A Fresh Start in Fairhaven

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  There were positive things, too—an excellent young lady had been accepted at BYU, another had chosen between two would-be suitors the one who would take her to the temple. An elderly couple were preparing to serve their second mission, and a good brother’s diabetes finally seemed to be under control. Another man who had been out of work for months had found a suitable job, and a family with young children had decided to become active in the Church again. And a good many people were just steady, active, dependable sorts with reasonably happy lives.

  The bishop took a deep breath. How, he wondered, even with infinite compassion and wisdom and love, did Heavenly Father bear the knowledge of his myriad children’s trials and sorrows? Could exaltation—and godhood—really be the joyous thing it was reputed to be?

  “Forgive me, Father,” he whispered. “I’m just so . . . finite. Please help me to bear all of this knowledge without being bowed down by it. I know thy capacity is infinite. I just don’t comprehend it.”

  He let himself into the kitchen, which was lighted only by the hood light on the range. It was late, a school night, and apparently everyone had gone to bed—except the Siamese kitten, who pretended to be alarmed at his presence and gave three sideways, stiff-legged hops before scampering under the table.

  He chuckled. “I guess you’re good for a little comic relief, if nothing else.”

  He picked up a note from the table: “Sorry, hon—had to go to bed. Dinner’s in the fridge if you want to nuke it. Hope your meetings went well. Love, Me.”

  He lifted the plastic wrap on the plate in the refrigerator. Barbecued chicken, scalloped potatoes, green beans. A favorite meal, but not one he felt would sit well this late at night. He would have it for lunch tomorrow. He broke some bread into a bowl and poured milk over it, debated about adding a slice of cheese and a couple of radishes or a green onion, and decided against it. Keep it simple, stupid, he told himself.

  Fatigue overtook him halfway through his meal, and his eyes closed. A drop of liquid on his hand startled him, and he woke to see the kitten, whom Mallory called Samantha, sitting by his bowl, daintily dipping her paw into the milk and licking it.

  “Hey,” he objected, and she sat, paw in midair, gazing at him with her slightly crossed blue eyes. He scooped her up and deposited her on the floor, where she immediately wrapped herself around his ankle. He stood up and walked to her dish, dragging her along, and poured some of the milk for her. The rest he emptied down the sink.

  “You and I need to get something straight,” he told the kitten, who purred loudly as she lapped. “I’ve never really liked cats. True, I’ve never had one before—always had a dog when I was a kid, but Trish doesn’t cotton to dogs digging in her yard, and Mallory pestered us half to death for you. So here we are, and I’ll do my best, but don’t expect favors all the time. You’re here on probation. Got that?”

  The kitten didn’t reply, being blissfully occupied, and the bishop went up to bed. Just before he fell asleep, the words of a hymn, one he couldn’t even identify, floated into his mind: “ . . . the weight of your calling he perfectly knows.” It was remarkable, he thought sleepily, how the Holy Ghost can quote scripture and hymns, and bring them to remembrance as needed. Which, he supposed, was as good a reason as any for becoming familiar with such material. Then at least it was all there, in a person’s subconscious, waiting to be plucked from the file and used when appropriate. He knew when it was the Holy Ghost, and not just the workings of his own mind, because of the clarity and power with which these messages came—and the way they stayed with him and taught or comforted him. Actually, as he recalled, the hymn had been talking about the adversary knowing the weight of one’s calling, not the Lord—but both were true.

  “Thank thee, Father,” he whispered. “I know thou wilt help me bear the weight.”

  * * *

  The bishop opened his office door and stepped out to shake hands with Sister Ida Lou Reams and her husband, Barker. It was Wednesday, but Sister Reams was dressed in her Sunday best, clutching her handbag and looking nervous. Barker, for the occasion, had put on a clean sports shirt and shaved, but looked none too happy about it. He gripped the tips of the bishop’s fingers briefly and reluctantly, and with the air of a condemned man, followed his wife into the office.

