“Or will you take the high road and behave in the manner the Lord prescribes, when He says, ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven, for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.’
“Now, I’m sure I have your attention, and I’m sure you’re wondering what in the world I have to tell you. The situation is that we’re soon to have some visitors in our area, some folks from a couple of out-of-state organizations of so-called anti-Mormon persuasion. You’ve probably heard of the street preachers who demonstrate outside of Temple Square during general conference in Salt Lake City. They’ve generally been loud and rude and accusatory, in an attempt to provoke a response from those attending conference. The enemies of the Church misrepresent LDS doctrine, as well as tell outright falsehoods and resort to name-calling to try to make us look foolish and deceived and even willfully wicked.
“It appears that it’s people of this type who are touring the country this summer on what they call a ‘rally tour,’ planning to hold anti-Mormon rallies in various areas and trying to disrupt missionary work and turn members and investigators away from the truth. They’ve sent letters to local churches, encouraging attendance at this rally, which will be held at the County Fairpark on the third of August. I’m indebted to our good brother Ralph Jernigan and his wife, Linda, and to my long-time friend the Reverend Peter MacDonald of the Friendship Christian Church for a heads-up on this matter. Without them, I’d be totally in the dark about this whole thing.”
He noticed Ralph’s embarrassed little smile before he modestly looked down, and he also noted the somewhat surprised glances exchanged by several ward members.
“Now, my dear friends,” he continued, “the question is, ‘How should we respond? How can we respond in a way that will honor our Lord and Savior?’ I’ve talked this over with President Walker and with my counselors, and we all agree and strongly counsel that everybody should stay away from the rally. Many of these folks are quite combative in nature, and may just be spoiling for a fight. We don’t want to give them one!
“Certainly we have strong young men who could meet them on those terms, and we have able scriptorians who could go head-to-head with them on doctrinal matters, but would either one do any good? You may think, ‘Yes! It’d show them we’re not wimps, that we’re not just going to take this kind of attack lying down.’ But would they be convinced? No. Are they interested in seeking out any truth we have to offer? I’m afraid not. They simply want to start trouble, especially for our missionaries.
“President Walker has talked with the mission president and all of the bishops in the stake, and this is what he proposes: Each ward will have a special fireside—ours, of course, will be here in our building on that evening, August third. We will invite members and interested nonmembers and friends to meet with us, and we will pray and speak and bear testimony and sing the songs of Zion and try to generate such a Spirit that the work of the Lord will go forward with renewed vigor in this area! Since the next day is fast Sunday anyway, we ask those who can, to fast the evening meal and the Sunday morning meal, and break your fast after our regular Sunday meetings.
“My friend Peter MacDonald is going to counsel his congregation to stay away from the rally as well, and he’s contacting other clergymen in the area and encouraging them to do the same. Still, we know there are a number of our fellow citizens who will attend the rally and who will be disposed to agree with the organizers. What should we do about them? Simply what the Lord said—pray for them. Do good to them. Is this always easy? I can tell you from personal experience that it is not. But it’s the right thing.”
He continued for a few more minutes, enjoying the most undivided attention he had ever had from a congregation, including that of his own two, wide-eyed older children—and then the meeting closed with the hymn “God Speed the Right.”
After the prayer, people whispered to one another as they gathered their families, lesson manuals, and scriptures and prepared to head to their auxiliary meetings. The usual buzz was subdued, however, and the bishop knew the people were shocked, absorbing the news he had given them. He knew the feeling; the letter Mac had brought had shocked him, also. He made his way to the foyer, where he greeted Chuck and Mary Lynn, explaining that this was not the usual tenor of their meetings and inviting them to return the next Sunday.
* * *
As was his habit during the Sunday School hour, he made himself available in his office—half hoping and half dreading that Sister Tina Conrad would stop in and take him to task again. This time, however, he was at least somewhat prepared for her. He had conferred with Ida Lou Reams, and together they had consulted the Relief Society guidelines, finding only a general statement of encouragement to sisters to dress appropriately for their meetings and when attending the temple. There had been not one word regarding the wearing of pants or skirts for visiting teaching. By the end of the hour, when Sister Conrad had not appeared, he began to breathe a little easier, hoping that perhaps she, too, had consulted the same source.
He did, however, receive a visit from VerDan and Bethany Winslow, whom he welcomed heartily and whose little son he admired with the enthusiasm a first baby commands.
After the door to the office was closed and the couple was seated, VerDan said, “Bishop, I want to thank you. Thanks for being honest with me and for not condemning me when you found out what was really going on. That has meant a lot to me because I was doing some pretty heavy condemning of myself. I know I acted like some kind of idiot playboy, but that wasn’t really how I was feeling. I was just scared stupid and couldn’t see my way out of a paper bag. I’m so glad you didn’t let me go on a mission.”
“Well, you know how it is—you just can’t argue with the Spirit, and the Spirit was telling me pretty emphatically that there were reasons why we shouldn’t send you out. As a bishop, I’m grateful for that help because sometimes we want so badly to believe what the person across the desk is telling us, that it’d be hard to know which way to turn without the Spirit’s discernment.”
