by Jan Karon
“Aha.”
Sam stirred cream into his coffee, chuckling. “Ernie likes to say that yellow line saved their marriage.”
Marion looked at the kitchen clock. “Oh, my! We’d better show you how your coffers are stocked, and get a move on!”
She took off her apron and tucked it in her handbag, then opened the refrigerator door as if raising a curtain on a stage.
“Half a low-fat ham, a baked chicken, and three loaves of Ralph Gaskell’s good whole wheat . . . Lovey Hackett’s bread-and-butter pickles, she’s very proud of her pickles, it’s her great aunt’s recipe . . . then there’s juice and eggs and butter, to get you started, the eggs are free-range from Marshall and Penny Duncan—he’s Sam’s junior warden.
“And last but not least . . .”—Marion indicated a large container on the bottom shelf—“Marjorie Lamb’s apple spice cake. It’s won an award at our little fair every year for ten years!”
Father Tim groaned inwardly. The endless temptations of the mortal flesh . . .
“What a generous parish you are, and God bless you for it!”
“We’ve always tried to spoil our priests,” said Marion, smiling. “But not all of them deserved it.”
Sam blinked his blue eyes. “Now, Marion, good gracious . . .”
“Just being frank,” Marion said pleasantly.
“Dearest, I think we should be frank, too.”
“In, ah, what way?” inquired Father Tim.
“About your diabetes. My husband likes to think that St. Paul’s controversial thorn was, without doubt, diabetes.”
“Oh, dear!” said Marion. “That means . . .”
“What that generally means is, I can’t eat all the cakes and pies and so on that most folks like to feed a priest.”
“But I can!” crowed his wife.
“It helps to get the word out early,” he said, feeling foolish. “Cuts down on hurt feelings when . . .”
Sam nodded sympathetically. “Oh, we understand, Father, and we’ll pass it on. Well, we ought to be pushing off, Marion. We’ve kept these good people far too long.”
“Everybody’s having a fit to get a look at you,” Marion said proudly. “We hope you’ll rest up this afternoon, and we’ll come for you at six. It looks like we’ve got lovely weather on our side for the luau.”
“Is the, ah, grass skirt deal still on?” asked Father Tim.
Marion laughed. “We nixed that. We didn’t want to run you off before you get started!”
“Well done! And how do we get to St. John’s? I’m longing to have a look.”
“Good gracious alive!” said Sam, digging in his pockets. “I nearly forgot, I’ve got a key here for you.”
He fetched out the key and handed it over. “Go out to the front gate, take a left, and two blocks straight ahead. You can’t miss it. Oh, and Father, there are a couple of envelopes on the table in your sitting room. From two of our . . . most outspoken parishioners. They wanted to get to you before anyone else does . . .”—Sam cleared his throat—“if you understand.”
“Oh, I do,” he said.
“If I were you, Father,” Marion warned, “I’d visit the church and take a nice nap before you go reading those letters. To put it plainly, they’re all about bickering. We hate to tell you, but our little church has been bickering about everything from the prayer book to the pew bulletins for months on end. I’ve heard enough bickering to last a lifetime!”
They walked out to the porch, into the shimmering light. For mountain people accustomed to trees, it seemed the world had become nothing but a vast blue sky, across which cumulus clouds sailed with sovereign dignity.
“Thank you a thousand times for all you’ve done for us,” Cynthia said.
“It’s our privilege and delight. You know, we Whitecappers aren’t much on hugging, but I think you could both use one!”
Sam and Marion hugged them and they hugged back, grateful.
The senior warden looked fondly at his new priest. “We’ll help you all we can, Father, you can count on it.”
He had the feeling that he would, indeed, be counting on it.
His wife notwithstanding, he had eagerly obeyed only a few people in his life—his mother, most of his bishops, Miss Sadie, and Louella. He thought Marion Fieldwalker might be a very good one to mind, so he lay down with Cynthia and took a nap, feeling the warmth of the sun through the large window, loving the clean smell of the softly worn matelassé spread, and thanking God.
Setting off to his new church with his good dog made him feel reborn. But he wouldn’t go another step before he toured the garden, enclosed by a picket fence with rear and front gates leading to the streets.
Along the pickets to the right of the porch, a stout grove of cannas and a stand of oleander . . .
By the front gate, roses gone out of bloom, but doing nicely, and on the fence, trumpet vine. Several trees of some sort, enough for a good bit of shade, and over there, a profusion of lacecap hydrangea . . .
He walked around to the side of the house, where petunias and verbena encircled a sundial, and trotted to the backyard. An oval herb garden, enclosed by smaller pickets, a bird feeder hanging by the back steps . . .
He made a quick calculation regarding the grass. Twenty minutes, max, with the push mower Sam had sharpened, oiled, and left in the storage shed.
A light breeze stole off the water, and the purity of the storm-cleansed air was tonic, invigorating. He thought he heard someone whistling as he went out the rear gate, and was amazed to find it was himself.
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay . . .
