The Thorny Path

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  “How was she acting? Was she hurtin’?” asked Ida Lou.

  “Oh, no—nothing like that. I’d have done something to help her in that case. No, I just went in to check on her, because we were on generator power due to the storm, and I wanted to be sure everything was working okay—and there she was, awake and laughing and talking. I said to her, just teasing, ‘Mrs. Bainbridge, have you got visitors here in the middle of the night? It’s not visiting hours, you know.’ And she said, ‘Oh, it’s just Ross and Carolyn. They’ve come to take me home with them.’ I said, ‘Now, Mrs. Bainbridge, you know you can’t go home till the doctor says so.’ And she just giggled like a little girl and said, ‘Reckon I can if Ross and Carolyn take me.’”

  The nurse shook her head solemnly. “I thought she’d been dreaming, but I should’ve known better. I’ve seen it happen often enough—just before folks pass on. They’ll be talking to somebody or smiling or waving or looking around the room, all startled, like they’re surprised to see people there. At first it used to freak me out, but now it gives me a lot of comfort, to think we’re met by loved ones when we go. Some folks in my field don’t believe in an afterlife, but I’ll tell you what—they haven’t worked where I have! So I just wonder, do y’all happen to know if she knew somebody named Ross and Carolyn?”

  Ida Lou was crying quietly into a handkerchief, but she nodded. “She did,” the bishop told the rosy-cheeked nurse. “They’re her husband and daughter—both deceased.”

  The girl’s eyes twinkled. “Well, then—they took her home, then—right out from under our noses. And I can’t help being happy for her.”

  “Me, too,” the bishop agreed. “We’ll all miss her, though, at our church.”

  “I’ll bet you will. Which church is that?” the nurse inquired.

  The bishop told her, and a curious mix of expressions crossed her face.

  “Really! Do y’all happen to know two missionaries from that church? One uses a wheelchair, and the other’s a blond fellow—”

  “That’d be Elders Moynihan and Rivenbark,” the bishop replied with a smile. Everything fell into place suddenly. He noted the name on the plastic tag she wore on her uniform. It read, “Caroline Marsh, R.N.,” and he seemed to recall the elders mentioning they were teaching a nurse by that name. “They’re both fine young men. I’m especially well-acquainted with Elder Rivenbark, since he’s from this area. Say, Miss Marsh—if you happen to be available when Hilda’s funeral is held, why don’t you come? I know that’d please her.”

  “I do try to do that, if I’m not working,” she agreed. “Or at least the viewing or visitation.” She handed the signed paper to a young man who appeared in the doorway, then turned back with a small frown. “Do y’all believe the deceased actually know who’s at their funeral?”

  The bishop gave a small shrug. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” he told her.

  She nodded. “Neither would I. Seems fair.”

  “I think Hilda might be around just to comfort her good friend here,” he added, patting Ida Lou’s shoulder. “This lady’s been like an angel to her since Roscoe died.”

  Caroline smiled. “I know she has—at least lately, I mean, because I’ve seen her up here a lot. Hilda was blessed to have such a good friend.”

  Ida Lou shook her head vehemently. “The blessin’ was mine,” she stated firmly.

  * * *

  It was decided to hold Hilda Bainbridge’s funeral on Saturday, so that more people would have the chance to attend. Sometime earlier, she had suggested to Ida Lou that a simple graveside service would suffice, since she had no remaining family, but Ida Lou reportedly had informed her in no uncertain terms that she had a loving family of several hundred people who would want to see her off into eternity. And so it turned out to be—the chapel was full to capacity on Saturday morning, so that they had to open the accordion-fold curtains and set up extra chairs in the cultural hall. Not only members came, but numerous neighbors and old friends of Roscoe and Hilda, and people who had been friends of their daughter, Carolyn.

  Ida Lou read the simple obituary that Trish helped her prepare from Hilda’s own story as recorded in her book of remembrance, with a few additions from her closest friends. Sam Wright spoke of his long association with Hilda and Roscoe and told of the qualities he had observed in the patient and cheerful Hilda, even in her afflictions of widowhood, the loss of her only daughter, and the debilitation and near-blindness of recent years. Then the bishop invited any of the congregation who wished to pay tribute to Hilda to come forward and take a couple of minutes each. One by one, people approached the pulpit, some with confidence, others with fear and trembling at speaking in public, but each to tell of some way in which Hilda had touched his or her life.