“I’m glad you had that help, too,” Bethany put in. “I want you to know that Danny and I are working hard to repent and make things right. We want to be sealed in the temple, soon as we’re worthy.”
The bishop nodded and smiled at her. She had a mature serenity about her that he knew was a steadying and calming influence on her young husband, and he was glad for it.
“Your mom’s sure proud of this little guy,” he remarked to VerDan, who ran a hand over his face and shook his head.
“Bishop, I shouldn’t probably say this, ’cause I love my mom, but sometimes she embarrasses the heck out of me!”
The bishop smiled. “I know. But I just figured out recently that embarrassing their kids is part of a parent’s job description. I embarrass mine regularly.”
VerDan shook his head. “Not like my mom, I bet,” he said.
* * *
“Dad,” Jamie said, later that afternoon just as the bishop was relaxing for the first time all day, stretched out in his favorite family room recliner with the cat Samantha sleeping on his chest. “Dad, there’s a—like a van, or something, in our driveway. I don’t know who it is.”
“Mmm. Maybe they’re just turning around.”
“Huh-uh. They’re gettin’ out.”
“Okay,” his father said wearily, sitting up and dumping the reluctant Samantha, who stalked away with ears laid back in annoyance. “Here we go. Let’s see who’s here.”
He peeked out the living room window. A heavy-set man stood stretching and looking around the neighborhood, while a woman and two small children climbed out of the other side. The old Volkswagen van was battered and scratched, and it appeared that steam was rising from the undercarriage.
“Who are they?” asked Jamie. “Do you know ’em
, Dad?”
“I don’t think so,” the bishop replied. “Let’s go find out.”
“Uh—you go find out,” Jamie said, in a voice that said he had already made an initial assessment and found the visitors less than welcome.
“Aw, come on, James. Who knows—maybe they’re relatives! Maybe Junior told them about us.”
“Yeah, right. Like I said—you go find out.”
The man had started toward the house while the woman stood beside the van and seemed occupied with something in the front seat. The two little ones followed their presumed father. One looked to be about four, and the other was just barely walking. They were clad only in underpants or diaper and dirty tee shirts.
The bishop walked out onto his front porch. “Hello, there,” he greeted.
“Well, hey!” the man returned. “You the Mormon bishop around here?”
“That I am. Bishop Jim Shepherd. And you are . . . ?”
“We’re the Lubells—Hank and Candy Lee. We’re headin’ down to Floridy for a vacation trip and thought we’d stop here in Fairview overnight. We went and found the church house, but there was just one fella there, and he was leavin’, but he told us your name, so we looked up in the phone book and found your place. It’s real nice,” he added, looking around.
“Thank you. The town is Fairhaven, by the way, not Fairview. And church meetings are over for today, so what can I do for you folks?”
The man squinted in the sunlight and scratched the back of his head. “Oh, we just wondered if we might could camp in the church parkin’ lot overnight—though we’d hoped to catch the place still open, so’s we could use the facilities, you know? We’re just a tad short of cash and cain’t really afford us a mo-tel. We’re sorta doin’ this trip on a shoestring, if you know what I mean.”
“Where are y’all from, Mr. Lubell?”
“Um—northern Missouri. Little-bitty old town, you wouldn’t even recognize the name or nothin’. But we feel a mite safer, on the road, if we can stay close by a Mormon church or some good members, you know?”
“So you’re members of the Church?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah—didn’t I say? I’m sorry. We sure are.”
The woman finished what she was doing, lifted a small infant into her arms, and came forward. Evidently she had been changing its diaper, as she carried a soiled one in her hand.
“Hey,” she greeted. “Y’all got a trash can where I can throw this? They make the car so smelly.”
“Let me take that for you,” the bishop offered, and took the heavy and indeed odiferous object back to the can behind his garage.
“This here’s my wife,” the man said, as the bishop returned to the front porch.
“Sister Lubell,” the bishop acknowledged, shaking her hand. “Brother Lubell,” he added, grasping the man’s pudgy fingers. “And your three little ones. What are their names?”
“Oh, that’n’s our Sue, there,” the mother said, indicating the oldest, who was tramping barefoot through Trish’s wildflowers. “The boy’s Eldon, and this here’s Layla, but we just call her ‘Squirt.’”
“I see. Um—maybe Sue might better not try to walk in the flowers,” the bishop suggested. “Some of them have rough stems and even stickers.”
“Oh, our Sue’s gotta learn stuff like that for herself,” remarked her mother. “It don’t do no good to tell her.”
The bishop, spurred by thoughts of Trish waking up from her nap and seeing the child’s assault on her floral tapestry, went into action and swung the little girl up into his arms, brushing off her feet with one hand as she pulled back and gazed at him indignantly.
“Those flowers are pretty, but they have sharp little stickers that can hurt your feet,” he told her firmly and handed her to her father.
Little Eldon, a small blond elf of a boy, sat down between his mother’s flip-flop-shod feet and began to whimper.
“What’sa matter with Eldon?” demanded his father.