They cantered along the narrow lane, spying the much-talked-about street sign at the corner of the high fence. The fence was thickly massed with flowering vines and overhung by trees he couldn’t identify. It was wonderful to see things he couldn’t identify—why hadn’t he been more of a traveler in his life, why had he clung to Mitford like moss to a log, denying himself the singular pleasures of the unfamiliar?
He had the odd sense he was being watched. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked around. Not a bicycle, not a car, not a soul, only a gull swooping above them. They might have been dropped into Eden, as lone as Adam.
Ernie’s and Mona’s, he discovered, sat close to the street, with a dozen or so vehicles parallel-parked in front. Cars and pickups lined the side of the road.
Mona’s Cafe
Three Square Meals
Six Days A Week
Closed Sunday
Ernie’s Books, Bait & Tackle
Six ’Til Six
NO SUNDAYS
Twelve-thirty, according to his watch, and more than five whole hours of freedom lying ahead. Hallelujah!
He tied the red leash to a bench, and Barnabas crawled under it, panting.
As the screen door slapped behind him, he saw the painted yellow line running from front to back of the center hallway. A sign on an easel displayed two arrows—one pointed left to Mona’s, one pointed right to Ernie’s.
He read the handwritten message posted next to the café’s screen door:
Don’t even think about cussing in here.
Should he follow the seductive aromas wafting from Mona’s kitchen, or buy a Whitecap Reader and see what was what?
He hooked a right, where the bait and tackle shop had posted its own message by the door:
A fishing rod is a stick with a hook at one end and a fool at the other.
—Samuel Johnson
“What can I do for you?” A large, genial-looking man in a ball cap sat behind the cash register.
“Looking for a copy of the Whitecap Reader,” Father Tim said, taking change from his pocket.
“We prob’ly got one around here somewhere. You wouldn’t want to pay good money today since a new one comes out Monday. Roanoke, we got a paper over there?”
Roanoke looked up, squinting. “Junior’s got it, he took it to th’ toilet with ’im.”
“That’s OK,” said Father
Tim. “I’ll pay for one. How much?”
“Fifty cents. You can get it out of the rack at th’ door.”
He doled out two quarters.
“We thank you. This your first time on Whitecap?”
“My wife and I just moved here.”
“Well, now!” The man extended a large hand across the counter. “Ernie Fulcher. I run this joint.”
“Tim Kavanagh.”
“What business’re you in?”
“New priest at St. John’s.”
“I never set eyes on th’ old one,” said Ernie. “I think Roanoke ran into ’im a time or two.”
Roanoke nodded, unsmiling. He thought Roanoke’s weathered, wrinkled face resembled an apple that had lain too long in the sun.
“Well, thanks. See you again.”
“Right. Stop in anytime. You fish?”
“Not much.”
“Need any shrimp, finger mullet, squid, bloodworms, chum . . . let me know.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Plus we’re th’ UPS station for th’ whole island, not to mention we rent crutches—”
“Good, good.”
“And loan out jigsaws, no charge.”
“I’d like to look at your books sometime.”
Ernie jerked his thumb toward a room with a handprinted sign over the open door: Books, Books and More Books. “I got a deal on right now—buy five, get one free.”
“Aha.”
“Can’t beat that.”
“Probably not. Well, see you around.”
He was unhooking the leash from the bench leg as two men walked out of Mona’s, smelling of fried fish.
“What kind of dog is that?” one asked, popping a toothpick in his mouth.
“Big,” said his friend.
He loved it at once.
St. John’s in the Grove sat on a hummock in a bosk of live oaks that cast a cool, impenetrable shade over the churchyard and dappled the green front doors.
The original St. John’s had been destroyed by fire during the Revolutionary War, and rebuilt in the late nineteenth century in Carpenter Gothic style. Sam Fieldwalker said the Love family purchased the contiguous property in the forties and gave it to St. John’s, so the small building sat on a tract of thirty-five acres of virgin maritime forest, bordered on the cemetery side by the Atlantic.
Father Tim stood at the foot of the steps inhaling the new smells of his new church, set like a gem into the heart of his new parish. St. John’s winsome charm and grace made him feel right at home, expectant as a child.
He crossed himself and prayed, aloud, spontaneous in his thanksgiving.
“Thank You, Lord! What a blessing . . . and what a challenge. Give me patience, Father, for all that lies ahead, and especially I ask for Your healing grace in the body of St. John’s.”
He walked up the steps and inserted the key into the lock. It turned smoothly, which was a credit to the junior warden. Then he put his hand on the knob and opened the door.
Though heavy, it swung open easily. He liked a well-oiled church door—no creaking and groaning for him, thank you.
The fragrance of St. John’s spoke to him at once. Old wood and lemon oil . . . the living breath of last Sunday’s flowers still sitting on the altar . . . years of incense and beeswax. . . .
To his right, a flight of narrow, uncovered stairs to the choir loft and organ. To his left, an open registry on a stand with a ballpoint pen attached by a string. He turned to the first entry in the thick book, its pages rustling like dry leaves. Myra and Lewis Phillips, Bluefield, Kentucky, July 20, 1975 . . . we love your little church!!
He looked above the stand to the framed sign, patiently hand-lettered and illumined with fading watercolors.
