kay continued. “There’re potlucks with no less than three Jell-o salads containing pastel, multi-flavored marshmallows, not just the miniature, white kind. There’re quilting parties and sometimes we actually quilt. And what about the mandatory coffee hours? We’re known for our strong coffee.”
People at other tables stared.
Kay stood, unceremoniously palming the top of Lorena’s lacquer-sprayed head. “Think of your heritage. We’re German.” Kay bent low, still holding her firmly. “Actually, you look kinda Norwegian to me. But we have a favorite hymnal that’s as old as German dirt. Sometimes we even use it. We’re known for being inflexible. What other church can offer you that? Come back, Lorena. Come back to the Lutheran light.”
“You’re messing up my hair.” Lorena squirmed as Kay mashed her bangs into her eyes. “Vera’s starting to look good to me,” she said to Hettie.
The schoolteacher rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I asked Brynn to come. She’s sane and sensitive, but she couldn’t be here. Think of this as atonement for what you did.”
“I was a substitute?” Kay straightened, removing her hand from Lorena’s head and pointing to the table. “Just put it there,” she said to the waitress standing near her with their order.
Lorena finger-tousled her hair into place. “Is this the end of the intervention?”
“Do you want me to start again?”
“No!” Hettie said. “Shut up and sit down.”
“I’m Baptist, and some of us dance,” the waitress said.
“Do you polka?” Kay asked.
“No. Do you all?”
“If I eat enough Jell-o salad.” Kay smiled.
The waitress squinted, shaking her head. “What does gelatin have to do with—”
“Wiggles.” Kay gave a quick hula of her hips before sitting. The young lady turned away, giving the other patrons a big-eyed look.
“I’m sorry, Lorena. Ignore Miss BatCrazy here.” Hettie scooched her chair closer, leaning forward. “We miss you and want you to come back.”
Lorena stirred her soup. She shook her head, not looking at them. “I wanted Easter to be perfect. Easter shouldn’t change.”
“That’s what Pontius Pilate said, too. ‘You crucify a guy, why can’t he stay dead?’” Kay nodded.
“You know what I mean.”
“And those Pharisees agreed with you about change.” Kay nodded. “‘Why can’t that Jesus-fellow heal Monday through Friday like a regular physician? We have rules about curing on the Sabbath.’”
“This is different.”
“And my favorite, and this is why I joined the church; ‘Why can’t that priest at that little church, what’s his name? Martin Luther? Yeah. Why can’t Luther just shut-up and let us continue to sell forgiveness for sins? Little, nobody priest trying to change things.’”
“All right. All right. I know change is inevitable.” Lorena tore her bread in half. “I wanted Easter to be perfect. That’s all.”
“Why?” asked Hettie.
“I…don’t know. I had an image of the way everything was supposed be on Easter morning. It was ruined.”
Hettie took a tiny taste of gelato. “I asked my fourth graders to draw a picture of spring. Most kids drew a circle with some petals sticking out of it.” She used her itty-bitty spoon to point. “That’s the attitude Kay would have—it’s a flower. Use your imagination. It’s good enough.” Kay raised her eyebrows twice and ate her gazpacho.
“But I had a student who kept starting over because the clouds or birds weren’t perfect. I bet she drew it four or five times.”
“What’s your point?” Lorena said.
“I asked her, ‘Could you think about why it has to be perfect, and tell me?’ I’ll ask you the same thing. Why did the Easter service have to be perfect?” Lorena shook her head. “My student couldn’t tell me either.” The three ate without speaking. Hettie hoped the silence would break Lorena, as it often did a nine-year-old.
“Want my bread?” Kay pushed back from the table. Lorena shook her head again. Hettie held out her hand, and Kay handed it over. “Well, Jesus came into an imperfect world. Must’ve driven Him crazy. So I’ll use your favorite phrase, ‘What would Jesus do?’”
