Jesus said that.
Oh, Jace.
I call him though it’s midnight, but the phone just rings and rings, and his cell phone switches right to voice mail.
TWENTY-TWO
Anna explains as we enter the building. “It was a Full Gospel church once upon a time, but as you’ll see, we rearranged the pews and conduct our meetings much differently than the Gospels did. First, though, we’ll go to Sunday school.”
Good! Sunday school. That sounds normal.
We thread our way through the hallway and into the library. Mismatched furniture circles the room, and I sit next to Anna. As the group assembles, people choose the hard, uncomfortable chairs first, the couch and lounge chair the last to be taken. Interesting.
I’ve never seen this many pairs of sensible shoes in my entire life, and the man sitting next to me, hair sprouting from ears and nostrils, has the worst case of nail fungus imaginable. I can’t stop staring at his hand curled atop his cane. Do I appear rude, un-Quakerish, an individualistic, hedonistic, warmongering person who doesn’t care about the environment?
Mercy, just relax, Heather. You’re staring at somebody’s hands, that’s all.
I expected a Bible study like regular Sunday school, but they talk about initiatives the Friends Committee of National Legislation should focus on for the next two years. The man leading the group reminds me of a friendly, silver-haired lion. Campaign finance reform, clean and verifiable voting procedures, global warming and fossil fuel dependency, opposition of the doctrine of preventative war, immigration, living wages, and poor working conditions. Defense of the rule of law by limits on executive power?
Health care.
AIDS here and abroad.
National security: diplomatic versus military solutions.
What next, abortion rights?
Apparently not. Nobody mentions reproduction.
This is the craziest Sunday school I’ve ever seen. But I like these people anyway with their simple clothing, dye-free hair, pristine beards. They’ve even brought in their own breakfasts, which don’t include a bag with golden arches but rather consist of yogurt, a bran muffin, some fruit. No wonder most of them have a granola glow. By my count, seven elderly people, two in their twenties, one in his thirties, and four in their forties or fifties circle the room.
I wonder if they have youth group?
* * *
Of course my nose has started to run, and every sniff sounds like the winds of a hurricane here in the silent gathering. Most sit with their eyes closed, expecting a thought from God or waiting for someone else to stand and deliver the Spirit’s message. At least that’s what their literature says they’re doing. Me, I’m just looking around, breathing foreign air, and wondering what they’d do if I stood up and shouted, “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!”
My shoulders start to shake with laughter.
Anna grabs my hand and squeezes. I just cannot stop. The harder I try, the more heat builds in my face, providing a greenhouse for the tickles. Please, God, let me stop! But it’s not going to happen. Maybe if I just relax.
Okay, yes. Yes. Good.
Think of tragedy. All sorts of tragedy. I think of my dad. But he would have been chuckling too.
Yes, just let your mind drift away. Perfect. How about Carmen? Nothing funny there.
And then—
Anna’s shoulders start shaking too. In fact, the entire pew is vibrating underneath our giggles. I’m ten again and I’m sitting next to Dad during the Eucharist and he’s squeezing my hand, trying not to smile.
Finally we stop, just waiting for the beast to bite again, when a man stands up and says something about summer and the newness of life in his vegetable garden, comparing it to peace, its hopes, its dreams, its ability to work miracles, widespread and worldwide. My underarms and back are slick and my heart is happy. I don’t know if I found God here, but I watched other people find God. I do know that.
All at once several people stand. It is over.
“I don’t know, Anna,” I say on the car ride home. “I think it would drive me crazy week after week.”
“It’s all right, honey. Obviously, it isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Speaking of tea, how about a cup of that cranberry tea when we get home?”
And that is that. I know Anna won’t ask me to attend with her. She’ll leave it up to me.
* * *
Anna picks up a fork. “How nice to eat off of polished silver.”
“Certainly is. Thank you, Heather. And the potato salad looks divine.” Liza hands us all a napkin.
Sunday dinner today is my contribution to the culinary life of the house. Food is so essential here, so holy. I made up the potato salad last night because it’s always better the second day. Before church I put a brisket in the oven swimming in the makings of a barbecue sauce with a teriyaki slant. We picked up fresh rolls on the way home from the service, and now an easy peach cobbler is baking to a bubbling ecstasy in the oven.
Yes, I love food. Sweets best if forced to make a choice.
The women eat with such daintiness. Honestly, I do feel a bit, well, oxish. Each generation seems to eclipse the one before it in size somewhat, and the sisters were small in their own day, I’m sure.
So I help myself to a skosh more potato salad to even out the meat on my plate. I do need to make sure it all ends up evenly for some reason. I always have. The problem is, the more you have, the more that needs evening up.
“So how do you know when it’s the Spirit speaking to you?” I ask Anna. Again. Maybe I can browbeat an answer out of her, like the insistent neighbor Jesus talked about, knocking and knocking and knocking.
She wipes her mouth. “I’m sure Liza would answer differently. But for me, it’s the Spirit if it leads you closer to God.”