Let the peace of this place surround you as you sit or kneel quietly. Let the hurry and worry of your life fall away. You are God’s child. He loves you and cares for you, and is here with you now and always. Speak to Him thoughtfully, give yourself time for Him to bring things to mind.
Oh, the balm, he thought, of a cool, quiet church full of years.
He walked into the center aisle, which revealed bare heart-of-pine floorboards. They were more than a handbreadth wide, and creaked pleasantly under his tread. Creaking doors, no, he thought, but floorboards are another matter. He’d never lived in a house in which at least two or three floorboards didn’t give forth a companionable creak.
On either side of the broad aisle, eight long oak pews seating . . . three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and four short pews seating four. Here and there, a cushion lay crumpled in a pew, reserving that site as someone’s rightful, possibly long-term, territory.
His eye followed the aisle to the sanctuary, where a cross made of ship’s timbers hung beneath an impressive stained glass.
In the dimly illumined glass, the figure of Christ stood alone with His hands outstretched to whoever might walk this aisle. Behind Him, a cerulean sea. Above, an azure sky and a white gull. The simplicity and earnestness of the image took his breath away.
“ ‘Come unto me . . .’ ” he read aloud from the familiar Scripture etched on the window in Old English script, “ ‘all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ ”
These were his first spoken words in his new church, words that Paul Tillich had chosen from all of Scripture to best express his personal understanding of his faith.
Suddenly feeling the weariness under the joy, he slipped into a pew on the gospel side and sank to his knees, giving thanks.
Barnabas strained ahead, his nose to the ground; St. John’s new priest-in-charge allowed himself to be pulled hither and yon, as free as a leaf caught in a breeze.
They walked around the church and out to the cemetery, where he pondered the headstones and gazed beyond the copse of yaupon to yet another distant patch of blue. He cupped his hand to his ear and listened, hoping to hear the sweetly distant roar, but heard only a gull instead.
Shading his eyes, he turned and searched toward the Sound, across the open breast of the hummock and into the trees, wondering whether the wild ponies were mythic or actually out there. He hoped they were out there.
Before he and Barnabas headed home, he stood for a moment by the grave site of the Redmon Love family, which was guarded by an iron fence and a tall, elaborately formed angel clothed in lichen. Redmon, his wife, Mary, and a son, Nathan, were the only occupants.
Next to the Love plot was a grave headed by a simple, engraved tablet, which he stopped to read.
A loved one from us has gone,
A voice we love is stilled.
A place is vacant in our home,
Which never will be filled.
Estelle Woodhouse, 1898-1987
He took a deep breath and stroked the head of his good dog who sat contentedly at his feet.
All will be well and very well, he thought. He felt it surely.
Dear Father Kavanagh:
I have been baptized, confirmed, and married at St. John’s.
I have served on the Altar Guild, sung in the choir, and taught Sunday School (except for the years I was away on the mainland, getting my schooling).
I have ushered, been secretary and treasurer of the ECW for five terms, read the propers each Sunday for seven years, and in 1975, headed the fund-raising drive for the complete restoration of our organ.
The only thing I haven’t done in the Episcopal Church is attend my own funeral.
My point is that I know what I am talking about, and what I am talking about is all those people who refuse to do the things of the church with respect and dignity, wishing only to satisfy their whims and confuse our young people.
Would you agree, Father, that you do not list cars for sale in the pew bulletins? Would you agree that you do not switch back and forth from the 1928 prayer book to the 1979, willy-nilly and harumscarum, on whatever notion happens to strike? Would you agree that holy communion is a time best savored and appreciated in quietude, rather than with the b
lare and clamor of every odd instrument conceivable, including the harmonica?
I earnestly hope and pray that Father Morgan’s favorite instrument, the guitar, will not be making any surprise appearances during your term as interim.
It grieves me that you should come into such a jumble as we’ve created at St. John’s, but Bishop Harvey guarantees that you are without a doubt the one to save us from ourselves.
I fervently hope you will not allow such behavior to continue, and will remind one and all in no uncertain terms how the venerable traditions of the church are to be properly maintained.
Respectfully yours,
Jean Ballenger
He couldn’t help but chuckle. If that was the worst squabbling he’d face as interim, he’d be a happy man.
His wife could be heard puttering about in bare feet, humming snatches of tunes, and boiling water to make iced tea. He sat back in his chair and sighed, deciding that he liked this room very much.
Two club chairs, slipcovered in striped duckcloth, flanked a painted green table topped by a reading lamp.
An old parson’s table stood against the facing wall, beneath framed watercolors of a country lane, a lake bordered by trees in autumn foliage, ducks on a pond, a small blue and red boat on the open sea, and an elderly man and woman at prayer over an evening meal. An oddly pleasing combination, he thought, nodding approval.
Their books would arrive on Monday, and he would go foraging for bricks and lumber straightaway. By Tuesday evening, if all went well, they would have bookcases in their sitting room, along the now-barren end wall.
The only doubt he entertained about the room was a print of the Roman Colosseum, which had faded, overall, to pale green.
He felt the weariness of recent days in his very bones. Thanks be to God, he wouldn’t be preaching in the morning; however, on the following Sunday, it would be fish or cut bait.