  Ida Lou Reams was a large woman, accustomed to hard work, cheerful, and uncomplaining. She was one of the first to arrive at any welfare or service project, and could be counted on to stay and clean up after ward dinners, whether she was on that committee or not. She and Barker had reared a family of five boys and one girl, plus two grandchildren for several years, until their widowed eldest son had remarried. She made a baby quilt for each new arrival in the ward, and could be counted on to sew roadshow or play costumes as needed. She taught the younger women to knit, crochet, or quilt, or even, Trish had informed the bishop with amazement, to make braided rugs out of plastic grocery or merchandise bags.

  Ida Lou sat before him now, smiling bravely to cover her nervousness, her knuckles white on the handle of her purse.

  “I’m real grateful you folks could come in, this evening,” the bishop said, wondering how to put them at ease. “Barker, I’m sure you know you’ve got one of the finest wives a man could have.”

  Barker gave a curt nod. “We done okay together, I reckon.”

  “I’d say so. You’ve got a great family, and I’ve admired the way you keep your place up. The yard always looks neat, and it seems like your house gets painted every spring.”

  “Best to keep wood painted, so it don’t rot nor warp.”

  “And most important, you’ve raised a fine bunch of kids—kind of people you’d like to have next door.”

  “Ida Lou’s been a good mama.”

  “Well, but he supported me, Bishop. I couldn’t have did it alone.”

  The bishop was glad that Ida Lou had finally found her tongue and dared to speak.

  “It’s a joint effort, isn’t it—making a home and bringing up kids?”

  She responded again, “Yessir, it is. I’m mighty thankful for ours. Oh, and you might not know, our Billy was just called to the bishopric down at Mobile.”

  “Is that right? Good for him! Wonder if he feels as new and green at it as I do!”

  “Now, you’re doin’ just great. Don’t you worry about a thing,” she soothed. “And I expect Billy’ll do all right, too, onc’t he gits the hang of it, you might say.”

  “I’m sure of it. He’s a real good man, as I recall.” Feeling a knot of nervousness in his stomach, the bishop leaned forward. He cleared his throat. “Now, I imagine you folks are wondering why I asked you to stop by tonight.” He smiled at them. She smiled back.

  Barker frowned. “I’m wonderin’ why you ast for the both of us,” he said, “seein’ as I ain’t even one of your flock, so to speak.”

  The bishop nodded. “There’s a good reason for that, Barker, and I appreciate your coming. You see, in our church, we never call a sister to a position of responsibility without making sure it’s all right with her husband—to make sure that he feels okay about her accepting, that he’ll support her in her calling.”

  “Oh, dear—I wonder what-all you have in mind for me?” Ida Lou fretted. “I hope it’s something I can do.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you in suspense. Ida Lou, the Lord wants you to serve as Relief Society president in our new ward.”

  She gasped, and her eyes immediately filled with tears. “Now, Bishop, you know I’m not an educated woman. I cain’t stand up in front of people and say things right. Not like these young gals, who’ve been to school. It’s hard for me to even get up and bear my testimony, you know that. You’ve heard me try.”

  “Sister Reams, the Lord knows your heart, and he knows your situation, and he must have confidence in your abilities. I want you to know that this calling isn’t coming from me—just through me. We all prayed about this decision, and came up with your name, independently, and when we prayed again, the Lord co
nfirmed it to us. Knowing that, I’m as sure as I’m sitting here that he’ll be with you and help you every step of the way. It’s obvious that you have some experience and some talents and qualities that will be needful as we go about the business of uniting our two wards. There’s some special way you can serve the sisters of Fairhaven, and set an example for them.”

  She cried quietly into a handkerchief, while her husband sat stoically, his only concession to her emotion being to rest his hand on the back of her chair.

  “Barker, how do you feel about this?” the bishop asked quietly.

  Barker shrugged. “Reckon I don’t know what-all’s involved,” he admitted, “but Ida Lou’s pretty much always done what she wanted, far as her church goes. Long as the house was kept up and the kids took care of and supper on the table, I ain’t complained. So I reckon she can do this, iffen she wants. I won’t stand in her way.”

