Mercies and Miracles

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  The bishop buttered a roll. “Have the two of you actually discussed what’s troubling her?”

  Scott nodded. “A couple of weeks ago we were having dinner in Birmingham, and she ordered a glass of wine. She looked at me, and said, ‘So? Are you shocked?’”

  “Mm. How’d you respond to that?”

  “I just said, ‘Well, I know you used to enjoy wine before you joined the Church, but I didn’t know you’d felt the need for it, recently.’ She said, ‘I don’t need it I just want some.’ So I said, ‘I see.’ Though I didn’t, not really. The wine arrived, and she sipped at it, and I didn’t say anything, and finally she said, ‘I have to be myself, Scott. I can’t just do what other people expect of me.’”

  “Wow. So do you think it’s a matter of agency? Is she feeling controlled, or somehow forced to conform?”

  “I think it’s partly that. She’s always been quite independent and a bit of a feminist, though not excessively so. Just active and vocal about women’s rights. I certainly haven’t made any effort to control her or to tell her what she may or may not do. That goes against my grain, to begin with, and I know, with a woman like Marybeth, it would do no good to try, even if I wanted to.”

  “That’s good,” the bishop said, thinking for a moment of Jack and Melody Padgett. “I’m certainly aware of the fact that control and force have no place in an LDS marriage, or any marriage, for that matter. The scriptures make that perfectly clear.”

  “M-hmm. As in the one hundred twenty-first section of the Doctrine and Covenants, right? So I said to her, ‘Would you like to tell me what’s going on? How you’re feeling?’ She said, ‘I doubt you’ll understand. You’re a believer.’”

  “Meaning that she isn’t?”

  “Apparently. I said, ‘Try me, honey. You know I’ll listen.’ She just said, ‘I’m sorry, Scott, but I don’t believe, anymore. Once I did, now I don’t. It’s that simple.’”

  “Did she go into any detail, or give you any idea why she had stopped believing?”

  “I pressed her a little. I said, ‘What, exactly, do you not believe anymore?’ and she said, ‘I don’t believe the Church is true. I don’t believe in all that stuff about angels and visions and the Book of Mormon and modern prophets and temples and priesthood. I think it’s all folklore. I’ll grant you the Church is made up of mostly good people who are sincere in their beliefs. And I’ll grant you that the Church does a lot of good in humanitarian aid and those are the only reasons I’ve stuck with it for this long. But now I’ve decided that I can’t continue to attend or support any group that I believe to be founded on false notions. I’m moving beyond it, Scott. I know you’re not ready to do that, so I won’t try to influence you, but I’m asking for my name to be removed from the Church records.’”

  The bishop put down his fork. He tried to think what sort of impact it would have on him, on their marriage, if Trish were to hit him with that kind of bombshell. It was a sickening feeling. “My word,” he said. “Did you feel as if the rug had been pulled out from under you?”

  “That’s about it,” Scott agreed, nodding sadly. “All kinds of objections came to mind, all kinds of evidences and proofs and scriptures and testimonies, but I felt the time wasn’t right to bring up any of that. So I asked her, ‘What about the Savior? Do you still believe in Him? In the Bible? In God, at all?’ She just said, ‘I don’t know. I’m working on all that. There isn’t any other church that’s wooed me away, if that’s what you’re asking.’”

  “What do you think has wooed her away?” the bishop asked.

  “Well, the adversary, obviously,” Scott replied. “I’m still trying to figure out just how. She’s a very intelligent woman, you know. I wonder if it’s an appeal to her reason, to her intellectual abilities or sophistication. She reads widely, in many different fields.”

  “Normally, that would be good,” the bishop mused. “I wonder if she’s been reading some anti-Mormon literature.”

  Scott shook his head. “She says not. I asked her. She said, ‘I don’t need their kind of propaganda to tell me how to think or what to believe.’”

  “I see. Scott, I’ve got to ask you apart from this situation, how is your marriage?”

