by Jan Karon
He scratched Barnabas behind an ear, amazed and overcome.
So this is what God had for him.
He turned to the communion rail, and ran his hand along the wood. Oak. Golden and deeply grained. He rubbed the wood with his thumb, musing and solemn, then dropped to his knees on the bare floor and lowered his head against the rail. Barnabas sat down beside him.
Lord, thank You for preparing me in every way to be all thatYon desire for this mission, and for making good Your purpose for this call. Show me how to discern the needs here, and how to fulfill them to Your glory and honor.
He continued aloud, “Bless the memory of all those who have gathered in these pews, and the lives of those who will gather here again.”
Barnabas leaned against the vicar’s shoulder.
“I am Thine, O Lord. Show me Thy ways, teach me Thy paths, lead me in Thy truth and teach me.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
He raised his head and looked at the play of sunlight flooding through the open doors behind him.Where was the one who had opened the church? And why was it prepared for a congregation that hadn’t yet been found?
He rose and gazed around him at the bead board walls, the ceiling supported by pine beams, the windows that welcomed trees and sky into the small room ...
“Hello!” he shouted.
He stood in the single aisle with his back to the altar, looking across the pews and out to the mountains, green upon blue upon purple in the shifting morning light ...
Shine, Preacher! In thy place, and be content! His scalp prickled with anticipation and the honest cold of a spring morning at four thousand feet.
After glancing about for any evidence of prayer books or hymnals, which he didn’t spy, he trotted along the aisle and down the steps and cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted again, “Hello!”
But there was only an echo, and the call of a male cardinal on the bough of a pine near the open door.
He and Barnabas bounded into the kitchen where Cynthia had set up her watercolor paraphernalia at the north-facing windows.
“Timothy?” She seemed oddly surprised at the sight of him. “You look years younger! What is it?”
He thumped onto the window seat. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
He told Dooley where the truck was coming from—namely, the generosity of Miss Sadie Baxter’s heart and purse; he asked the trustee how to channel the funds to the dealer; and he had a final phone seminar on how to get off the lot without being scalped.
“Ask ’em to pick up th’ freight charges.”
“Aha.” He could do that.
“An’ don’t kick th’ tires; they don’t nobody do that n’more.”
So went Lew’s bottom-line summation of how to buy a truck.
But of course, there was no truck to buy. Dooley’s list of optional features required that such a vehicle be ordered from the factory, and the wait would be four months.
“How about three months?” he asked, hoping to appear no-nonsense.
“Four months,” said the salesman.
He expected Dooley to settle for fewer options and go for a truck they could drive off the lot.
No deal.
Dooley smoked over the available blue model that offered several options he was looking for and made his studied pronouncement. “I’ll wait for red.”
“Which red do you want?” asked the salesman, who was sporting considerably more aftershave than J. C. Hogan. “If I was you, I’d go for th’ Impulse Red Pearl, that’s your metallic an’ all, an’ a real nice low-key maroon.You take that Radiant Red, it’s a whole lot more noticeable to th’ police.”
“Definitely Impulse Red!” blurted Father Tim. “Sorry, son. That’s your call entirely.”
Dooley grinned. “Impulse Red.That’s what I was going to say”
He was proud of his boy. Dooley’s willingness to wait for what he really wanted was, in his opinion, a definite mark of character.
Miss Sadie would approve.
They trotted along the block of Holding’s Main Street where Sammy was best-known. Though Dooley had sent his brother a general delivery letter, saying he’d meet him at the drugstore this morning, the clerk said she hadn’t seen Sammy in a few weeks.
It must have been early February, she told them; she was putting valentines in the card rack when he came in and bought a Snickers bar.
“How did he look?” Dooley wanted to know. “Was he sick or anything?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “He was just his usual self, said he was going to get a haircut.”
Dooley and Father Tim glanced at each other. Sammy was proud of cutting his own hair.
“How much is a haircut in Holding?” asked Dooley.
“I think it’s eight dollars. My husband, Wayne, died two years ago and I don’t keep up anymore. ”
When they hit the sidewalk, Dooley frowned. “I wrote and told him I was coming home, an’ I wondered why I didn’t hear back.”
Dooley kicked at the post of the street sign with the toe of his sneaker. “Seems like if he had eight bucks, he wouldn’t spend it on a haircut.”
“Let’s hit the barber shop,” said Father Tim.
The barber looked up from one of his two chairs. “Sammy! You look like you’re preachin’ a funeral, boy. Where’d you get them duds?”
“My name is Dooley; Sammy’s my little brother. Has he been here lately?”
The barber blinked his eyes vigorously, as if to clear his vision. “Not since I cut his hair back in, oh, sometime in February, I believe it was. I’ve seen ‘im around town since he was a pup, but that was th’ first time I ever cut ’is hair.”
“What did you cut his hair for?”
The barber looked puzzled. “Because he asked me to.”
“I mean, was he going someplace special or . . . ?”
“Said he might be takin’ a bus somewhere. I don’t recall where. You sure are th’ spit-dang image of one another.” The barber squinted at Dooley. “Maybe he’s a hair taller.”