Lorena tore the crust from her sourdough, eating only the soft part as she thought. Finally, she sighed, “I guess He would die. Die to make it perfect.”
“Grace.” Kay smiled. “Accepted just like you are and made perfect by someone else’s effort.”
“We’re not talking about me.” Lorena pushed back from the table. “We’re talking about Easter.”
“Say,” Hettie used her light tone, “I’ve got news. A couple checked out the church on Good Friday. They were looking for a place to have their wedding. The bride loved your decorations, Lorena.”
Lorena sneered. “They were black. It was Lent.”
“That’s the bride’s colors, black and red. She wanted to know if we’d drape the cross in black again for her December wedding.”
“Ewwww,” Lorena groaned, shaking her head. “That’s just wrong.”
“She thought it was perfect,” Kay said.
“You’re an ass sometimes.” Lorena put several bills on the table and stood.
“Yeah, but you love me in spite of my faults. That’s grace. Besides, I don’t think you can call people an ass if you become a Baptist.”
“I’ll see you, Hettie.” Lorena headed for the door.
“This Sunday?”
“Maybe, if I get to call Kay other names, too.”
“That’s the spirit. ‘Sin, so grace can abound,’” Kay called after her. They watched as she walked to her car, got in, and drove away.
“Do you think she’ll come?”
“Do you think she’ll realize she and Vera argue because they’re so much alike?”
Hettie frowned. “So if Vera’s her benchmark, why does she need to be perfect?”
“This and all questions will be answered.” Kay made a signal for the check. “I’ve found God’s a great teacher. He keeps giving the same lesson until we get it. Only then do we get to move on.”
Stairway to Heaven
A PREGNANT ALLIE reclined on the couch in the narthex, cutting flame-shapes from orange and red construction paper. “Why fire for Pentecost? Why’d the Holy Spirit appear as tongues of fire hovering over heads?”
“As opposed to what? Making people’s eyes glow white?” Hettie taped monofilament to a paper flame and handed it to Walt.
“You women talk about the weirdest stuff.” Walt passed the flame up to Kay atop an ancient wooden ladder.
Kay taped the transparent line to the ceiling. “That white-eye thing would be too confusing. You couldn’t tell the difference between Christians and zombies. C’mon, Walt. Hand them up a little faster.”
“What do ya want? A ladder holder or a flame thrower? He smiled at his little joke, turning to help Hettie with the monofilament. “And…there’s no such thing as zombies.”
“Yet.” Kay motioned for him to keep his grip on the rungs.
“This ladder ain’t gonna fold up on you. Now, you may fall off, what with all the lip flappin’ you’re doin’ up there, but it’s solid.”
“Cecil Weinhauer gave this to the church, and it still has years left in it.” Walt rubbed the heavy, wooden rungs spotted with paint and scraped with use.
“Fuds buds.” Hettie handed Walt some flames. “Cecil died ten years ago. I bet he was lifting that ladder when he had his heart attack.”
“You gals need to put on some muscle. I’m just helpin’ you all because Hettie brought me some homemade cinnamon rolls. Don’t get used to this.”
Kay had climbed down and was pointing to another spot. “Okay, move this staircase again, Mr. Head-of-the-Property-Committee. You’re toting this tree trunk around for us because you won’t buy us a ‘woman’s ladder.’”
“How I suffer for The Church.” Walt shook his head as he scooted the ladder over. Kay climbed the rungs then waggled her hand for something to hang.
“Just perch up there a minute. We’ve got a problem on the assembly line.” Walt watched Hettie yank at the snarl of monofilament.
“Cut it off, and trash it.” Frustration tinged Kay’s voice. “It’s about a penny’s worth of fishing line.”
“You wanna throw everything away instead of fixin’ it.” Walt stared at Kay as he patted the heavy rails of the ladder. “Isn’t that what those flames you’re manhandling represent? A Holy Spirit who makes you realize you’re broken. Some folks don’t even know their screws are comin’ loose until they fall completely apart. You want a god who throws us away? No repairs provided?” He patted the rungs again.
