by Jan Karon
“For so many years I thought that no heart, however known or unknown, would ever respond to my own. I never dreamed of this happiness with you. And for you to read aloud to me is such a lavish gift; it’s above all I could ever ask or think.”
“Do you remember the time you came down to my study?” he asked. “It was in the middle of the night, and I was walking through the valley . . . you read the hundred and third psalm to me. I was so happy to see you, I felt I’d been rescued from drowning; your voice meant everything to me.”
They sat for a time, gazing at the crimson embers beneath the grate.
“Mother read to me,” he mused, “but not for entertainment. It was purely instructional, bless her soul! But I had Peggy, as you know. Peggy couldn’t read, but she told me stories. Lengthy, complex, wonderful stories of her childhood in the backcountry of Mississippi. Then, when I learned to read, I read to her.”
“I’m trying to remember—when did you see her last?”
“I was ten when she disappeared. Just vanished. I was stricken.” Where did she go? He never knew ...
He suddenly felt again the old sorrow, as if a door had opened somewhere, spilling a grim light into the corridor.
His truest friend had simply never come back to his mother’s kitchen, to cook with her and make her laugh; to slip him a forbidden sweet, and listen to his cares as if they were actually important.
After she’d gone, he often rode his bike down the narrow lane, and entered her cold cabin and called her name. The cabin looked as if she’d simply walked away and would soon return—a dress still hung on a nail, an apron was thrown over the back of a chair, wood for a cook fire had been brought in and placed by the hearth.
His mother, whom he believed to know everything, had appeared to know nothing about Peggy’s disappearance. More than once, he’d trekked to the barn—what if she’d been gathering eggs in the loft, and fallen through the rotten boards? For months, he looked for her on the streets of Holly Springs, and once went to her church on Wednesday night and stood in the road to see whether she came.
It occurred to him as he sat here, more than a half century later, that he’d looked for Peggy for most of his life. Or more truly, he’d looked for her particular warmth. In the divided, often-cold household of his childhood, Peggy’s warmth had ignited in him a kind of fire to love and be loved.
He gazed at his wife with quiet amazement. “I never thought of it before,” he said.
“What have you never thought before?”
“You remind me of Peggy.”
She leaned her head to one side and smiled. “I’m proud to remind you of Peggy,” she said. “Why don’t we go up now, darling—to clean sheets and swept corners?”
She took his hand and led him along the stairs, and once again he felt the happiness of these last weeks. He would do something wonderful for his wife one day. He’d do all in his power to give back what she had so generously given him.
He opened his eyes and looked out the window near their bed. In the cold first light, the distant tree line appeared rimmed with platinum.
“Are you awake?”
“I am.”
He rolled over and kissed her on the cheek. “He is risen!”
“He is risen, indeed!”
“Alleluia!” As ever on Easter morning, a certain heaviness departed his spirit.
“I’m excited about our first real service at Holy Trinity,” she said. “Wait, I take that back. Last Sunday was wonderfully real.”
“I like the way you think; you’ll always be my deacon.” He slid out of bed. “I’ll start the coffee; the ham’s ready to pop in the oven just before we leave.”
“I’ll make breakfast for Sammy and me. Are you having toast?”
“Just toast. And a little butter.” While a priest typically fasted before the Eucharist, his blasted diabetes wanted mollycoddling.
They made the sign to each other; it had become their new private liturgy.
Father Tim pushed open the door to the room where the Owens’ daughter Annie had lived until she finished college. Her years in the foreign service had kept her away from home for long periods, but soon, she’d be moving to Asheville, a fact that thrilled not only the Owens, but himself, as well.
Barnabas bounded in and stood by the bed, wagging his tail.
“Sammy! Good morning! Time to get up, son.”
“What’s g-goin’ on?”
“A blessed Easter to you! We’re off to church in an hour or so, breakfast on the table in twenty minutes.”
“Church?” Sammy sat up in bed, wearing one of Dooley’s left-behind sweatshirts. “I ain’t goin’ t’ no ch-church.”