  “She taught me to sew.”

  “She mothered me after my own mother died when I was eleven.”

  “She was my visiting teacher for eight years, and she never missed a visit. She taught me the gospel by word and by example.”

  “After my wife passed on, she and Roscoe used to bring over a dessert once a month, and always a cake on my birthday, and they’d sit and eat it with me, and talk and laugh about old times.”

  “She was the best Primary teacher I ever had. I was an insecure, bratty little kid who tried to disrupt things and get attention for myself, and she’d have me sit on her lap while she taught. I felt so safe there I got to where I’d act up just to get to sit with her. I know she figured that out, but she still held me. She would’ve been a wonderful grandma.”

  Just as the bishop was ready to close this portion of the service and give his own remarks, he saw Caroline Marsh coming forward, and sat back. Caroline, her face radiant and eyes shining, shared with the attendees the same story she had related to him and Ida Lou the morning of Hilda’s passing. Handkerchiefs appeared, and sniffles were heard throughout the congregation. He regarded Caroline; he was impressed with her open manner, her fresh young beauty, and the sweetness of her spirit. He hoped she would respond positively to the missionaries’ message. He suspected there was a good chance of it. She was quality.

  “Brothers, sisters, and friends,” he began when it was his turn to speak, “is there a doubt in anyone’s mind today that this dear lady, Hilda Bainbridge, has gone forward to meet the God who gave her life with a refined and polished spirit? That she has gone in the choice company of her beloved Roscoe and their daughter, Carolyn? That she has, in her quiet and cheerful way, touched for good the hundreds of lives that crossed her path? That, indeed, she has kept her second estate, and now will have glory added upon her head, forever and ever? There’s no doubt in my mind as to these things. Sister Hilda, we will miss you, but we bid you to enter eternity with the joy and anticipation of one who has known and loved the Lord Jesus Christ and served Him all your days. May God bless you forever.”

  He continued his remarks with a few scriptures and thoughts on the nature of life and death and the reality of the Atonement and the Resurrection, mostly for the benefit of Caroline Marsh and other non-members present, so that they would have an understanding of Hilda’s beliefs on the subject. He knew she would want her services to be as much a missionary opportunity for people as a tribute to her.

  “Fine funeral sermon there, Jim,” greeted Chuck Stagley as people headed for their cars in the brilliant sunlight of the parking lot. “Reckon I liked it better than any I’ve heard.”

  “Well, thanks, Chuck. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Oh, those two missionaries of yours couldn’t let me miss a chance like this to see how the Mormons do things,” Chuck replied with a grin. “Gotta say, that was likely the happiest funeral I ever been to. I liked how it was so personal, too, and not just reciting things and sad organ music. You made it all feel so natural.”

  “Glad you feel that way. Death’s just a natural part of the whole picture, I figure—although the separation it brings can be mighty painful. Hilda’s passing is a little easier than most, of co
urse, because those closest to her are already on the other side.”

  “Reckon that’s true. Hey, you know the part the little nurse told—about the husband and daughter being there to take the lady home? That kinda rung a bell with me and made me recall something my mom said shortly before she passed. She looked over in the corner of the room and said, ‘Well, there’s Vera—don’t she look good!’ See, Vera was her sister—been dead for twenty or more years. It kinda stuck with me. I didn’t know whether Vera was there for real, or whether Mama was just seein’ things, being so sick and all. Now I think it mighta been the first.”

  “It could’ve been, all right. Listen, Chuck, I’d better head off to the cemetery. My family’s waiting in the car. But have you had any luck finding work?”

  The man shook his balding head. “Nary a nibble. Got any ideas?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind a little temporary work, I could use some help around the store this summer, with employees going on vacations and such.”

  “Jim, I’d be grateful for one day’s work, at this point.”