  Scott frowned at a chunk of cauliflower on his fork, as if wanting the vegetable to speak for him. “I thought our marriage was good,” he said. “Well, more than good very good, maybe even outstanding. Marybeth can be a delightful companion, and she’s usually warm and affectionate. She’s been a great mother to John, and we’ve both wished she could have had a couple more kids. She’s seemed content until recently, and I’ve gotta think it’s this loss of faith business that’s made the difference I see in her. She seems restless more often now, and sometimes even giddy.”

  “Have you talked this over with John?”

  “Yes, I called him. He didn’t seem unduly worried about it, seemed to think it was just some phase his mom was going through, like a passing hobby, or something. But I’m afraid it’s far more than that.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, then the bishop queried, “How do you anticipate this problem might affect your marriage, if she continues to feel as she says she does?”

  “Bishop, I honestly don’t know. I’m sickened at the thought of losing her. On the other hand, I don’t look forward to feeling I don’t know maybe ‘patronized’ is the word, as she talks about having gone ahead, intellectually, and recognizing that I’m not ready, yet, to leave my faith as if that’s a normal and expected part of a person’s intellectual progress! I just don’t buy that, and I honestly don’t know how I’ll feel if she continues in that vein.”

  The bishop thought for a few moments. “You know, Scott I’ve been told that, generally speaking, when a person begins to lose his or her faith and testimony, it begins with some transgression on the person’s part. It could be a sin of omission or commission. Could be something as simple as neglecting to study scriptures, or pray. Or it could be something more deliberate, such as sexual sin or drinking, drugs, and so forth. Do you have any reason to believe Marybeth’s slipped into any of those things?”

  Scott’s face was miserable. “Not that I know of,” he said slowly. “Except for what I already told you about her not wanting to say the prayer, or go with me to the temple. I assume she certainly wouldn’t be saying personal prayers, in that case, although maybe I shouldn’t assume anything. I doubt she’s been reading the scriptures, as I mentioned. I certainly am not aware of any big sins of commission. She’s pretty honest and straightforward about things like she was about the wine. I think she’d just come right out and tell me if there were you know someone else.”

  “Probably there isn’t anyone else,” the bishop comforted. “I just need to ask, to try to understand the full picture. Do you think Marybeth would come in and visit with me?”

  “Maybe she would. If only to request that her name be stricken from the records.” Scott bowed his head, and covered his mouth with his hand. Finally he looked up, and his eyes were red and wet behind the glasses. “I want an eternal family, Bishop. I thought Marybeth and John and I had a chance at that.”

  “Try not to despair, my friend. Maybe you still do.”

  * * *

  There was one other difficult interview that week, and the bishop decided it might as well be another lunch meeting. On Saturday, he tracked down Jack Padgett at one of the automotive supply stores over which he was the area manager. He found him in the Anniston store, roundly criticizing the store manager for not displaying a set of advertising posters for the newest automotive stereo systems to best advantage. He glanced away from the manager when the bell on the door jingled and he caught sight of his bishop coming toward him, frowned and lowered his voice as he finished his harangue. The store manager quickly removed the posters from their place and hustled them toward the front of the store, his ears red as he said, “Be right with you, sir,” to the bishop.

  “No, no I’m just here to invite Mr. Padgett ou
t to lunch,” the bishop assured him. “How about it, Jack? My treat?”

  “Uh sure,” Jack said, quickly packing up his briefcase. “Travis, I’ll be back in three or four days,” he called to the man with the posters. “I’ll expect to see those changes implemented.”

  “Yessir, they will be,” the man promised.

  “What’ll we eat?” the bishop asked, as they emerged onto the sidewalk. “What’s your favorite food, Jack?”

  Jack shrugged. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Barbecue? There’s a good place not far from here.”

  “Sure.” He trudged along like a condemned prisoner, his demeanor a far cry from that of the gum-chewing, over-confident man he had once appeared to be. “You know Anniston, do you?”