Liza nods. “If it leads you to act more like Jesus is how I might put it.”
It’s funny how these two women have such a drastically different slant on the same God. Anna relies on the Spirit, has such a gentle, ethereal faith that works itself out in the sadness of others. Liza has jumped in Jesus’s arms and said, “Let’s go, good buddy!” And they gallop off together in search of the most awful places where their presence will make the most difference.
Doing justice, loving mercy, walking humbly with God. That’s the sisters. And isn’t that in the Bible somewhere?
Can I be a little of both someday, Lord? Someday when I grow up? A little of Anna, a little of Liza—and a little of my dad. I want to be like my dad too.
* * *
Eleven days. Only three more left here at Alva’s home, and the trill of panic vibrates inside. It will be good to see Will, good to see Jace, but if I could meet them in some new life where we walk into that small house with those white walls and just the clothes on our backs, I’d be the happiest woman in the world. I’ve been drilling Liza about modern architecture and its values, and I’ve got plans in my mind, a small house with built-ins for storage, but with a homey aesthetic that I find a little more appealing.
And no cause for dotting.
The silver is polished, and when I hold up a spoon, I’m greeted by a convex portrait of myself, large wide nose and mouth, little eyes, and a forehead sloping back like in the drawing of Cro-Magnon man. But the smile is wide because I’m proud of myself.
I took it upon myself to wash all the table linens and iron them as well. The sisters were delighted.
I call Lark from my bedroom. “I feel another string of thoughts coming on.”
“Go on, crazy lady.”
“After trailing around with the sisters to all their meetings and workings, I honestly don’t know how they stay sane. I’ve always thought the people who I’ve journeyed with so long ignore the downtrodden portion of humanity because we’re too busy with everything else, too tired, too preoccupied with our own families and our churches.”
“You think?”
“And yeah, I have to be honest with myself and say I fall into tha
t camp. When was the last time, before taking the cake to the Hotel, that I did anything for anybody who couldn’t possibly do anything in return? But I think there’s more to it. Maybe we’re frightened that we’ll bend beneath the pain we’ll feel for others, that maybe we’ll buckle under the atrocities some of God’s creatures are forced to endure.”
“And there are many,” Lark says.
“And will the God we’ve worshiped blindly from our cushioned lives hold up under the stress of a world that’s bloody and bruised, blind and broken with absolutely no hope this side of heaven, sitting literally before our eyes? Will we trust Him ourselves when it seems that others, with their lost limbs, children, sight, and families, seemingly can’t?”
“I can’t answer that for you. The question isn’t ‘we,’ Heather. A lot of faithful people serve like that. The question is ‘I.’ Will your faith hold under that sort of pressure?”
“I don’t know. Would I be so quick to shout ‘Hallelujah’ if my infant son just had his arms hacked off with a machete by a cruel soldier or Jace died because I didn’t have the money for a doctor?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’d be doing any shouting. Have you been on the Internet again?”
I’m not ready to be sidetracked. I’m Liza. I’m Will. “We pray we never have to really answer these questions for ourselves, don’t we? Because in those moments when we give honesty its rightful place, we don’t know if our faith will survive.”
“Is that all God is to you, Heather? The Bob Vila of this decrepit world?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“I’ve noticed something. It’s people like us who think these thoughts, because we have the white-bread luxury to think them. Those who’ve experienced horror, deprivation, and loneliness tend to see God in ways we never could. And that, my friend, is something worth considering.” “Why?”
“Did you ever think that these people may actually have something to teach you? That it’s not just about you going into the uttermost parts and being the big savior? That they have wisdom and grace to share that you’ll know nothing about until you sit yourself down in front of them and get to know them?”
“Of course I haven’t, Lark. I’ve already confessed I’m bereft about these matters.”
“Okay. Well, think about it. God’s like a grandmother who grew up in the Depression. He saves every little scrap of food, of tinfoil, of plastic wrap, and He uses it again and again for different people. I’m sure there’s a ream of faithful wisdom you can gather from those you’re running away from.”
“In other words, it cuts both ways.”
“Yes! You’ll gain far more than you’ll ever give. And it’s okay to be selfish about it like that. Suck out all the juice life has to offer, Heather. I think God wants us to, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Then why are you making yourself so miserable about your calling?”
“I’ve got a calling?”
“Oh my gosh, Heather. You actually had a kangaroo cross your path. What more do you need?”
“A notarized letter?”
TWENTY-THREE
I find her on a boulder at the bottom of the steep incline leading down to the lake. Liza sits with her back to the breeze looking west toward the Dulaney Valley Road bridge. Does she somehow hear church bells beneath the waters? No, Liza knows the truth.
I start down the hill.
Her profile speaks of granite and statues, things unforgiving and bald. The noonday sun bleaches her features to a flat mask. The high wind diminishes her.
When I’m not with Liza, my mind-vision of her is of a much younger woman. I remember her with darker eyes and dark hair and gauzy movements. And when she walks into the room, I’m always surprised by her age and her well-planted feet.