  “Well, come on by on Monday morning, and we’ll get you started. With the provision, of course, that if you find something better, you’ll take it.”

  “Hey, man—thank you so much. More than you know.”

  “It’ll help us both out. See you soon.”

  * * *

  At sacrament meeting on Sunday, Bishop Shepherd spotted something in the congregation that made him do a double take. There, on a back row, sitting stiffly beside his wife and three children, was none other than Sergeant Forelaw. Elaine, his wife, kept smiling as she glanced around at people. She was obviously thrilled and probably a little nervous too, to have Sergeant accompany the family to church. To the best of the bishop’s knowledge, it was a first for them. As their home teacher, he was privy to the knowledge that Sergeant had been secretly reading the scriptures in recent weeks, his wife having spotted copies of them in his work truck, but he hadn’t known the man was anywhere near taking this step.

  Quickly he reviewed the sacrament meeting program, hoping it was one that would be representative of the gospel in action in people’s lives. There were two youth speakers, Billy Newton and Rosalyn Rivenbark. Excellent. Then a musical number by Claire Patrenko on the piano. No problem there. Then a talk by Elder Don Smedley, recently returned from Brazil, speaking on assignment with Brother Reid Dorset of the stake high council. He exhaled. It should be a good program. Brother Dorset did have a tendency to run on a little long, but his talks were always well-organized and spiritually mature.

  Things went well—everyone performed at a high level, and the Spirit was present in the meeting. After the benediction, the bishop dodged people and practically leap-frogged over pews to get to the back of the chapel just as the Forelaw family was preparing to exit.

  “Hey, there, Sergeant—nice to see you,” he said, shaking the man’s hand and trying to keep any surprise out of his voice. He wanted it to seem like a casual greeting—no big deal—instead of the very big deal he felt it to be. “Elaine—how’re you? And Katie? Hey, Carter, want to shake hands? And little Arnie. Say, I’m looking forward to coming out to visit on the last Wednesday of the month, if that still works for y’all? Great. See you then.”

  He moved on, to shake hands warmly with other people, including the missionaries and their guests—Chuck Stagley and Ed and Megan Finell with their baby, Fiona. It was the first time he’d met the Finells, and he took a moment to establish where they lived and the fact that Ed worked in the accounting office of Birmingham–Southern College. They seemed a sharp and likable young couple, and he hoped they would accept the gospel.

  “Bishop, I have a bone to pick with you.”

  Trying not to cringe visibly, he turned to face Sister Tina Conrad bearing down on him.

  “Sister Conrad, how are you?” he asked.

  “I’m well enough, but we need to talk about a condition in the Relief Society that needs correcting.”

  “Oh—have you brought it up with Ida Lou?”

  “She’s the problem.”

  “Really? That’s unusual—she’s generally part of the solution. Listen, Sister Conrad—I have a couple of interviews I need to see to, right now. Could you possibly make an appointment with Brother Dan McMillan for Tuesday night? We’d have a little more time then to chat.” He reached an arm to draw Thomas Rexford toward him. “Ready for our little visit, Thomas?” he asked, turning his head to wink at the boy so that Sister Conrad couldn’t see. “Let’s head for my office. I won’t keep you long. I know you need to get to Sunday School.”

  T-Rex looked confused. “Did I forget an appointment?” he asked, as the bishop propelled him along the hall. “I reckon my head ain’t quite as good as it used to be, but—”

  “No, son—you just saved me from another interview that I want to put off for a while. Come on in and let’s catch up on things. How’re you feeling?”

  “Real good, Bishop. I only get dizzy when I turn or change levels real fast—and the doctors say that’ll go away after a while.” He gave a shamefaced grin. “Coach is still mad, though. He ain’t speakin’ to me. I know I broke trainin’ rules, but heck—the season was over, and I’d just got new stuff for my bike, and I wanted to get out and ride the thing! You know what? I reckon he’s gonna want me to keep his trainin’ rules even after I graduate!”

  “Well, Thomas, you are one of his prize players. He sees your potential, and he doesn’t want you to blow your chances by doing dangerous things. Have the doctors said whether you’ll be released to play football this fall?”