“Two inches,” said Dooley. “Who else in town would know about Sammy?”
“Don’t have a clue. He makes th’ rounds of th’ drugstore and th’ pool hall. I seen you already go in th’drugstore. I know he goes to th’ post office some; then once in a while he drops by here to see what’s goin’ on.”
They trekked to the pool hall and post office, then out to the river, where they tried to find Lon Burtie, the Vietnam vet who had taken a supportive interest in Sammy’s welfare. Lon would definitely know where Sammy was. But Lon wasn’t home.
They left a note stuck behind the metal grid of Lon’s screen door, asking Lon to have Sammy call Dooley at the farm.
ASAP. Collect.
No truck and no little brother.
They drove up the mountain, silent.
“I’m taking you to see a sunset.”
“I love sunsets!”
“... in the pickup truck.”
She pulled on her fleece jacket with the hood. “I love pickup trucks.”
He laughed. “What don’t you love, Kavanagh?”
“Twenty-five-watt bulbs in reading lamps, cats that throw up on the rug after devouring a mouse, age spots ...”
“The usual,” he said.
“Just look!” She showed him the backs of her hands.
“Freckles,” he said. “Trust me.”
He was positively light-headed at the thought of sitting on the stone wall with Cynthia, the one with whom he most wanted to share this extraordinary view. And next, of course, Dooley—he’ d bring Dooley up here on his long summer break. And Puny and the grans, the whole caboodle . . .
“I’ll help you in every way,” she said as they bumped across the creek and up the lane on the other side. “Just please don’t make me do spaghetti suppers.”
“Holy Trinity isn’t a spaghetti supper kind of place.”
“What kind of place is
it?”
“You’ll see.”
They sat on the wall and held hands, marveling.
“And this is only a spring sunset,” she said. “Just wait ’til fall! How will we bear such beauty?”
He was glad the church door was locked; he wouldn’t wish to divide the joy of the spectacle before them.
They walked to the truck, hand in hand in the gathering dusk.
“So what kind of place do you think it is?” he asked.
She looked at him, happy and expectant. “A dinner-on-the-grounds kind of place!”
“Bingo!” exclaimed the vicar.
In a cold, driving rain, he met the locksmith at Holy Trinity, where he saw no sign of anyone else. Indeed, the door was again locked.
The smith hunkered over the escutcheon while Father Tim attempted to fend off the rain with an umbrella.
“No way can I make a key for this sucker. Th’ lock case must’ve been put on when George Washin’ton cut down th’ cherry tree. I ain’t got equipment t’ handle makin’ a key like this.”
“So what can we do?”
“Change th’ lock. Ain’t nothin’ else’ll work.”
“Today? Now?”
“Have to go back to town an’ get what I need, I can meet you here tomorrow mornin’ around eight, eight-thirty.”
“So be it,” he said. “But try to find something with an antique finish, nothing brassy.”
On the way to the farm, he realized he didn’t feel right about this idea.
Whoever was accustomed to taking such tender care of Holy Trinity would be locked out; indeed, he would be the interloper, not they.
He called the locksmith at home and left a message.
“Buster, this is Tim Kavanagh. Don’t go up to Holy Trinity in the morning, I’d like to hold off a few days. Hope this is no inconvenience. I’ll be in touch.”
In the meantime, how was he supposed to hook up with whoever had appointed themselves Holy Trinity’s sexton?
The answer that presented itself was simple, if not altogether mindless. He would leave a note.
Dear Friend, he wrote on a piece of Meadowgate Farm stationery, May our Lord bless you generously for your concern for Holy Trinity’s welfare. You have done a splendid job!
Bishop Stuart Cullen has appointed me vicar of Holy Trinity, with a vision toward the revival of a flourishing local congregation.
To this end, I must have a key made. Unfortunately, my locksmith is not equipped to make a key for such a very old lock, and we are required, perforce, to have the lock changed.
If you would kindly call me at the number below, I would enjoy discussing this and other details of HT’s impending renewal with you.
In Him Who loved us first,
He penned his name with the sign of the cross.
Father Timothy A. Kavanagh t
He tossed the roll of Scotch tape that he’d use to affix the note to the door into the truck.
He looked up. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning ...
There was no red sky this morning, so perhaps there would be no weather to ruin his scribbled communique.
Leaving Barnabas asleep, he hauled west along the valley floor, then up the winding mountain road and across the still-bold creek through the tunnel of budding trees and around the bend by the oak and into the parking lot.
Twelve point six miles. Twenty-one point nine minutes.
He hurried to the church, and found the doors open. Ha! He wouldn’t have to tape the note, after all.
“Hello!” His excitement mounted as he stepped into the nave.
“Hello!” he called again.
No answer.
“Blast!”
He spied the rope hanging to the right of the door and gave it a yank.
In the steeple above his head, the bell thunked pathetically. This would take a mightier pull than he’d thought . . .
Bong!
There, by George! He grabbed the rope more tightly still and gave another hard pull.
Bong!