  “Thank you, sir. Ida Lou, how do you feel?”

  “I’m just not—good enough,” she said.

  Barker turned to frown at her. “Reckon you’re good as anybody,” he said.

  “Amen, brother,” agreed the bishop. “And better than most, in the ways that count. And you know, Ida Lou, you won’t be doing it alone. You get to pick two good women to be your counselors.”

  Ida Lou looked up, eyes still streaming, and drew a shaky breath. “Oh, Bishop—could I have that little Frankie Talbot? She’s the sweetest thing.”

  “Dear sister, you just confirmed again to me that your calling is inspired. Sister Talbot’s name was another that I kept thinking of—almost as strongly as yours.”

  “I’ve been athinkin’ about her a passel, lately, and I didn’t know why. But it comes to me, now, that the Lord was tryin’ to prepare me for this.” She sat still a moment, as if listening. “What about Rosetta McIntyre, from the other ward? Have you already got her doin’ something?”

  “She’s about to be released as a Primary teacher. She’s a good choice, I believe. Any thoughts on who might be a good secretary?”

  “Well, Bishop—could I just steal your sweet little wife for that?”

  That surprised him. He realized he hadn’t even thought about calling his own wife to a position in the ward! Of course she would need one—being bishop’s wife wasn’t an actual calling, even though he was sure at times it must feel like one— taking messages for him, being flexible about family activities, keeping things running smoothly in his absence. “I’ll talk to her,” he promised. “And to Sister Talbot and Sister McIntyre.”

  He went on to explain that she would be trained in her new calling by the stake Relief Society president, with help from the outgoing presidencies of both wards.

  “I’ll be working with you a lot, too—and I look forward to that. Thank you, Ida Lou, for accepting this calling. I believe it’ll be a great experience for you.”

  By now she was smiling through her tears, but she shook her head. “I just can’t fathom that Heavenly Father picked me—that he knows me and has confidence in me,” she confessed. “I mean, I’m just me, not nobody special, like I think of Relief Society presidents being!”

  “It’s ‘just you’ he wants,” the bishop assured her. “But I understand your feeling. I’ve felt a good bit that way myself, lately. Thank you, Barker, for being willing to share this good lady with us.”

  Barker grunted, but shook hands a little more warmly than he had, coming in. The bishop saw them out the door, then turned to see Sam Wright’s head poking out of the clerk’s office, a questioning look on his face. The bishop grinned and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Sam grinned back, nodding in satisfaction.

  Jim had a few minutes before his next scheduled interview, and he took the opportunity to lean back in his chair, slip off his shoes, and prop his stockinged feet on his desk. It was nowhere near Christmas, but a line from a favorite carol kept running through his thoughts. “He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger . . .”

  “Thank thee, Father, for knowing us,” he whispered. “our needs, our weaknesses, our strengths and possibilities. Thank thee for good people like Ida Lou Reams. Thank thee for preparing her. Bless her to both feel and be capable in her calling, and bless her husband for allowing her to serve. Help him to see his own possibilities, too.”

  A knock sounded from the door to the clerk’s office. He swung his feet down. “Come in.”

  His executive secretary entered with such straight-backed military bearing that he almost expected him to salute.

  “Yes sir, Brother Dan, what’s on the agenda?”

  “Brother Ralph Jernigan called, wants a few minutes with you, declined to say what about.”

  “All right. When did you tell him?”

  “Said he could be here by seven-thirty. Does that work for you?”

  The bishop sighed. Another dinnertime with the family missed. “Sure, I’ll be here. Anything else coming up?”

  “No sir, not from my end. Do you have any calls for me to make?”

  “I do. Could you get me appointments with Sisters Frances Talbot and Rosetta McIntyre?”

  “I’ll get right on it. Then, I wonder—would there be anything else?”

  “Why don’t you go on home, Dan? I appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “If you need me . . .”

