by Cindy Maddox
And what was real was that she was eighty-two years old, had no real purpose in life, and her sole contribution to the universe was crocheting.
Just then her phone dinged with a message, from the same number as before.
I don’t mean to be pushy, but do you want to try again?
Mish stared at the phone, not sure what to say. Who was this, and why were they writing again? She typed back, Why, and then accidently hit the send button too soon. Before she could finish typing a better response, an answer came back.
Because you’re special.
Mish let out a huff. Not true, she typed back.
The response came immediately.
How can you say that? Absolutely true. I knew it from the beginning.
Mish tugged on the curl behind her ear. What did that even mean? The beginning of what? Before she could figure out how to respond, her phone dinged again.
I know you. Your beautiful blue eyes are a window to your soul.
Hope began to rise in her heart, just a bit. When they had spoken, she had felt like the woman—the Jesus woman—had really known her. And hadn’t she been complimented on her blue eyes her whole life? But she couldn’t go all crazy before she knew. She had to come out and ask.
Who are you really and what do you want?
The response was immediate.
You already know who I am. I am who you think I am.
Another text came.
And I want you just as you are.
Suddenly she was grinning again. She’d been right all along. I am who I am—that was what God told Moses when he asked for God’s name. And she’d been singing Just As I Am in church since she was five years old. Her heart knew what was true. The woman was real. The message was real. The mission was real. She just had to follow the love.
Her fingers were shaking so much it was hard to type, but she did it. When and where?
Diner at six?
I’ll be there!! She paused and then looked back at the recliner. “Is two exclamation points enough? You’re right. There should be three. One for the Father and one for the Son and one for the Holy-gosh-darn-Ghost!”
3.
Jeff opened the front door and was greeted by the luscious smell of garlic and basil.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Stephen called unnecessarily.
Jeff hung his keys on the brass key holder and walked into the kitchen to see Stephen standing at the stove wearing his “Kiss the Chef” apron. He obeyed the instructions, then reached into the fridge for the bottle of wine he’d opened the night before.
“Jeff, we really need to get this burner fixed. It’s hard enough to cook a decent meal on this ancient electric stove, without one of the large burners being out.”
Jeff let out a quiet sigh. After a long day making hospital and nursing home visits, he really didn’t want to be greeted by problems the minute he walked in the door. But it was important to Stephen, so he tried not to let his irritation show. “I mentioned it to the trustees at last month’s meeting, and they said they’d get to it. I’m sure they’re all just really busy.”
“Can’t we just take care of it ourselves?” Stephen asked. “It’s probably a simple matter of replacing the element.”
“I know, but it’s the church’s responsibility to keep up the parsonage. My dad always said it was dangerous to circumvent the trustees. Once you start doing the little repairs, they expect you to do the big ones too. And they expect the next pastor who follows you to do the same. So it’s better to let the church leaders handle it all.” Jeff filled two glasses of wine and handed one to Stephen.
Stephen took a sip of his wine. “That might have worked for your father, but…”
“I’ll ask again at the next meeting,” Jeff assured him.
Stephen set down his glass and stirred the pesto pasta. “On second thought, don’t bother. During the bazaar on Saturday, I’ll just mention the problem to their wives. They’ll put pressure on their husbands, and it’ll be done within a week.”
“Wow. Stereotype much?”
Stephen added the freshly chopped tomatoes to the pan, then looked up at Jeff. “Can you name a single trustee for whom this is inaccurate?”
Jeff went around the conference room table in his mind. “Point taken,” he admitted. “Speaking of the bazaar, we need to talk about the Women’s Society meeting today.” Stephen had given him a quick rundown over the phone, but they hadn’t been able to discuss it much.
Stephen looked at him warily. “Which part are you mad about? That I said you’d make a cake for this weekend, or that I told them its real name?”
“Well, both, actually. But I meant baking the cake. I don’t have time for that. I haven’t even started my sermon.”
“I know. Of course, I told Ruth it was almost done. You know how she loves to criticize your sermon preparation.”
Jeff frowned. “I bet Pastor Goodpastor never started his sermon on Saturday. His was probably written by Tuesday morning at the latest.”
Stephen grinned. “Especially if his seminary friend was coming to visit.”
“Ethyl really believes he was gay?”
“Sure seems to,” he answered as he started serving their dishes. “But why is this the first we’re hearing of it? Haven’t there been gay ministers in your denomination for, like, thirty years?”
“Sure, in California. Not West Virginia.”
“Right. I keep forgetting how behind the times you religious types are.”
Jeff started to take offense but then saw the twinkle in Stephen’s blue eyes. So he put his hand on his heart and returned the joke. “Yes, if only the whole world were as enlightened as those in the theatre, where a homophobe dare not show his face!”
Stephen laughed, as Jeff had known he would. “Well, I still say that the church may have more drama queens than the theatre world does.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” Jeff said and rubbed his neck, trying in vain to ease the headache that had been building all afternoon.
