by Lynne Hinton
Marion smiled but still did not say anything.
Because of the lack of response, Charlotte kept on. “I pastor a little church out in the country. It’s my first parish.”
She observed Marion, who was only nodding. “We’ve had some tough things.” She looked down in her lap and thought about Brittany and Nadine. She wondered if Nadine’s conversations with psychologists or psychiatrists or whomever she spoke to went like this.
“One of my favorite people has cancer.” And with that, a tear rolled from the corner of her eye.
Marion slid out of her seat with great effort and reached beside Charlotte to a box of tissues on the table and handed her one. Charlotte took it and wiped her face.
And she surprised herself at what came out of her mouth more than she surprised the therapist. “I’m not sure I believe there’s a God anymore.”
There was a moment of reflection. “Yeah,” the older woman finally replied with ease, “it’d be nice if She made a grand announcement once in a while or sent us some miraculous sign just to let us know She’s still up there.” Marion struggled to get comfortable as she leaned into her chair.
Charlotte faced Marion and then inspected the older woman’s hands. They were gnarled and bent, like those of someone who had suffered a stroke. The minister was amazed she had not noticed them before.
Marion noticed Charlotte’s interest and held them out so they could be seen better.
“Arthritis, rheumatoid.” She spread out her fingers. “That’s why it’s so much trouble for me to get around.” She turned her hands over and back. “And that’s why I’m so fat,” she added with a smile.
“Best thing they got for the pain is steroids.” She patted her stomach. “And God, do they make you hungry!” She laughed without a hint of regret or disappointment.
Charlotte suddenly realized that she was staring and quickly looked away.
There was another awkward pause.
“Tell me, Charlotte, how do you think of God?” Marion folded her hands back together and dropped them in her lap.
“You mean is he Father or Son or Holy Ghost?”
Marion shrugged, not answering.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled softly, unsure of how to reply.
Charlotte remembered her ideas from childhood of a Leave It to Beaver kind of father, a Santa Claus God, always interested in and providing for his children. That was what she had learned in Sunday School and from sermons and that was who she thought God was. However, since she had not had that kind of father herself, she was only able to connect that image of God to what she heard about, saw in those television Bible movies or in some of her friends’ homes.
She remembered the pictures she had drawn of a big old man, wavy white hair and beard, long flowing robe, angels all around him, with room in his heart and on his lap for all the little children.
She remembered how later she had struggled with images of God when she studied the Old Testament, how she had not been comfortable with the notion that God was a warrior, telling his people to kill everyone in a town or village as they marched into the promised land, how he seemed violent and unforgiving in many of the stories. She remembered how she wrestled with the God in Job who let his righteous servant suffer so mercilessly at the hands of Satan, and how these images seemed so incompatible with the idea of God as loving shepherd or attentive father.
And what about history? She had questioned the Holocaust, lynchings, apartheid—where was the ever-present, ever-protective Father during those events?
Then she became a pastor and found herself involved in the personal struggles of people she cared about, people like Nadine and Louise, Lana and Wallace. And any image of God she tried to conjure up for herself or anyone else was never enough. She fought and struggled so long with trying to figure out God that she eventually tired of the battle and just gave up, deciding not to think about who God was, not to give herself a picture in her mind. This was the only way, she had decided, that she would be able then to do her work.
When she prayed, if she thought of anyone, envisioned anybody, she thought of Jesus, the tireless, patient rabbi who welcomed weary sinners and sided with the poor. She thought of his twisted broken body and his kind, gentle heart. And this mental picture, a picture of light in the darkness, had carried her through the long dry spells when she could not call up a face of God.
“God came to me once in a dream,” Marion said, breaking the silence.
She realized by the expression on Charlotte’s face that her client was not prepared or able to answer the question she had given her. So Marion was answering it herself.
“She was that woman, the farmer in the picture.” She turned toward the picture.
“I resisted her at first.”
Charlotte followed the counselor’s eyes. The gardener in the picture had draped herself across the small fragile plant. She was holding up its leaves with both of her big, black hands, examining it, encouraging it to grow and bloom. The woman’s face, like that of the angel in the garden, was dropped and hidden; and all that Charlotte could see was the top of an old straw hat and those caring, thick, worked, loving hands. She remembered her conversation with Nadine and the thoughts she had in the hospital about hands. She thought again about Marion’s hands; but she did not turn to see them.
Marion dropped her chin and continued. “Some people think of her as the Black Madonna.” She added, “You ever heard of her?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“It’s funny but, apparently, lots of people have seen her. She mostly comes in times of trouble. She never talks,” Marion said. “She just appears, just stands nearby, observing.”
Marion shifted in her seat and crossed her ankles. “But everybody who has ever seen her is comforted by her presence. When I saw this picture, I knew it was her, the one who had visited me, in the dream.” She pulled her elbows up and placed them on the arms of her chair. “That’s why it’s up there. And that’s why it’s my favorite.”
“You think God’s a big black woman?” Charlotte asked, not surprised, only interested.
“For now,” Marion replied. “She comes to me in various disguises.”