The sound pealed forth across the great bowl of the gorge and returned to him, shimmering and lovely.
Bong!
He didn’t have a hundred years to get this job done, he had ’til next April, and no time to lollygag.
Bong!
He was getting the hang of it now.
Bong!
The rope shot up, he clung on and pulled it again; the sound rang out....
Bong!
Maybe this would round up the mysterious sexton. In any case, it was a darned good way to warm up on a cold morning.
Bong!
Enough.
He wiped his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. Right up there with chopping wood ...
He strode along the aisle and peered to either side of the altar for a light switch, found one, and flipped it. Aha! A small chandelier with three bulbs illumined the nave, albeit weakly. And over there to the left, a door. He’d missed that earlier. Should be the sacristy....
Locked. The smith would have a prosperous time of it up here.
He darted along the aisle and down the steps, and checked out the north side of the church. No outside door into the locked room....
And no toilet, of course. That would have been typical of the old mission churches. They’d have to bring in a Porta John.
He returned to the nave and took a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket, and sat in the front pew on the epistle side.
He’d need to order prayer books and hymnals and, of course, kneelers. The kneelers didn’t have to be anything stitched in gold by an ECW crowd, he’d seen a catalog with a Naugahyde number that was going for around fifty bucks. A chalice and paten . . . fair linen . . . a couple of vases for altar flowers . . .
Ha! Of course! A pulpit! Pretty important piece of business, a pulpit. And a lectern for the lessons . . .
He paused in his scribbling and gazed at the chandelier. How in the dickens would anyone be able to read by that pitiful wattage? On a rainy or overcast day, they’d all need pocket flashlights!
What else? Communion bread, which he or Cynthia could bake from the recipe he’d cobbled together as a curate. A basin and water jug for the sacristy . . .
This was like setting up housekeeping.Where most priests would be given a fine building loaded with top-of-the-line accoutrements, he’d be starting from scratch.
Starting from scratch! Had a nice ring, once one got over the shock of it.
And music . . . what could be done about music? Maybe a sign at the post office would reel in a free piano. Then again, probably not. Perhaps he’d try to drum up a piano in Mitford . . .
In the meantime, he’d leave notices at the post office and country store, announcing that Holy Trinity would soon be open for business, as it were, and then, he’d call the county agent who’d probably help get the word out.
Though all that was well and good, the real key would be home visitation, no two ways about it. After Dooley left for school on Saturday, he’d hop right to it.
He looked around the nave toward the spot on the north wall where a stovepipe had once funneled smoke onto frigid winter air. He expected they’d need a stove again, for he saw no returns or vents that suggested Holy Trinity had been upfitted in the heating department. In any case, they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.
His mind wandered to Lord’s Chapel, and the choir of twentyplus well-rehearsed voices, and Richard hammering away at the pipe organ, all of it making his hair stand on end, Sunday after Sunday. And the stained glass windows, set into the chestnut walls of the nave and sanctuary like rare jewels . . . Jesus in the turquoise pool beneath the descending dove and St. John in his loincloth, looking blasted out of his earthly senses by the wondrous appearance of the Divine Son of God, not to mention his own cousin....
He remembered being worn from weeks of attention to endless dozens of details, only to experience once more the exultation of processing with the choir and congregation from the froze
n churchyard into the warm nave, from Lent into Easter, all voices joined with that of a trumpet in the glorious hymn he’d loved since a boy.
Jesus Christ is risen today
Al ... le ... lu ... ia!
Our triumphant holy day,
Al ... le ... lu ... ia!
He was startled to find himself standing in the hush of Holy Trinity, as if awakened from a dream.
He glanced at his notes. Yes! Home visitation.
But where did people live up here, anyway? He didn’t recall seeing houses on this side of the creek. A few on the other side maybe. Maybe.
He sighed. Stuart had said this would be a challenge, so why was he surprised? He bowed his head and closed his eyes and lifted his palms in silent supplication. Lord!
“Father?”
He startled. “Yes?”
A woman, cast into silhouette by the strong morning light at her back, stood in the doorway.
She moved toward him, and though he couldn’t discern her face, he was drawn at once to her and hurried to greet the one whom the bell had summoned. He observed that she was tall and quick, though bent and using a cane, and as she stepped into the light from the window above the altar, he saw that her countenance was radiant with feeling.
She smiled and extended her hand, and with deep humility, he took it, aware that it trembled slightly in his own.
“Father, I’m Agnes Merton—one of the last of the faithful remnant.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Agnes
“Mrs. Merton, I’m Timothy Kavanagh.”
“Please. Call me Agnes.”
They shook hands slowly, as if there were all the time in the world.
“Bishop Cullen has asked me to be vicar of Holy Trinity.”
“We’ve waited many years for you, Father Kavanagh. God is faithful. He told us He would send someone.”
“And here I am,” he said, still shaking her hand. “Agnes! I’ve always liked that name. Are you the one who’s looked after this place so faithfully?”
“My son, Clarence, and I. For more than thirty years.”
“Thirty years! Such an endeavor boggles the mind!”
