The First Ladies Club Box Set

by J B Hawker

  These factions would be sitting beside loyal church members who were sorry for the recent troubles and who wished their new pastor well. In the days ahead, some of them would be encouraging and helpful to Merrill, while others would remain detached, afraid to be disappointed, yet again.

  The relationship of a new pastor to a congregation with a troubled history is similar to that of a stepparent in a newly blended family; hopeful and fearful in varying degrees.

  This was the challenge Merrill faced as she rose to lead her new church family in worship.

  Chapter 5

  Following the worship service, Merrill stood at the side of the main doorway shaking hands and sharing introductions with the small congregation as they filed out.

  A short, stocky woman advanced on Merrill with a determined expression. She looked to be in her late thirties and was one of the few younger people in attendance.

  “Good morning, Pastor. I’m Bethany Sisco,” she said, grabbing Merrill’s hand in a firm grip.

  “Good morning, Bethany. Thanks for coming. Are you a regular member here?” Merrill asked. She didn’t remember seeing this woman on her previous visit.

  “I am now. My husband and I just moved down to Bannoch from Portland a few weeks ago. We were very active in the Portland Baptist Church.”

  “Is your husband with you this morning?” Merrill asked, looking around.

  “No. He, uh, well, I might as well just say it. He doesn’t approve of lady preachers.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps if he came once or twice, we might change his mind.”

  “No chance of that. But don’t worry about him; I want to talk to you about the women’s work. There doesn’t seem to be an active women’s ministry here. I was president of our group in Portland. Being a woman yourself, I’m sure you want to see the others get active.”

  “Of course,” Merrill said, wondering what the woman had in mind.

  “I just wanted to let you know I am available to get these women organized and back on track. When you are ready to start the women’s group, you give me a call and I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sisco. I appreciate your enthusiasm. I won’t be making any major changes until we all have a chance to get better acquainted and I can learn what needs and resources we have, but I will keep your offer in mind. I’m sure there will be plenty of work for willing hands.”

  Others were waiting in line to greet their new pastor, so Merrill said good-bye to Bethany and turned to greet the enormously fat man who had been practically quivering with impatience waiting for her attention.

  “You had an okay sermon this morning, Pastor. I’m Thom Ortello, this is my wife, Christine,” he said, turning to indicate the slim, attractive woman behind him, previously concealed by his bulk.

  “Thank you. I’m pleased to meet you both,” Merrill smiled.

  “I found your reference to Paul’s instructions to Timothy about women’s place in the church to be a rather unusual understanding of the text. You said this isn’t talking about all women but is referring to the proper behavior of wives. In all my years of Bible study, and I consider myself a pretty well-read amateur theologian, I’ve never come across anything like that. Can you recommend a commentary to support your views? Where did you find your interpretation?” Ortello challenged.

  A one-time apprentice electrician, Ortello had retired on disability in his late thirties, as a result of complications associated with his obesity.

  He had devoted most of the past decade to studying the Bible and bullying his wife.

  “If you want to do some reading on the topic, I can recommend the book, Women or Wives, an exegesis of the Book of First Timothy, by M. Bennett, Th.D. and I.M. Bishop, Th.D. If you don’t find it in the local bookstore, I’m sure they can order it for you.”

  Ortello, busily writing down this information on the back of his worship bulletin, suddenly stopped and looked up.

  “I. M. Bishop, that’s the same as your name.”

  “That’s right. I wrote the book in collaboration with one of my seminary professors. It is based upon my doctoral thesis. It was actually written for seminarians rather than for the laity, but since you have done so much work on your own, you shouldn’t have any trouble understanding it,” Merrill said.

  “What translation did you use for your research?” Ortello asked.

  “I used the original Greek texts. I have a few Greek testaments and commentaries, if you would ever like to borrow them. I find it so rewarding to read Scripture in the original languages, don’t you?” she said, inwardly chastising herself for her prideful impulse to put this bumptious man in his place.

  “Uh, sure. Let’s go, Christine. I’m ready for my lunch,” Ortello said, taking his wife by the arm and steering her out the door.

  “Uh, oh,” Merrill thought. “I antagonized him; just what I didn’t want to do on my first Sunday.”

  When the auditorium was empty, Merrill thanked the head usher, who was clearing away the chairs, and went out.

  She found Peregrine Bostwich waiting for her in the parking lot, leaning against his shiny red car.

  “Gran told me to bring you home for lunch, Pastor Merrill. We’ll have soup, salad and chew up your sermon. Should be fun!”

  “Oh, well, that’s nice of your grandmother to invite me, but, um, I really should…” she began, not relishing another critique of this morning’s message.

  “I was just teasing. Don’t worry about Gran. Her bark’s way worse than her bite. And she won’t even bark at you at lunch, I promise,” Peri grinned.

  “Well, if you’re sure it isn’t an imposition. I would love to join you for lunch.”

  “Great. Climb in,” Peri said, holding the car door.

  When they pulled into the circular driveway in front of a large white stucco three-story home, the words “manor house” popped into Merrill’s head.

  She was happy she hadn’t given in to her earlier temptation to ask Peri to wait while she changed into more casual clothes.