“We talked about it last night.”
“Y-yeah, but I didn’t s-s-say I’d g-go.”
“House rule. We go to church as a family.”
“That rule wadn’t on th’ l-list you give me b’fore.”
“I’m sorry. I took that rule for granted and failed to mention it. Please get up now and have some breakfast.”
“Quit breathin’ on me!” he heard Sammy say to Barnabas, who caught up with his master on the stairs.
He realized again that he’d never enjoyed making anybody do anything. But enjoyment wasn’t necessarily what it was all about when a lost boy comes under your roof. It had often been tough sledding with Dooley, and it could be tough sledding again.
Lord, he prayed, thank you for being on the sled . . .
They were early, yet four vehicles were already parked in the lot.
As he blew through the door with Barnabas at his heels, he checked his mental list. Pew bulletins on the top shelf by the bell rope. Juice and cups and a tin of cookies on the bottom shelf. Bread and wine in the sacristy; his white vestments hanging behind the door. Lilies in front of the altar, the snowy fair linen laid on, floors swept clean, windows shining . . .
Yesterday’s housekeeping detail with Sammy and Cynthia and Lloyd and the Mertons had been one of the highlights of his priesthood.
Buzzed with excitement, he marshaled his troops.
“Miss Martha, do you sing?”
“Real loud!” announced Mary.
“Good! That’s what we need this morning. Open up those pipes, ladies.
“Kavanagh, I’m depending on you, as well.”
“You know perfectly well I was given an eye, not an ear!”
“No excuses! Lloyd, do you sing?”
“Tenor. But can’t read music t’ save my life.”
“Not a problem, we’re using the old hymns. And there’s a visitor! Welcome to Holy Trinity! Happy Easter! Do you sing?”
“It’ll set y’r dog t’ barkin’,” declared Sparkle Foster.
“Set him to barking, then. We’re here to celebrate!” He hurried toward the sacristy, calling over his shoulder: “Christ being raised from the dead dieth no more!”
Cynthia smiled at the early comers. “My husband is always like this at Easter,” she said.
His wife, a gift from God.
Sammy Barlowe, a gift from God.
His eyes roved the pews.
Agnes Merton, Clarence Merton, gifts from God . . .
Robert Prichard . . . yes, a gift from God . . .
Every saint has a past, the sixteenth-century poet had said, and every sinner has a future. And all because of what He did for love.
“Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us: therefore let us keep the feast. Not with old leaven neither with the leaven of malice and wickedness; but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth . . .”
“As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end . . .”
The old words seemed somehow reborn, as his spirit stepped forth to embrace his new parish.
They gathered in the churchyard, close by the stone wall.
How many souls had gathered at this wall in the life of Holy Trinity, and looked out to clear skies and dark alike? One thing the vicar knew for certain, there wouldn’t be m
any Easter morns as glorious as this.
A soft, impressionist light bathed every ridge; the still-bare trees, seemingly grim and resolute only days ago, appeared relieved and hopeful; for the first time, he noticed buds on the rhododendron.
Barnabas sprawled atop the wall, eyeing all comers.
“‘At’s’ th’ biggest dern dog I ever seen in m’ life,” said Rooter. “Is ’e a bitin’ dog?”
“Not so far,” said Father Tim.
“I don‘ want t‘ be eat up by no dog.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem; he had breakfast before we left.”
He stood with Cynthia and Agnes by the wall, dispensing cartons of eggs. Sissie Gleason was first in line, holding fast to Granny’s hand.
Sissie looked up at Father Tim. “Was God here t’day?”
“He was!” said the vicar. “And is.”
Sissie raised one foot in the air. “I wanted ’im t’ see m’ new shoes.”
“Ain’t them th’ prettiest little yeller shoes you ever laid eyes on?” asked Granny.
“They are!” Cynthia agreed. “I’d love a pair exactly like them.”