“So, you think that plant she’s tending to is one of the seeds that wasn’t supposed to make it, one of those sown in impossible circumstances.” Charlotte was remembering the earlier part of their conversation about the parable Jesus told.
“I like the thought of that,” Marion answered. The counselor waited a minute and then asked, “Do you garden?”
Charlotte lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “I was thinking about starting one this summer, but I never got around to it.”
She remembered the dead flowers still in their pots behind the shed, how she had surveyed the property trying to find just the right spot to plant them.
“I garden,” Marion said. “When I’m able.” She gazed down at her twisted fingers and uncrossed her legs with some difficulty. Charlotte followed her eyes.
“It can be quite therapeutic,” she added. She began bending and stretching her hands. “There’s just something about getting in the dirt, watching the young seeds open and sprout, having the sun on your face, seeing things grow. It’s a nice exercise in faith.”
“Faith?” Charlotte asked, thinking it might be a nice exercise for the body or to rest the mind. But she wasn’t sure how planting a garden had anything to do with one’s faith. She thought of her recent sermon.
“Yep, faith.” Then Marion explained. “You do all this stuff to get your garden ready, all this work. You break up the soil and add nutrients. You till and turn the dirt to get it rich and loamy. Then you go out and spend a lot of money on the finest plants or best seeds.”
Marion’s voice was soft and soothing, and Charlotte considered how it calmed her.
“You dig just the right size hole or drop the seeds exactly the right number of feet apart, then you add fertilizer and water evenly and frequently. You put everything in
the ground and then you just have to wait.”
Marion paused as she turned to notice the birds at the window.
“A goldfinch!” she said loudly. “I thought they had all left!” She seemed pleased.
Charlotte looked out the window but turned back to Marion and waited for the rest of the story.
Marion faced Charlotte and realized that her client was still listening.
“Oh, yes, the garden of faith. Where was I?” Her brow wrinkled and fell. “Oh, right!” she answered herself, “the waiting.” She took a breath.
“You wait for a sign that what you have done has been right and that the seed was good and took hold. You wait for something to happen in the brown earth. You wait for results or product or reward and see nothing for days on end. And finally,” Marion said, her words delivered slowly and resolved, “one day, you walk out and you see signs of new life. You see a small yellow-green hair pushing through the cold, hard dirt or you see the wilted young plant standing upright and tall or you notice a new bloom or a deeper color or something alive and growing where before there hadn’t been anything; and that’s when you finally begin to understand.”
Charlotte didn’t realize it, but she was sitting on the edge of the sofa, waiting for the answer, waiting to know what it is you finally begin to understand.
Marion enjoyed the interest of her newest client, and she let the anticipation grow a little more before she finished. She even yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her knotty hand.
Charlotte raised her shoulders in an impatient gesture. “Yes?” she asked.
Marion continued, “You finally understand that you really didn’t have anything to do with what’s growing in your garden after all.” She went on.
“I mean, you did stick some things in the ground and you did make a place for them and you did water and fertilize a little; you may have kept a few weeds at bay. But,” Marion added, “none of the growing or the springing to life or the change from seed to plant or plant to fruit had anything to do with you.”
She swept her feet under her chair. “It is and has always been completely in the hands of Her.” She motioned over to the picture that they had been discussing. She waited before going on.
“That’s what faith is really all about anyway. It’s about relying on something or somebody other than yourself. Recognizing that you don’t have to have everything figured out or sorted through or understood. It’s within us but also beyond us, and grace teaches us that we can find and claim all of what we need, when we need it.”
Marion cast her focus directly on Charlotte. “And either you believe it or you don’t.” Then she softened. “And the great thing is, whether you do or don’t—because sometimes you do and sometimes you don’t—the garden grows just the same.” She stopped for a moment. “The farmer is always at work.”
Charlotte rested against the sofa and let the words and the wisdom bring to light the places in her heart that had been hidden. She did not force anything or even expect a change. But she suddenly began to imagine feeling something inside her. It was not big or dramatic. It merely felt like the possibility of a shift, a lift up against the dirt, a delicate but undeniable stretch of stem toward sunlight.
Charlotte closed her eyes. Nothing, she thought, would alter the consequences of her life or rub out those things that hindered her believing. Nothing could erase the years of disappointment or wipe away all the sorrow and the loss. Nothing could blast through the layers of old grief. But there, under the watchful attention of a large crooked woman, supervised by a farming God, a slim thread of somebody else’s confidence was just enough to loosen the memories, slide aside the doubts, just enough, just a tiny bit that was enough so that a narrow, slight ray of sunshine came in. Charlotte breathed in deeply and slowly. And for the last ten minutes they had together on this occasion of their first visit, the young and tentative minister and her therapist waited quietly in a thin but certain light.
VOLUME 1, NUMBER 5
Hope Springs Community Garden Club Newsletter
BEA’S BOTANICAL BITS
Bottle or Tap: Quenching the Thirst
My husband, Dick, says I drink too much water. He says that if I wouldn’t drink so much, we could drive to Winston-Salem in less than an hour. (I often have to stop for purposes of comfort.) But like all of us, I don’t listen to my husband. And in fact, I’m confident that if they were placed side by side, my kidneys would be determined to be better looking, stronger, and healthier than his.