She hears me approach and turns. She doesn’t welcome me. “It’s my day, Heather.”
“Anna said.” I stop halfway down, holding on to a sapling to keep from tumbling forward.
“I’d prefer to be by myself.”
“You don’t like to talk about him.”
“No.”
“You’d rather keep him to yourself.”
She looks back to the waters. “Yes. It’s easier.”
Liza’s only son died fifty years ago at the age of fifteen, Will’s age. It was one of those stupid things, Anna said, that could have been easily avoided. Lou had always been a good swimmer, and why he chose to go out that night into Loch Raven nobody knew. The lake wasn’t for swimming, and he knew that. Anna said that Liza only once admitted to finding a bottle of gin at the edge of the yard. Alva died only a year later.
Somebody’s burning leaves somewhere, and the smell of autumn veils the summer day, anchors it for the grief-filled memorial.
Sometimes telling somebody you’ll pray for them seems almost disrespectful, like saying, “This is a mountain you can climb.” Sometimes some mountains are too high to ever get over, so I slide down the rest of the path, lay a hand on her shoulder, squeeze, kiss the silver smoothness of her head, and climb my way back to the house.
* * *
Anna and I sit on the couch together, holding hands and praying silently for Liza.
The sunbeam falling through the sliding glass doors lies on us warm and comfortable like a quilt from the dryer; the clock on the mantel holds a microphone inside. All is thorny and itchy, woolen and flax. But she keeps her hand in mine. Warm hand. Our perspiration mingles, and she holds tight. Doesn’t she know the rule of prayer hand-holding? When you start to get uncomfortable in the grip, you either squeeze lightly twice or wiggle your fingers a bit. And then the other person is supposed to let go. Vice versa: if you feel this being done to you, you let go right away.
I’ve done this several times, and she’s either ignoring me or too deep in prayer to notice.
Ah, Lord, I wish I could lose myself in prayer like that.
I close my eyes.
Two hours later, I awaken. And Anna still prays for her sister.
She opens her eyes.
“When will she come in, Anna?”
“After dark. We’ll be long in bed. I’m glad it’s not raining today. I always pray the weather will be mild for her.”
The day progresses as we move about under the weight of remembrance, cooking our meals, washing our sheets, doing the crossword puzzle, and finally, watching Jeopardy!
“You think she’s all right, Anna?”
“No. She will never be all right. And hasn’t been all right for fifty years, Heather. But then, none of us are really all right, are we?”
No, I guess we’re not.
* * *
This morning Liza and I traveled downtown—I begged her to let me drive, and she did—to the Church of Holy Peace near Essex. First of all, we were two of four white faces in the mix. Second of all, I’ve never seen people actually running around the sanctuary. I usually feel a little strange when I want to lift up a hand to worship, but folks were actually running around the sanctuary. Needless to say, I lifted both hands and wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. It liberated.
The pastor, who hopped on her high heels, danced about and sang in a sing-song, “The Lord is good. Let me hear you sing it with me. The Lord is good.”
And the congregation joined in as the band encouraged them with the one-two gospel beat. “The Lord is good. The Lord is good.”
“Sing it out, y’all!”
Oh, Lord, she was beautiful in her violet two-piece dress with just a hint of sparkle up top.
“The Lord is good,” I sang, looking around me. But lost in their own praise, nobody noticed me.
Liza simply sat with her eyes closed, drinking it in like a desert flower. And in that crowd of Christians, even that was understood.
On the drive home I asked her how she’d found the place.
“I’m a nomad Christian, Heather.”
“But what about finding a church home?”
“I have a church home, with the men at the h
alfway house.”
“Is it the same?”
“We are all God’s people, Heather. My church is the Church. I don’t have many years left and want to be with as many of God’s people as I can.”
* * *
Jace and I sit on the patio outside the family room. The sisters putter about the kitchen, tickled to have a dinner guest of the male persuasion, and isn’t that sweet? Earlier during breakfast before church, Liza patted the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Now, Anna, men like beef. We’ll have a rib roast, twice-baked potatoes, and a green salad.”
“Then I’ll do the dessert. Apple pie with butter crumb topping à la mode.”
“Right, then. I’ll throw the roast into the oven before we leave.”
I almost spit out my coffee. No argument? Mercy!
Jace shoves his hands in his pocket. “So here’s the deal, Hezz. Will wants to stay with my parents for another week. I think it might be good for you, if the sisters don’t mind, to stay here until he’s back. I think rattling around at our house, with what you’re going through, will be the worst thing for you. My surgical schedule is crazy tomorrow and Tuesday, and Wednesday through Sunday I’ll be at that conference in Chicago. Believe me, though, it’ll be better after that.”
Will it?
“What’s the conference about again?”
“Just a surgical thing.”
“Can’t you be a little more specific?”
“It’s pretty generalized, hon.”
“Then why a conference on it? Aren’t they usually pretty specific?”
“Not always.”
Man, Jace! Fess up, okay?
But another week with the sisters? Like I even have to think. “Let me ask Anna and Liza.”
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 43