  “Looks like a storm’s brewing,” Peri commented, gazing out to sea over the rocky outcropping below his grandmother’s property.

  Crunching across the white pea gravel toward the marble entrance steps, Merrill paused and turned to take in the breathtaking view.

  She could see a bank of dark clouds on the horizon.

  “What’s it like here during a storm?” she asked.

  “Exciting!” Peri replied without elaborating and trotted up the steps.

  Ariadne Bostwich greeted them just inside the carved mahogany double doors.

  Standing rigidly erect, she was an imposing figure.

  She held a richly embossed, gold-handled ebony cane in her right hand, but did not appear to depend upon it.

  Gesturing with the cane, she indicated for Peri and Merrill to step inside.

  They obeyed and entered another era.

  Merrill felt as though she were stepping into an earlier century as she took in the sweeping staircase, high frescoed ceiling with its sparkling chandelier and the impressive art on the walls and tables. She almost expected a uniformed butler to step from behind a door to announce their meal.

  “Is lunch ready, Gran?” Peri asked, breaking the spell.

  “Mrs. Hopkins set it out just a moment ago. You’ve arrived in good time,” his grandmother replied before turning to Merrill.

  “Shall we go in?” she said, leading the way to a casually charming room just off a huge, modern kitchen.

  Sunlight poured in through a wall of windows, warming the chintz-covered sofa and chairs. In the center of the room, a round table draped with a green and white striped cloth was laid for three.

  A small milk glass jug of wildflowers sat in the center of the table, surrounded by plates of sandwiches, a crystal bowl filled with shrimp salad and a platter of cheese and fruit.

  Merrill’s stomach growled loudly.

  “Excuse me!” she said with a red face.

 
“Not at all, my dear. My tummy would be singing in harmony with yours, if I hadn’t been nibbling cheese and grapes while I waited. It’s nearly one-thirty, of course you’re hungry. Sit down and dig in.”

  Peri held a chair for his grandmother and Merrill took a seat.

  As soon as her grandson was seated, Ariadne turned to Merrill.

  “Will you ask the blessing on this humble meal, dear? I don’t usually like to impose on a guest, but you said such beautiful prayers at this morning’s service. You have a special gift.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bostwich. It’s my pleasure,” Merrill replied, blushing.

  *

  After returning home, Merrill sat in her favorite rocking chair considering the events of the day.

  The morning had gone well, overall. The congregation followed her lead in the service, even when she made minor changes from their printed order of worship.

  Merrill had written ahead with her preferred outline for the service, but the volunteer secretary, Gladys Davies, had simply plugged Merrill’s scripture and hymn selections into the existing template, making it necessary for Merrill to go along or make an issue of it.

  Instead, Merrill simply announced each item in the order she preferred, even though she observed a frown on Gladys’s face with each deviation from the printed schedule.

  Merrill hoped she hadn’t hurt the woman’s feelings, but it is important for a minister to follow the Spirit’s leading in the structure of the worship service.

  She would give Gladys a few more weeks to come around. Merrill could type up the bulletins herself, but only as a last resort.

  Her long-range goal was to have rotating lay leaders directing segments of the service, allowing them each to have input on their own part, but these things take time, Merrill knew.

  She had to be patient.

  A quick review of all the Fruits of the Spirit, reminding herself of the kind of pastor she wanted to be, helped to restrain her natural impatience.

  With a sinking feeling, Merrill remembered her conversation with Thom Ortello.

  She hadn’t exhibited either spiritual fruit or First Corinthians love in their conversation. He’d set her teeth on edge and she’d allowed her pride to come bubbling to the top.

  God had given her a gift for languages, but it was nothing she should boast about.

  Starting with elementary school Spanish, becoming fluent in foreign tongues had been second nature to Merrill. Learning Hebrew, Greek and Aramaic in seminary was no great difficulty. She’d had no right to make Ortello, an obviously insecure man, feel small.

  She became more ashamed of herself as she relived the moment, until she forced herself to stop indulging in self-recriminations and began to pray.

  With the weight of guilt lifted, she climbed the stairs to get ready for bed, determined to make a special effort to give Mr. Ortello an opportunity to shine in the near future.

  *

  Boom!

  Merrill jerked awake as glaring white light flooded her bedroom and was immediately replaced by total darkness. Not even the numerals on her clock radio glowed.

  Another crack of thunder shook the room and it was illuminated, again, by a nearly simultaneous flash of lightning.

  A gale howled around her second-story bedroom and whistled through gaps in the ancient window frames.

  After a particularly strong gust, Merrill began to hear the loud clanging of a bell.

  It seemed to be coming from nearby…right over her head, in fact.

  The bell tower! The rope securing the church bell must have come undone.

  Merrill groped in her nightstand drawer until her fingers closed around a flashlight.

  She slid her feet into furry pink slippers and followed the flashlight beam to find her “ratty old” blue chenille robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door. She tied the belt securely and trotted down the stairs, torch light bouncing from wall to wall on her descent.

  Opening the private connecting door, she made her way to the cupboard in the hallway which concealed the bell ropes. Shining her light inside, she saw the ropes were no longer hanging within. Pointing the flashlight down inside the cupboard, she could see coils of rope pooled below.