Stephen put the pasta and salad in front of him, took his seat, then hurried to take the pressure off. “Seriously, hon, don’t worry about the cake. I’ll do it. But oh, you should have seen the look on Ruth’s face when I told her the proper name!”
“You do love getting the dear old women in my church all riled up.”
“Only Ruth, and I know you’re not calling her a dear.”
“No,” Jeff choked out, then swallowed. “But I have to admit I’m worried about Mish.”
“From what I can tell, Mish has always been…well, Mish. She was odd long before she old enough to be senile.”
“True,” he conceded. “But from what you said, she actually thinks she met Jesus and is getting text messages from God.”
Stephen’s mouth was full, so he just shrugged.
Jeff was surprised at Stephen’s apparent lack of concern. “You can’t seriously believe her.”
Stephen swallowed and began counting on his fingers. “I’ve heard you preach on God speaking through dreams, visions, a burning bush, and a talking animal. Why not text messages?”
“The stories aren’t literal. They’re metaphors. You know that. You just love quoting my sermons back to me.”
“Everybody needs a hobby,” Stephen quipped. “Besides, aren’t you glad somebody’s paying attention?”
Jeff ignored his comment. “She honestly thinks that Jesus is an African American woman she met at the Bluebird Diner.”
“The only part I don’t understand is the coming back thing. I’ve never heard you preach on the second coming.”
“Mish wasn’t raised Congregational,” Jeff explained. “Primitive Baptist, I think.”
“Aren’t they all?” Stephen asked with a laugh.
“No, there’s a small group of pretty progressive Bapti
sts who—”
“Jeff, I was joking,” Stephen interrupted.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Jeff stabbed another piece of pasta. He felt annoyed, and he couldn’t quite figure out why.
“Anyway, I find this whole thing fascinating. Racism still runs deep around here, even in a fairly liberal church, and here is Mish seeing Jesus as a woman of color. I think that’s pretty cool.”
Jeff stopped with his fork in midair. “Cool? Mish is showing signs of mental illness or dementia, and you think it’s ‘cool?’”
“If this was Opal we were talking about, I would agree,” Stephen said with a shrug. “But it’s Mish, and the regular rules of sanity do not apply. Maybe she’s having some kind of spiritual awakening.”
Jeff tossed his napkin on the table in frustration. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?” Stephen pressed.
Jeff clenched his teeth and stared at Stephen. “It just doesn’t, okay? Mish is not having a spiritual awakening or whatever you want to call it. If she was, I would know.”
Stephen looked at Jeff a long time before speaking softly. “Are you sure you’d recognize it?”
Jeff picked up his glass of wine and left the room.
***
Mish kept watching the door for Jesus, but it had been twenty minutes, so Mish guessed she wasn’t coming. She felt disappointed, let down after the excitement of the text exchange earlier, but Jesus was undoubtedly a busy woman. Besides, Mish had already been given her instructions—follow the love—so she turned her attention to those around her. The young man at the next table also seemed to be waiting on someone who hadn’t shown up. At first she wondered if he was waiting for Jesus, too, but by the looks of him, he was waiting on a date. He was neatly dressed, had a fresh haircut, and looked as nervous as a turkey in November.
She stopped stealing glances and stared at him until he looked her way. “Well, son, I do believe your lady friend has stood you up.”
He frowned at her. “What makes you think I’m waiting for a lady friend?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I made an assumption. I do believe your man friend has stood you up.”
The young man looked horrified. “I’m not gay!”
Mish looked him straight in the eyes. “First of all, son, I didn’t say you was. You implied it. And number two, being gay ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, so don’t be acting like I just called you an ax murderer. That’s insulting to gay folks, you hear me?”
He ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
Mish nodded her forgiveness. “Now, tell me who you’re waiting on and why their absence has your innards in a knot.”
He sighed. “I met a girl. A woman. She’s beautiful. We had a nice talk and I thought she liked me. But this is the second time she’s stood me up.”
Mish frowned. “A woman doesn’t stand up a man she likes. Not if she can help it. And surely not twice.” The young man looked a bit offended, but Mish wasn’t sure why.
“You don’t sugarcoat much do you?” he said.
“Sugarcoating is for cereal. I’m a bacon and eggs gal.”
“Which means…?”
“It means I ain’t got time for games. And neither do you. Now what’s your name, son?”
“Ethan.”
Mish had been told that subtlety wasn’t her specialty, so she took a deep breath and tried to speak gently. “Ethan, that beautiful woman you met is playing games with you. Best you move on.”
“Move on. Just like that.”
“Yep. You gotta follow the love.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to do!” Ethan argued.
Mish narrowed her eyes. “Where’d you meet your mystery woman?”
Ethan ducked his head, a bit red-faced. “At the bar. Ladies’ Night.”
“And exactly how long was this meaningful conversation you supposedly had?”
He shrugged. “Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes,” Mish repeated.
“Maybe twelve,” the boy countered.
“And after those ten, maybe twelve, life-changing minutes, you think you’re in love?”
Again, he looked offended. “And a text conversation…a really romantic text.”