“Carpenter theology. Interesting.” Kay smirked at him. “Are you saying you can fix this ladder so it isn’t heavy?”
“I could take about hundred twenty pounds off it.” He gave the ladder a shake. Kay gave a stop-it shout, stomping the rung next to his hand.
“Why don’t both of you join the youth discussion this Sunday?” No one had noticed Phil enter. Shin-guards covered the front of his legs, and a baggy shirt emblazoned with “Italia” hung over long athletic shorts. “We’ll be arguing if God is male or female.”
“Hey ya, Phil.” Kay waved. “Don’t let Vera know you’re discussing such heresy.”
“Has to be a man,” Walt muttered. “He knocked down the walls of Jericho. You women can’t even move this little ladder.”
“It’s a trick question.” Phil shifted the grip on the large painting in his hands. “He’s everything: man, woman, child—remember His name is ‘I Am’. It’ll be a lively session. You could add your man-reasoning, Walt. The guys will like it.”
“Well, Phil, you win today’s religious quiz. So you get to stand here and hang onto this ladder.” Walt grabbed a paper-flame from Hettie, offering it to the youth director.
“Sorry, I’ve got a game.” Phil’s smile didn’t hold an ounce of sympathy. “I only dropped by to hand off Mrs. Henley’s portrait of Saint Peter. It needs to be displayed anywhere besides the youth room.”
Walt clenched the wooden rails, staring at the canvas. “Put it back where you found it.”
“The kids would discover it again in the bell closet. They made eye patches, sunglasses, and tattoos from sticky notes, adding them to her painting.”
“It probably improved it.” Walt nodded.
“And…they named it St. Scary. I found them making the little kids sit in front of it with half the lights out if they didn’t sing or behave.”
“Oh,” Allie stared, “Johnny said something about that.”
“I’m sorry,” Phil said.
Allie squinted at the portrait. “Actually, it worked pretty well. Maybe I should borrow it.”
Phil thrust the painting toward Walt. “I’ve got a game in a few minutes.”
Walt shook his head. “Sorry, gotta hold onto this ladder, or Kay thinks it’ll turn to sawdust and she’ll die. I’m sure you’ll figure out something to do with it.”
“I’m setting it here in the corner.”
“Flip it around, so it’s not looking at us.” Kay said, but Phil had already waved his good-byes and was headed for the door.
“I’ll get it.” Hettie turned the canvas toward the wall. “It’s a difficult problem. What does the church do with donations? Vera invested a lot of time and lovingly made it, but it’s really hideous.” She shook her head, sticking out her tongue, as she turned away. “How many more flames do you need, Kay?”
“About twenty. What’re you going to do with it, Walt?”
He stared out the window and held up a line with a yellow flame swinging on the end. “Get to hanging, missy. I can’t lollygag here all day.”
When they’d finished, a swath of red, yellow, and orange fire-tongues danced from the ceiling, passing through the narthex. The ladies were packing up supplies, when Walt voiced a low complaint in Kay’s ear, “Since I’ve been hefting this ladder for you all morning, you can spare a minute to help me.” Before Kay could say something snarky, Walt pointed to the artwork in the corner, then he carried the ladder down the hallway.
“I’ve got things to do, too, you know.” She watched him disappear, mumbled words inappropriate for church, and followed him, toting the portrait of St. Peter.
When she caught up, Walt was unlocking a narrow door. He pointed to a dusty box of trash compacter sacks. “Stand in the hallway and secure that picture in a bag; I’ll set up.”
He opened, closed, and turned the ladder several times until it fit inside the tiny closet; its base angled through the doorway and into the hall. After a rough tug on the zip tie to check Kay’s bagging job, he gave a nod. “Thanks. You can skedaddle.”