  He shook his head. “Just those two sisters, if you can catch up to ’em.”

  “Thank you, Bishop. I’m sorry to rush out on you, but it’s Susie’s birthday, an’ . . .”

  “Then you take yourself home right now, my man, and let me make those calls myself. I’ve got a few minutes.”

  He made an appointment with Rosetta McIntyre and left a message for Frankie Talbot, asking her to call him at her earliest opportunity. Then he sat back and reviewed what he knew about Ralph Jernigan. It wasn’t a great deal; the Jernigans had lived in Fairhaven for about three years and had been members of the Second Ward. Ralph had a broad face, usually sunburned, and narrow eyes under a black military haircut. The bishop recalled Sister Jernigan’s face even better than her husband’s—possibly because they were such a contrast. Hers was a pale oval with a pointed chin and a small mouth that always seemed to be forming an “O,” and light-colored eyes that seemed perpetually surprised—or was it wary? She had a tendency to perch on the edge of her chair as if poised for flight. He couldn’t recall what either of them did in the way of work, or if they had a family. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out his working copy of the temporary ward list. No children were listed. Sister Jernigan’s name was Linda.

  He stood up and went to the clerk’s office, knocking as he opened the door. It was dark; both Sam Wright and Dan McMillan had gone. Bob Patrenko was busy that evening, helping his wife cover their three teenagers’ instructors at a parent-teacher conference at the high school, and Brother Perkins had to work. No help, there. He tried to remember what, if anything, Bishop Collins had confided in him about the Jernigans. He hadn’t made any notations by their names, so he assumed there hadn’t been anything too seriously amiss in their situ ation. He went back to his desk, said a prayer for guidance, and called home to say he’d be missing dinner.

  “Mom’s gone to my parent-teacher conference,” Tiffani told him. “We already ate.”

  “Oh—sure, that’s fine. If there’s any left, just set it aside for me, okay? And what are you doing, Tiff?”

  “I’m baby-sitting,” she said, in a tone that let him know he should have realized the obvious.

  “Well, thanks, hon. Mom and I both appreciate it. What are Jamie and Mallory up to?”

  “Jamie’s doing his homework, ’cause Mom let him play after school, and Mallory’s trying to make the cat wear a doll’s dress.”

  He chuckled. “That should be interesting.”

  “Dad, she’s gonna get scratched, but will she listen to me? No.”

  “See if she’ll talk to me for a minute.”

  “Okay, but when’re you coming home? I can’t read my book for English beca
use Jamie keeps asking me for help, and Mallory’s gonna need stitches any minute.”

  “Soon as I can, honey. I just have one more person to see, and then I’m outa here.”

  “Well, hurry, okay? I need to take a bath, too. Mallory! Come talk to Dad!”

  “Daddy, you should see Samantha. She looks so pretty in her blue dress. It matches her eyes.”

  “Hey, Mallory. I’ll bet she looks good, but how does she feel about wearing a dress?”

  “Oh, she likes it. Be still, Samantha. I need to wrap you up in the baby blanket now.”

  “You know, honey, kitties have their own clothes. That’s what her fur is for. She’s probably way too hot in a dress and a blanket. How would you feel if you had to wear a dress, a blanket, and a fur coat tonight?”

  “But she’s my kitty. She’s ’posed to play with me. Ow! Ow-ee, she scratched me! Ow, Daddee . . .” Her voice trailed off into tears, and he could hear Tiffani scolding her, full of agitated “I told you so’s,” and “Come on, let’s go get you a Band-Aid.”

  “Hey, Dad,” came Jamie’s voice. “The cat just let Mallory have it. Can’t blame the poor thing, it was stuffed into a dress.”

  “Hi, Jamie—good to talk to you. How bad was the scratch?’

  “I dunno. Not too bad, I reckon. She’s quit cryin’. It was on her hand. Hey, Dad? What’s the Roman numeral for fifty-one look like?”

  “Fifty-one? Wow, let’s see if I can remember. What’s fifty? Is it C?”