“And then she stood you up,” Mish reminded him. “And hasn’t called or texted to tell you why.” When he looked embarrassed and ducked his head, Mish softened her tone. “Son, here’s what you need to know. This thing you’re feeling? This ain’t love. This is lust. And don’t get me wrong—it can be a lot of fun. But don’t confuse a rise in your trousers with a hole in your heart. You gotta follow the love.”
“Follow the love,” Ethan repeated.
“That’s the ticket.”
“And how, exactly, do I follow the love?”
Mish studied him a moment before answering. “To tell you the truth, I ain’t worked that part out yet. But I have a feeling you have to figure it out for yourself.”
As Mish drove home from the diner, she tried to think through what had happened. Obviously the first text had been to get her to the diner, where she met Jesus. But the second text, from the same number, didn’t lead her to Jesus. Or at least Jesus didn’t show up. Instead it led her to Ethan. She didn’t know if that was the plan, if he was the one she was supposed to meet, and she didn’t know if she had helped him at all. Oh, she did have him laughing before he left, and she did give him Jesus’s message. Was it enough? The message seemed so clear at first—just follow the love. But how? Where?
As she neared a line of traffic at the red light, she slowed down to let a waiting vehicle—a white van—enter in front of her. She returned the van driver’s wave of thanks, but before she could pull forward again, the car behind that one pulled in front of her too. “Well, that’s a bit rude,” she said out loud, well aware that the young woman in the sports car could not hear her. “But I’m following the love so I’m not even gonna honk at you.”
The little car changed lanes, and Mish pulled up behind the white van. And then she saw it—the message printed on the back of the van. “A shelter dog needs your LOVE today.” The O in the word “love” was a heart. She was literally following love!
A shelter dog needed her love. Hmm. Well, the shelter would be closed at this hour, which gave her time to figure out whether it was a message or not. Mish had always wanted a dog—an inside dog, a dog she could pet and snuggle with on the couch. But Floyd was not a pet kind of man. According to him, the only dogs worth having were the ones who did a job on the farm. Dogs didn’t belong in the house any more than cattle did. He hadn’t even bent for Bobby when he was a boy, so he sure hadn’t bent for Mish.
Over the years, Mish had tried to make friends with the farm dogs, but it never worked. They were his dogs, and they responded only to him. Not one of them was affectionate with her, and they didn’t pay her a bit of attention unless she was feeding them. And even then it seemed like they only tolerated her presence. Maybe she wasn’t really good with dogs.
But maybe if she picked out the dog herself—if she was the one who brought it home and fed it and petted it, maybe it would be her dog. Maybe a dog could like her. Maybe there could be someone who would be happy to see her when she walked in the door.
4.
It was only eleven o’clock, but Jeff was already exhausted and in pain. It was Saturday, and he’d arrived at church at seven in the morning to help the men set up for the women’s bazaar and had just taken refuge in his office for a few minutes of rest. He had carried five of those old, eight-foot tables by himself, and his back was in revolt. Why couldn’t they invest in the new lightweight ones instead of those ancient behemoths? But the other men all did it, and he couldn’t look like a wimp. Hell, he was half their age! Of course, many of them were still throwing bales of hay around, even at age seventy, while the heaviest thing he had lifted this week
was volume 7 of his New Interpreter’s Commentary.
He bent down to pick up his sermon notes, which had fallen on the floor, and he winced with the pain. And, of course, Mish chose that exact moment to appear in his doorway, her curly hair a bit wild from the heat of the kitchen.
“You all right there, Pastor?” she asked.
“Of course,” he lied. “I’m just fine.”
“Yeah, my back’s feeling ‘just fine’ today too,” she sighed as she lowered herself gingerly into a chair. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Mish, thanks for making time.” He did want to talk with her, to gauge for himself the seriousness of the situation. He had been worrying about her all week.
“I don’t have long. The lunch crowd should be starting soon, but I needed a break so thought I’d kill two birds and chat with you for a minute. Then I’ll get back to frying okra.”
Jeff smiled. “And the Women’s Society Harvest Bazaar would not be complete without your fried okra. I promise I won’t keep you long.” He wasn’t sure how to get started and searched around for an opener. Compliments! That was it. His dad always told him that if you didn’t know what to say to a woman, you should compliment her. Of course, that was back when his dad thought Jeff’s lack of success with women was because of his shyness.
“That’s a lovely blouse you’re wearing today,” he said with a smile.
She looked down at her blouse, which was already covered in stains from the kitchen. Damn, he should have noticed that.
“Well…um…thank you,” she said uncertainly.
“Wait a minute!” He suddenly realized why it had caught his eye. “It’s short-sleeved!”
Mish grinned. “Am I showing too much skin for you, Pastor Jeff?”
Jeff laughed. “No, of course not. It’s just that—did the doctor change your medication?”
“My medication?”
Jeff wondered if she was getting forgetful, too. “You never used to wear short sleeves,” he reminded her. “You said your medication caused you to bruise easily, and you didn’t like people to see the bruises. Did the doctor change your prescription?”