Sissie peered into the carton of eggs. “They ain’t colored,” she said. “They ain’t fit t’ hide.”
“Take them home and boil them hard,” said Cynthia, “then color them with your Magic Markers and hide them to your heart’s content. Do you have Magic Markers?”
“What is Magi Markers?”
“I’ll bring you some next Sunday. Do you read?”
“Nope. I ain’t in school yet.”
“I’ll bring you a book,” said Cynthia. “It has lots of pictures. Kiss your mother for us.”
Father Tim squatted to Sissie’s level. “Thank you for coming, Sissie. Tell your Uncle Donny he’d sure be welcome to join us. And tell your mother she’s in our prayers.”
“Sparkle Foster,” said the fortyish woman, shaking Cynthia’s hand. “I do hair in th’ valley, pleased to meet you. An’ this is my husband, Wayne.”
“Sparkle! Wayne! A blessed Easter to you!”
“Same to y’all.This is sure a different kind of church for us. I was raised Holiness,Wayne was raised Baptist.”
“I was raised t’ shout,” said Wayne, setting the record straight, “but fell away to th’ Baptists.”
Cynthia handed off a carton to the redhaired Sparkle, who appeared touched by the gesture. “Why, thank you, how nice. Other than it bein’ Easter, is there a special meanin’ to givin’ eggs away at church?”
“There is, actually! Our hens lay faster than we can use up the proceeds! Where did you get your wonderful name?”
Sparkle laughed. “My granmaw got it out of th’ funny papers.”
“Very creative of your granmaw! We’re happy to have you and hope you’ll come again.”
“I don’t know if we can keep up with th’ way y’ all do things.”
Wayne nodded, clearly in agreement.
“We need to have some lessons on the prayer book,” said the vicar. “Would be good for everybody. What about a covered dish next Sunday? Followed by a discussion on how we do things?” In his new parish, there would be no slacking; it was fish or cut bait.
“Great idea!” boomed Martha McKinney, moving up in line. “I’ll bring my German chocolate cake.”
“She’ll bring her German choc’late cake,” said Mary, clearly thrilled by the prospect.
“Miss Martha, Miss Mary, He is risen!”
“He is risen, indeed!” they recited in unison.
Martha received their dozen with obvious gratitude. “We used to be covered up with eggs, everybody and his brother kept chickens! But today, there’s hardly a soul who’ll keep a chicken.”
“They run out in th’ road,” said Mary. “That’s why.”
Father Tim indicated the open doors and the crowd milling about in the churchyard. “Well, ladies, what do you think?”
Tears brimmed in Martha’s eyes. “It’s the best thing that’s happened on this ridge in more years than I can count. I was so excited, I was up half th’ night!”
“We was both up half th’ night!” said Mary.
“A blessed Easter to you!” He hugged Miss Mary, while Cynthia hugged Miss Martha. Teamwork!
“Lloyd!” The vicar clasped the hand of the other cradle Episcopalian in their midst. “He is risen!”
“He is risen, indeed!” said Lloyd, who received his dozen with a big grin. “Come summer, I’ll keep you an’ Miz Kavanagh in corn. I grow Silver Queen.”
“Our sworn favorite! I meant to ask you yesterday what you do with your time now that you’ve moved home.”
“I was in th’ contractin’ bi‘ness a good many years, workin’ as a brick mason. I’m what you call semiretired, but I still lay a little brick now an’ again.”
“Look how the Lord works! I’m just getting estimates on a chimney that blew down in the wind. Quite a mess. Care to give us a price? We’re in th’ valley, Dr. Owen’s place.”
“Glad to. Happy to! I know right where you’re at.”
“Tuesday morning, first thing?”
“You can count on it.”
“A blessed Easter to you, Granny. Fresh from the nest.”
“Rooter’ll have th’ whole bunch et up b’fore you can say jackrabbit.”
Rooter took the eggs. “We wouldn’t mind gittin’ some more when you’uns have ’em,” said Rooter.