  Drat! The rope must have broken, allowing the bell to swing freely.

  With the power out, her clocks had stopped, and she had no idea exactly what time it was, but felt it was too late to bother the deacons.

  She shuddered, thinking of the dark climb up to the belfry, but it was up to her to silence the bell, still clanging loudly in the fierce wind.

  Chapter 6

  The belfry access door was tucked behind the organ on the left side of the platform.

  Merrill made her way behind the pulpit, being careful to illuminate each step of the unfamiliar terrain with her flashlight.

  When she pulled the tower door open, a powerful gust of wind howled down the steep stairs, sending her hair flying, her robe flapping, and making her stumble back a step.

  Once inside the stairwell, the storm seemed even more fierce, the wind buffeting her from all sides as it was funneled down the narrow space.

  Thoughts of lightning seeking out high points, such as bell towers, made her hesitate on the lower steps, but the cacophony resounding above needed to be stopped before it woke the town, so she tugged her robe tighter and resolutely continued her ascent.

  The intervals between the blinding flashes of light and the deafening thunderclaps were growing longer as she climbed the stairs, giving her hope the storm might be moving away.

  Reaching the top, she stepped onto the platform, sweeping her light from side to side across the rain-spattered floor, watching for obstacles on her way across to the bell.

  With her eyes focused on the floor, she didn’t see what dangled from a rafter until her shoulder bumped into it.

  Stepping back and swinging the light up, she gasped and dropped her flashlight, before scrambling to reclaim it.

  What she thought she saw was impossible. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. Between the storm, the clangor of the bell and the bad lighting, she was letting her imagination run away with her, that’s all.

  Crawling around to find the flashlight brought her closer to the rope shaft.

  She found the light, aimed it on the bell, stood up and grasped the frayed end of the sodden anchor rope.

  Rain still blew in through the slatted coverings of the tower windows, but the wind was abating as the storm moved inland.

  Merrill struggled with the slippery rope until she was able to tie it around a support beam, putting an end to the venerable bell’s loud complaints.

  With her mission accomplished, she turned to go just as another flash of lightning brought the room briefly into sharp relief.

  Glimpsing the object that she’d bumped into; she saw that it did look very much like a hanging body.

  No wonder she was spooked earlier.

  Shining the full beam of her flashlight on it and seeing it clearly for the first time, she still couldn’t believe her eyes. She reached out a trembling hand. At her touch, the body rotated away, swaying slightly in the gusts of wind.

  Merrill felt light-headed and her stomach lurched.

  She needed to call the police, but for several seconds, she couldn’t make her limbs respond to her wishes.

  With a gulp and a shiver, she sidestepped around the dangling corpse.

  Focusing her flashlight’s beam at the floor, she shuffled over to the stairs, keeping a tight grip on both the handrail and her rising hysteria as she descended.

  Reaching the door at the bottom, she slammed it shut behind her and quickened her pace.

  Hopping off the platform, she ran to her apartment, where she shut the door firmly and locked it.

  Merrill had a feeling of unreality.

  How could a woman’s dead body be hanging overhead?

  Panic must be clouding her judgment.

  What if the police came and found a sandbag or a bundle of old clothe
s hanging in the belfry? She would look like an idiot.

  Recalling the sensation of touching the body convinced her it was no bag of sand.

  Finding her cell phone on the kitchen counter, she checked for a dial tone and called emergency services to report an apparent suicide in the belfry of the First Baptist Church.

  After relaying her message to the dispatcher, Merrill quickly dialed church moderator, Manny Lum.

  “Hello, Manny. This is Merrill. I’m so sorry to wake you, but we have a situation at the church…I think you should come to the sanctuary right away…Well, I’ve found…I mean, there’s a dead woman hanging in the belfry…Yes, I’m afraid so. You’ll come right away? Thanks.”

  *

  Policemen and rescue workers clomped up and down the belfry stairs while Manny met with Merrill in her office.

  “What were you doing in the belfry in the middle of the night?” Manny asked.

  “Like I told the officers, the storm woke me up and I heard the bell clanging wildly in the wind. I figured the anchor rope had come undone. The storm knocked the power out, so I took my flashlight and went to check. When I looked in the bell cupboard, I saw the rope had broken, so I went up to the belfry to try to take care of it.”

  “You shouldn’t be doing things like that. It’s the deacons’ job,” Manny replied.

  “I didn’t want to bother any of you in the middle of the night and I thought it was a simple fix. I guess I was wrong,” Merrill said. “Although I did manage to get the bell quieted.”

  “Well, the power’s back on, at least, but what do we do now, Pastor?” Manny asked.

  “That poor woman in the tower is beyond prayer, but I suppose we could be intervening for her family and friends,” Merrill suggested.

  The two were sitting on a small pew beside Merrill’s desk with their heads bowed when the officer in charge tapped on the door and stepped into the room.

  “Pastor Bishop?” he said, looking at Manny.

  “I’m the pastor here, officer. This gentleman is Manny Lum, our church moderator. I’m the one who called 9-1-1,” Merrill said.