  “My mom and sister live here,” the bishop replied. “How about we take my car, and I’ll drop you back here? It might be easier than following me.” And, he thought to himself, you won’t be tempted to “accidentally” get lost along the way.

  “Okay.”

  Jack said little more until they were seated and awaiting their orders. The aromas of pit-barbecued beef and pork and rotisserie chicken with hot and sweet sauce was making the bishop’s mouth water. He and Jack had both ordered the all-you-can-eat ribs with coleslaw and fries, buttermilk biscuits and honey. He would repent later. He would have salad for dinner. He would not tell Trish what he had eaten. Unless, of course, she asked.

  “So, have you seen Mel lately?” Jack asked in an offhand manner, glancing off to the side as if the answer didn’t really matter much to him.

  The bishop nodded. “She was at church, last Sunday. She’s doing pretty well, I think just lonely.”

  “Why don’t they let Andi go back home? Poor little kid, none of this is her fault.”

  “I totally agree with you there. And I’m trying to do everything I can to get her back with her mother. I’m not sure, but I may be asked to attend a session with the judge who has jurisdiction over the case, and if I’m allowed to speak, I’ll certainly recommend that Andi be allowed to go home.”

  “I guess it’ll be a cold day in hell before I get to see her again,” Jack grumbled. “By now, she’s probably convinced I’m the big, bad wolf, anyway.”

  The bishop refrained from reminding Jack that it was his own violent and impatient behavior toward his wife that had brought about his banishment from his family.

  “Where are you living now, Jack?” he asked. “Last time we talked, you were pretty tired of that rooming house.”

  “Got a little studio apartment in Gadsden. It’s not much bigger than the room I was in, but it’s at least private. Not that I’m there, much it’s just a place to sleep and keep my clothes.”

  “It’s not home, is it?” the bishop murmured, thinking how much he would hate being denied access to his home and family.

  “Guess I don’t deserve a home,” Jack said, his voice low and bitter. “Looks like I forfeited that.”

  “Things can change. You can change, I’m sure of it. How are your counseling sessions going?”

  “Oh, fine, if I liked being verbally poked and prodded and made to repeat things three different ways and talk about things I’d rather keep to myself. Not my idea of fun.”

  “Pretty unsettling, huh?”

  “Putting it mildly.”

  “It’s tough for all of us to face our weaknesses and mistakes, I know that.”

  “Not supposed to have weaknesses,” Jack muttered, almost too low for the bishop to hear.

  But hear, he did. And he had learned from past experience that Jack most often spoke the truth in such undertones.

  “Not have weaknesses? Why not, man? Because you were a Marine? I know they do a great job in their training, but I never heard that they perfected people!”

  Jack twisted his head to one side again, as if he were hoping to see their server appear with a laden tray and save him from this uncomfortable conversation.

  The bishop decided to give him a short break. “Looks like your stores are doing well,” he commented. “I see their ads in the papers.”

  Jack nodded. “Doing okay,” he agreed. “In spite of dough-heads like that Travis you just saw. That guy doesn’t know a car horn from a cow horn.”

  The bishop grinned. “I expect you can teach him a few things, and work on lessons in patience along the way.”

  “That may be more than I can handle.”

  “No worries. I fully believe patience is a skill that can be learned, with practice. Some folks are naturally better at it than others, but that’s true of all skills. Just hang in there, friend. Stay with the program.”

  Jack nodded. They both knew the bishop wasn’t just speaking of Jack’s career.

  * * *

  He stopped at his sister Paula’s house before heading back to Fairhaven, taking advantage of the chance to visit her and their mother, who lived with Paula. He found the two of them watching a Lawrence Welk rerun on television in the plant-filled family room behind the kitchen.

  “Son!” exclaimed his mother happily, and her joy made him feel guilty for not having visited for too long.

  “Hey, Mama,” he said, kneeling beside her chair to give her a hug. “How’re you doing?”

  “Good,” she said emphatically. It was one of the few words she had mastered since the stroke that had changed her life two years earlier.