But that is not the purpose of this article, so let me get to gardening. Ladies, there is no excuse for harm or neglect coming to your plants because of water errors. You must be attentive to the weather and the needs of your garden friends. Don’t let them die of thirst or drowning. Common sense, gardeners! Stick your fingers in the dirt and check the soil. Water your plants as needed.
5
“You can’t do this to me!” Louise yelled while her friend held her hand down. Beatrice moved away.
Louise had just taken the kettle off the stove, and, upon hearing Margaret’s news, without thinking, she leaned her right hand on the red-hot eye of the stove, burning two parallel and narrow curves across the inside of her hand. She then dropped the kettle, splattering the hot water on the floor, on the lower cabinets, and on the women’s legs. When she finally got to the sink, she turned on the faucet and pulled out the spray attachment. Warm water came first, then finally cold water splashed and poured on them until Margaret was able to take the sprayer away from her friend, plug up the sink, and put Louise’s burned hand down into the water.
Margaret let go of Louise’s arm and stepped behind her. Louise pulled her hand out and examined the red, blistering paths that now ran across her palm. They were raised and perfectly spaced, like two exact worms inching from finger to thumb. Louise cradled the burned hand across her chest, stepping from one foot to the other.
Margaret was bending over wiping up the water with paper towels while Beatrice went to get a mop from the garage. When she returned she examined Louise’s burns. “We might ought to take you to the hospital,” she said.
“What for?” Louise asked. “To spend a thousand dollars to have some medical student wrap it in gauze?” She stuck her hand in the water and winced. “I don’t think so.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes and Margaret shook her head and got a few more paper towels. She wiped up the rest of the spillage and threw the towels away. She pulled out a chair at the dining room table and sat down. Beatrice finished mopping and took the wet mop out the door.
Louise stayed at the sink, her eyes focused on what was outside the window. She kept pulling her hand out of the water and then sticking it back in.
“When did you find out?” she asked as Beatrice was walking in the door.
“Last week,” Margaret answered. “I had a biopsy.” She fiddled with the napkin holder, the salt and pepper shakers. “My surgery is in a couple of days.”
Louise didn’t reply for a few minutes, but Margaret knew she was angry because she hadn’t been told sooner. Margaret understood that, whether she had intended it or not, the feeling of betrayal was a consequence of the decision not to tell her friends. She waited for Louise’s rant or some question from Beatrice and actually preferred either to this lack of communication.
Louise lifted her hand out and looked again at her palm. She knew it was a bad burn, probably second, maybe third degree, but she saw no use in going to the doctor about it. She remembered her plans for the week, and she considered how she would be able to finish her chores with her right hand now useless. But still she did not say anything to Margaret. She dipped her palm again into the cool water.
Beatrice sat down at the table next to Margaret. She began smoothing out the tablecloth with her hands.
“It’s going to rain,” Beatrice announced, trying to make conversation.
Margaret slid over in her chair so that she could see out the glass on the back door. Louise noticed the sky
too.
The black clouds were tightening and a storm was definitely brewing.
“There was a tornado warning in Randolph County last night,” Beatrice continued. Neither of the other women replied.
There was a long, quiet pause.
Margaret turned her face toward the kitchen to speak to Louise. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now.”
Louise didn’t answer.
Margaret continued, “I was so shocked I didn’t know how to say it.”
“You went alone to have the biopsy?” Beatrice asked with a sympathetic voice.
Margaret hated the question and was unsure how the women would take the answer. “Charlotte was with me.”
Louise nodded slowly. She did not change the expression on her face. “Well, at least you weren’t by yourself.” She sounded distant.
“Yes,” Beatrice replied. “How nice to be able to take your pastor with you.” She said it politely, with just the right amount of sincerity.
“Yes,” Margaret replied. Then she added, “I had not meant to tell her either. But I stopped by the church to see about Nadine and it just came out.”
Louise didn’t respond. She really didn’t need an explanation, she thought. It was clear what had happened. Her friend had chosen not to tell her that she had gone through a major crisis. Louise had been excluded. Like Jessie making a decision to move, Margaret had not involved her. And the decisions of her friends not to tell left Louise facing feelings of betrayal that burned more deeply than her recent wounds. She could not think of anything more to say.
“I’m sorry, Lou.” Margaret hoped Louise would face her, but she didn’t. She just stayed at the sink without turning aside.
“Bea, I just didn’t know how to tell anybody,” Margaret said, now talking to her other friend.
Beatrice smiled and tapped her hand on Margaret’s arm.
Louise thought about Roxie and remembered how George had been the one to tell her about the Alzheimer’s. She wondered why she kept being uninformed. Why did her friends suddenly push her away in times of distress? she questioned herself. Was she not a good listener? Was she too brusque? too overbearing? Louise pulled her hand out of the sink, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and headed toward the bathroom. She walked by Margaret and Beatrice. “I’ll be right back,” she said calmly.