“What d’you say?” prompted Granny.
“Thank you’uns.”
“You’re welcome,” said the vicar, giving Rooter a clap on the shoulder.
Rooter made a face. “I ain’t never heerd none of them songs you’un’s sing.”
Father Tim heard Agnes chuckle.
“Come again next Sunday,” he said, “and we’ll have some more songs you never heard! But guess what?”
“What?”
“You and Granny keep coming, and one day, you’ll start recognizing the words and the tunes, and next thing you know . . .”
Rooter grinned. “I might keep a-comin’, but I won’t be a-singin’, I c’n tell y’ that.” He turned to Agnes. “I’d like t’ say somethin’ to Clarence. Can you show me some of them hand words y’all do?”
“What would you like to say?”
“How you doin’, man?”
“Step over here and I’ll show you,” said Agnes.
“And by the way,” said Father Tim, “I’d like to see Clarence’s work, myself. When it’s convenient.”
“Consider it done!” said Agnes, borrowing his line.
“Robert . . . for you. A blessed Easter!”
Robert took the carton without speaking, his head lowered. When he looked up, Father Tim felt his very soul pierced. In Robert Prichard’s eyes was a look of utter desolation.
Father Tim spontaneously embraced him. “He is risen!” he whispered, hoarse with feeling.
The cookies had vanished, as had the juice, when Rooter ran back to Agnes.
“I done it! What else can I say to ’im?”
“What else would you like to say?”
“I want t’ know how he makes all them things in ’is little house. Them bears an’ deer an’ all, an’ them bowls, I want t’ know how ’e makes them bowls. I don’t see how he done ’at.”
“Watch,” said Agnes.
She made a sign. “Can you do this?”
“Yeah.” He did it.
“That means how. Can you make this sign?”
“Yeah.”
“That means do. Now here’s the rest of your question: this? How do this?”
Rooter watched intently, duplicating the last sign.
“I done it right, didn’ I?”
“You did it perfectly! Here comes the hard part; let’s do them all in a row now. How ... do ... this?”
Father Tim looked on. This boy was quick.
“I done it ag’in!”
“Yes, you did. How amazing.”
“I’ll be et f’r a tater!” said
Granny, marveling. Agnes brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. “Let’s go over it once more.”
They went over it once more.
“Now, run find Clarence!”
Rooter started to race away, then turned back. “Don’t he talk none a’tall?”
“None at all.”
“How’d he learn to make them things?”
“God taught him.”
“I ain’t believin’ that. You cain’t see God.”
“God put the gift to carve wood in Clarence’s heart and mind and hands. Clarence touches the wood and knows things that most of us can’t know.”
Rooter sighed. “Now I done forgot what I learnt.”
“Look here.” She made the signs, and he mimicked them without fault.
“Hurry, now! Run!”
Rooter ran.
“Ain’t he a catbird?” said Granny.
They were pulling out of the church lot as Lloyd was getting into his pickup.
“What would you think,” he asked Cynthia, “about setting another plate for Easter dinner?”
“I would think it’s a wonderful idea.”
He leaned out the window of the Mustang and shouted. “Lloyd!”
“Yessir?”
“Do you like ham and corn pudding and hot rolls and green beans?”
With Lloyd following behind, he steered the Mustang down the gravel road toward the creek, still intoxicated by the scent of beeswax, old wood, lemon oil, lilies . . .
He wanted to remember the happiness of this day for a very long time.
“How’s it going back there, Sammy?” A quick glance in the rearview mirror . . .
Just as Sammy had maintained his distance from the parishioners, he was giving wide berth to his companion on the backseat.
After Lloyd had gone home to the ridge, he sat with Cynthia in the library and totted the numbers.
Not counting his good dog, Holy Trinity had expanded from seven parishioners to fourteen.
Though numbers weren’t everything, he was mighty impressed with their rate of growth, which was a whopping 100 percent.
“One hundred percent!” he announced to his wife. “In the space of a single week, mind you.”