  “Not yet. I should be in summer football camp right now, though, and I don’t know whether Coach’ll let me play iffen I don’t jump through all the hoops.”

  The bishop nodded. He didn’t know, either. Coach was tough and stubborn, there was no doubt. He ran a tight ship with his Fairhaven Mariners, and not even the famed and beloved T-Rex could break rules with impunity—especially since such actions had broken his head and nearly cost the boy his life the previous winter.

  “I’m so proud of you, Thomas, for the progress you’re making in the Aaronic Priesthood. It does my heart good every time I hear you give the prayers on the sacrament.”

  “Aw, thanks, Bishop. That was purely freaky at first, but I’m gettin’ a little bit used to it.”

  “You’re doing fine. How’s the social life?”

  Thomas shrugged his considerable shoulders. They weren’t quite as beefy as they had once been, before his accident and period of forced inactivity, but they were still impressive. “I don’t know—okay, I reckon. I hatn’t been dating much. I mean, I ain’t been working, and I finally got the picture, you know, of my folks’ situation. It’s not like I can hit ’em up for money to take a girl out, when I already cost ’em thousands they didn’t have, with my accident and surgery and all.”

  “I’m glad you have that attitude. And I’m glad your dad’s working again. That helps, doesn’t it?”

  “Yessir, I’ll say it does. And thanks for helpin’ him find that job.”

  The bishop shook his head. “It wasn’t me. He found it himself. It was posted on the list that came around from the stake employment specialist. He just recognized that it was something he could do and applied. I’m grateful he got it.”

  “Me, too. And he helped Brother Dolan find work, too.”

  “Yep. That’s what it’s all about, Thomas—helping each other. That’s a large part of what the priesthood is for. You ever see a priesthood-holder with his hands on his own head, giving himself a blessing?”

  Thomas looked startled, then grinned. “No sir, reckon I ain’t seen that.”

  “And you never will. We’re called to bless each other, and help each other, any way we can. And thank you, right now, for helping me to put off seeing a sister I wasn’t quite ready to see.”

  Thomas looked wise. “It was that Conrad lady, wadn’t it? Saw her comin’ for you. She’s kinda—um—different,
ain’t she? She poked her head into our Sunday School class one day just as we was gettin’ started and told us that if we tilted our chairs back in class, or laughed loud enough that the person right next to us could hear us, that we were breaking the solemn commandments of the Lord and we’d be severely punished. I mean, those was her very words, Bishop—I ain’t fergot ’em. Is that true?”

  “Um—not exactly. There are times to be solemn and times to be respectful and pay attention, and times to play and enjoy ourselves, and some of us, when we’re young, get those times confused. But, no—I don’t suppose anybody’ll be severely punished for tilting their chair back—unless they fall and damage their head, which I surely wouldn’t advise you to do! But let’s cut Sister Conrad some slack. I think she’s pretty hard on herself and everybody around her, from all I can tell. We’ll just try to help her.” He grinned. “In fact, I promise to gather up my courage and try to help her Tuesday night.” He patted Thomas’s back and saw him out.

  “You’re a good guy, Bishop,” the boy told him with a mischievous grin. “I won’t tell nobody how you’re shirking your duty.”

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  “ . . . Every human tie may perish”

  Tuesday night came all too soon for Bishop James Shepherd. He had several interviews scheduled, most of which he felt good about, but there were two that, for differing reasons, he approached with a bit of uncertainty and dread. He interviewed Claire Patrenko, which was a pleasure, and found himself grateful that his daughter Tiffani was blessed with such a fine young woman for her best friend—bright, sensible, faithful, and fun. He knew how important it was for young people to have quality friends.

  He was more and more grateful for his own boyhood chum, Peter MacDonald—for the good times they had shared, going camping, fishing, playing ball, and working on their vehicles—and for the many heart-to-heart discussions that had occupied their leisure hours together, on everything from girls to sports to religion. “Mac,” though he wasn’t a member of the Church, had provided a stabilizing influence on him, the bishop acknowledged, serving as a nonjudgmental sounding board and a reminder that life held more than racing trucks on Saturday mornings.