  “She’s doin’ real fine, aren’t you, Mama?” commented Paula, smiling. “We have us a fine old time watchin’ the TV shows she used to like, don’t we? The other day we were lookin’ at Perry Mason, and she figured out who done it before he did. She pointed and said, ‘bad one,’ just as plain as anything. And she was right.”

  “Good job,” he said, squeezing his mother’s good hand. “Mama always was pretty sharp about people. Speaking of that, Mama a week or so ago I drove out into the country and looked up a lady who used to come to church way back when we first joined. I bet you’ll remember her she remembers you. It was Hazel Buzbee.”

  His mother nodded slowly, and a corner of her mouth turned up.

  “Old times, huh?” he said. “Want me to tell Hazel hello for you?”

  She nodded again. “L-love,” she enunciated carefully.

  “Give her your love?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll do that. Know what she wanted me to bring her? A sweet potato pie. I said I would.”

  “Oh, that’s what Trish wanted the recipe for, is it?” Paula asked. “I found it. I’ll just send it on home with you, then.”

  “Thanks, Paula. That’ll be great. Yep, Hazel said her oven doesn’t work, and she’d been craving that pie. I’ll tell you what, though she about scared the daylights out of me. I was knocking on her door, and all of a sudden she came around the corner of the house toting a shotgun, yelling at me that whatever I was selling, she didn’t want any!”

  There was a sound from his mother, and he looked at her quickly. The sound was laughter, bubbling from deep inside, rusty but unmistakable. It did his heart good to hear it, and he and Paula joined in.

  “So, was Hazel always like that?” he asked. “Kind of feisty and outspoken?”

  His mother’s head nodded again.

  “What’re you doin’ in town, Jimmie?” asked Paula. “Reckon this isn’t a regular visit, or you would’ve brought along the family.”

  “You’re right, this is an extra little visit I get to sneak in because I had to meet a fellow here from my ward. I’m trying to encourage him to keep up his counseling sessions so he can overcome some spousal abuse issues and get back together with his family.”

  Paula raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t know you grew that kind in your church,” she commented. “Everybody I’ve met seems so nice.”

  “You know, most are, nice that is. This guy must’ve had a pretty rough upbringing himself, plus he was a Marine, and seems to think because of that, he always has to be tough and show no weakness, or something. I’m really hoping he can beat this
thing instead of beating his wife.” He sighed. “We sure had a good upbringing, didn’t we, Sis? Daddy was such a good man, and of course, Mama’s the best.”

  “You’re right on, there. Daddy was the kindest man I ever knew. He never spanked us kids well, at least, not us girls. Don’t know about you, Jimmie.”

  “Once, that I remember and I well deserved it. But he couldn’t bring himself to spank very hard, even then. And he hugged me afterward, for the longest time. And he was real good to you, wasn’t he, Mama?”

  She was nodding again, and both eyes were watering.

  “I’m sure you must miss him,” her son said softly. “I know I do.”

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  “it requires a constant labor”

  “Dad, this is like really weird,” Tiffani said as she took her place in one of the upholstered chairs across from the bishop’s desk in his church office. “I mean, why can’t we just do this at home? How come I had to have an appointment, like just anybody?”

  “You hit the nail on the head, Tiffi. Just like anybody. I know it must feel weird, as you say, but the fact is, I’m your bishop as well as your dad and frankly, I consider it a great honor to be able to interview my own daughter in these circumstances, just like I would anybody else.”

  “Yeah, but you know me too well. I can’t hide anything from you.”

  “Do you have anything to hide?”

  “No, but if I did, it sure would be hard.”

  “Well, good!” her father replied, with a broad grin. “Let’s always keep it that way, okay?”

  “Okay, cool so can I go, now?” She made a playful move as if to leave.

  “Not on your life, kiddo. Now, Sister Shepherd, I understand from the records, here, that you’re soon to have your sixteenth birthday.”