“Reckon he’s hungry, but I ain’t got nothin’ to give him,” Sister Lubell said. She swayed from side to side, rocking the baby. Eldon clutched her ankle and swayed with her, his face screwed up into a silent howl that the bishop was afraid would soon become all too audible. Sue wriggled out of her father’s arms and headed back toward the flowers.
“Tell you what,” the bishop said. “Why don’t you folks come on around back where it’s shady, and I’ll get you a snack and something cold to drink.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but scooped Sue up again and carried her around to the patio, where he set her down on the grass. “Now, this feels good on your feet, doesn’t it?” he said by way of encouragement. “You can play on the swings over there, if you want.”
The Lubells had followed him, as he knew they would. The father swung Eldon along with one hand, and the boy still hiccuped with little sobs that the bishop was afraid might yet break forth into a howl.
“Just make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll see what I can scare up,” he told them, and went into the kitchen.
“So who are they?” asked Jamie, with interest. “Are they relatives?”
“No, no. Just some church members traveling through from Missouri, and kind of down on their luck.”
“What does that mean?” Mallory asked, padding into the room.
“It means they’re poor,” Jamie told her. “They don’t have any money. Right, Dad?”
“Well, something like that. They’re hungry. I’m going to make a little snack for them. Jamie, would you get the lemonade out of the fridge? And the mayonnaise? I hope they like cheese and tomato sandwiches.”
“I do,” said Mallory. “I want one, too. How many kids do they got?”
“Have,” corrected her dad absently, as he sliced tomatoes on a plate. “They have three—a little girl named Sue, a boy named Eldon, and a tiny baby named—uh—Squirt. I forget her real name.”
Mallory went to peer at them through the family room windows. “Does Sue want to play with me?” she asked.
“She’s younger than you, but you can go see,” her father advised. “Just play around back, though, and don’t let her get into your mom’s flowers.”
He carried a plate of sandwiches and the pitcher of lemonade out to the patio, while Jamie followed with a package of cookies and some paper cups and napkins. These Jamie deposited on the table and hurried back into the house after a quick perusal of the guests.
“Would the children rather have milk?” the bishop asked. “We’ve got plenty.”
“Reckon Eldon would,” his mother replied. “And Sue don’t eat tomaters. I’ll just pull ’em off of her sandwich.” This she did, and popped the vegetables hungrily into her own mouth. She patted the cheese slice with a napkin to remove any vestige of tomato juice, and called her daughter to eat. The child grabbed the sandwich eagerly and took it with her as she ran back to the swings. She grabbed the chain of the swing Mallory was using and shook it, obviously wanting that one for herself. Mallory obligingly moved to the other swing, but Sue repeated her performance, so that Mallory jumped out, put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, okay, then—if you don’t want me to play with you, I’ll go back inside!”
Sue’s face puckered, and she threw the uneaten part of her sandwich at Mallory, then aimed a kick at her shins. Mallory jumped back, then turned and ran toward her father, who lifted her onto his lap.
“Dad, she’s not nice,” she said tearfully. “She doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, Sue’s a scrapper, all right,” the girl’s father affirmed, taking a huge bite of sandwich and motioning to Mallory with the rest. “You got to look out, around our Sue.”
Sue jogged around the table, stuck her tongue out at Mallory as she passed, and grabbed two cookies from the package.
Candy Lee Lubell passed bites of cheese to Eldon, who sat again between her feet. “You happen to have any baby formula?” she inquired of their host. “Or canned milk?”
“No formula on hand,” he
replied. “We have a baby on the way, but not for a few more months. We might have some canned milk. I’ll go see.”
“Well, if you do, mix it half and half with warm water and put just a little sugar or syrup in. I’ll go get Squirt’s bottle from the car.” She stood up and started for the car. Eldon clung to her ankle so that she had to shake him off, and he rolled over on his side, sobbing again.
The bishop moved back to the kitchen, searching the pantry for canned milk. Thankfully, he found a can and followed the mother’s instructions, bemused at the way she had commandeered his help and given him his marching orders. He supposed a mother in such circumstance would feel justified in reaching for help from any source available. Her husband didn’t seem to be of much assistance. How could the man bring his young family on such a journey, without sufficient resources to feed and shelter them along the way? What kind of man builds a tower or plans a Florida vacation without sitting down first to count the cost?
Tiffani came into the room while he was measuring and mixing.
“Dad? Who’s here? I had to park out front.”
“Hi, Tiff. Sorry about that. It’s some traveling folks from Missouri.”
“They’re sitting down on their luck,” put in Mallory, still sniffling from her encounter with Sue. “And their little girl’s not nice.”
“But why are they here?” Tiffani asked. “And what’re you making?”
“Would you believe baby formula?”
She shook her head. “Weirdness. Where’s Mom?”
“Still napping, I think. I’m trying to handle this without bothering her, but I don’t know how long I can hold out.”
Tiffani laughed. “So how come they landed here? Are they LDS?”
“Apparently so. They want permission to camp out in the church parking lot overnight. Or so they say. I think they’re hoping they can camp here, instead, since we have bathrooms.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. We don’t even know them!”
Her father shook his head. “I don’t know about that. I’m already beginning to feel like I know them very well.”
The Thorny Path Page 18