She stared at him, arms crossed over her chest. He looked at the floor, shifting his weight foot to foot. His hand scrubbed over his mouth as he glanced at her a couple of times. “Okay, if you must know,” his words sounded terse, but his eyes asked for indulgence, “this is the only ladder that fits through the door and comes near the ceiling.”
“And that’s important because…” She peeked inside the room. “A mystery door in the ceiling?” A grin spread across her face. “I want to see what’s in the hidey-hole.”
“Oh! Now you want to climb the old, dangerous, ladder? The rungs don’t reach the ceiling, and you don’t have the muscles to hoist yourself through the opening. It’s not a secret. Just rarely used. It’s the attic for the organ pipes. Hand me this picture when I get up there.” He picked up the portrait-in-a-bag.
“Just watch me.” Kay climbed, accompanied by Walt’s complaints. She flipped open the hatch, and pulled herself into the darkness. “Hades Fire! It’s huge up here.” Sticking her head back through the opening, she frowned. “Won’t Vera ask about the portrait?”
“I think she’s forgot. I hope so anyway. Too much is changing since Jim died. She’s busy squawking and trying to keep a grip on things.”
“So you think this is the right thing to do?”
“Putting Vera’s painting away and letting future generations decide is the kindest decision. The kids like it now; maybe they’ll still like it and display it in twenty years. After I’m dead and gone. It’s dry and it’s temperature controlled up there.” He climbed several rungs and offered the plastic bag toward the hole. “The other option is to discuss it. Committees like Sanctuary Arts, Property, and The-Society-For-Cruelty-To-The-Seeing will wrestle it around. So tell me; do you think Vera’s feelings will be hurt if there’s talk about re-hanging this thing?”
“Give it to me.”
“Put it with the other bags. You want me to get you a flashlight?”
“What’s in these other—”
“Don’t ask.”
When she emerged from the hole, Walt grabbed her feet and guided them to the top rung. As she reached the floor, he gave her a hug. “Thanks. If anything happens to me, you know where the skeletons are hidden.”
She slapped the dust from her jeans to cover her surprise. She’d never se
en Walt show any tenderness except toward tools. “You could’ve done this by yourself. Are you feeling guilty about those bags up there?”
“Not a lick. Everything up there is a kindness to somebody. I appreciate you being my confederate.”
“Nobody knows?”
“Ruby, my wife, knew. Pastor Henley knew. They’re both gone.”
Kay studied the white-haired man. He looked away, seeming to shrink under her assessment. “Then I’ll carry the secret to the grave, too.” She stuck out her hand.
Walt shook it, a shy grin crossing his face and disappearing just as quickly. “You want one of my cinnamon rolls?”
“I’ll trade you a fancy-pants cup of coffee for one.” She gave him a pat.
Walt nodded. “Maybe I’ll get a light, little ladder you women can tote around.”
Pentecost
OFFICIALLY, IT WAS Pentecost—fifty days after Easter. Unofficially, it heralded the beginning of summer vacation when slacker attitudes and a do-nothing energy began its slow ebb through the congregation.
The irony was lost on most people. Pentecost, the flaming arrival of the Holy Spirit, enabled believers to go out and spread the word. Instead some were inspired to go to the lake where they felt God sat around with them, beer in hand, watching waves and witnessing to crows and crappie.
At the Shaded Valley’s Pentecostal celebration, worshippers were greeted by paper flames dangling over their heads. Red geraniums decorated the sanctuary. The plants became table decorations, and in a few days, they’d end up in flower beds around the church. The floral committee, honoring their efficient German ancestry, was especially pleased they’d decorated and landscaped with one purchase.
Coffee hour featured a large sheet cake covered with red banners and dotted with white doves. Nuts, mints, and a punch bowl of cranberry-7Up ensured folks would hang around after church, instead of wandering home to nap or garden. Lorena slipped into a chair next to an aged woman in the back corner of the Fellowship Hall.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Lorena asked the elderly stranger.
