The Thorny Path

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

“She has her dad’s car this afternoon, and she can’t get that during the week.”

  “I see. Well, maybe I’ll let you use ours one day next week.”

  “Promise?”

  “If it’s not a time when I need it.”

  Tiffani sighed gustily, the sigh of a resigned martyr. “All right, then. Dad, pass me your phone, please. And by the way, if I had my own cell phone, I wouldn’t have to ask for yours.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, Tiff,” her father said cheerfully, handing back the small instrument.

  * * *

  Hazel’s place was flourishing with flowers and vegetables, with some kind of blooming vine growing over the small porch. The bishop thought that if the cottage had a thatched roof, it would have been at home in the English countryside—at least the countryside he imagined from the illustrations he’d seen. Probably things were all different there, now.

  A roly-poly bundle of black and white fur launched itself from the porch and bounded toward them as they got out of the car. As if remembering its duty, it skidded to a halt and emitted a series of sharp, high barks, then began to bounce and wag its way among the children.

  “A puppy!” squealed Mallory. “I didn’t know she had a puppy.”

  “Neither did I,” her dad replied, looking around for Hazel’s rangy old hunting dog. “Wonder where her old hound is.”

  He and Trish climbed the steps, leaving children and puppy romping in the yard. He knocked loudly on the wood of the screened door.

  “Sister Buzbee?” he called, at the top of his voice. “Are you home?”

  “Well, ’course I’m home—where else would I be, in this here heat?” she answered, coming into sight. “Mercy! It’s the bishop. Y’all come on in to where it’s shady, at least!”

  They went inside and immediately recognized that “shady, at least,” was about the best that could be said for the little house. The shades were drawn, but the front and back doors were open, to catch any breath of air that might wander in, no matter how hot.

  “Do you have a fan, Hazel?” the bishop asked.

  “Do I have a what? A man?” She laughed.

  He smiled and made fanning motions with his hand. “An electric fan? Do you have one?”

  “Oh, a fan. Had me one of them, onc’t, but the dang thing went out on me.”

  “I’ll bring you one,” he promised. “It’s awful hot in here.”

  “Reckon so, though I don’t seem to feel the heat like I used to,” she told him. “But maybe that’s ’cause I c’n take it easy in the heat of the day. I don’t do nothin’ but sleep or listen to the radio or the tapes y’all brung me. I do my garden work just as the sun’s fixin’ to rise and just when it’s gone down in the evenin’.”

  “That’s good. You could get heatstroke out there in the middle of the day.”

  “Say what?”

  “Heatstroke,” he yelled. “Heatstroke, out there now.”

  “Oh, yes. My husband, he used to say how only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun. Well, I don’t know iffen I’m any part English, but I sure ain’t no mad dog!” She gave a cackle of laughter.

  “Speaking of dogs, where’s your old hound?”

  “My hound? Wal, d’you know, he up and died on me, couple of weeks ago. Had that old dog for fifteen years. The kids down the road come up and buried him for me. They seen how I was a-grievin’ over him, and couple of days later, here they come with that silly puppy dog out yonder. Told ’em I was way too old to take on a pup, but they said iffen I was to die, they’d take him back, so I agreed to have him. He’s s’posed to be a real smart breed—Border Collie, they called it—and a good watchdog, but so far, he’s about as much protection as my old cat. He is good for a laugh, though!”

  “He barked at us when we came,” Trish said loudly. “That’s a good sign.”

  Hazel held a hand behind one ear, and the bishop repeated his wife’s words. “Oh, did he? Good for him. Reckon my ears didn’t pick it up.”

  Trish tried again, louder. “How are you enjoying the tapes we brought?”

  Hazel looked uncertain, and Trish pointed to the tape recorder on the kitchen table. “Do you like the tapes?” she shouted.

  “Oh, honey,” Hazel yelled back, “I purely love them tapes! Makes me feel like I’m back in touch with the Church, almost like I used to be.” She cut her eyes toward the bishop. “I still do drink coffee, though,” she confided in a slightly lower voice. “It’s hard not to, you know? I growed up on the dang stuff, and seems like it’s all that can get me goin’ in the mornin’. Hope the good Lord can see fit to forgive this old sinner.”

  The children tumbled into the house, laughing from their exertions with the puppy, who stood and whined at the screened door. Jamie gave in and went back outside, but the girls stayed in.

  “You like my puppy dog, sugarfoot?” Hazel asked of Mallory, who nodded enthusiastically. “Then I reckon you’d better give him a name, like you did my kitty cat, old Stormy.”

  “Okay,” Mallory agreed, and sat down to think.

  Tiffani perched on a straight chair and fanned her flushed face with a piece of paper. “It is so hot out there,” she announced. “Not very cool in here, either, is it?”

  Her mother shook her head in reply. “We’re going to bring her a fan.”

  “Good.” Tiffani stopped fanning and glanced at the paper in her hand. “Dad?” she said. “I think you’ll want to look at this.”

  He took the paper from his daughter and looked at the printing on it. “So—word is spreading, even out here,” he said.

  “What is it?” asked Trish. He handed the paper to her. It was an announcement from the Mt. Olivet Baptist Church encouraging people to make time to attend the anti-Mormon crusade and rally on the third of August. Time and place were announced, and the slogan “Strength in Numbers and in Truth” was printed on a banner across the bottom.

  “What is that paper, anyhow? I couldn’t make it out,” Hazel said. “Somebody left it on my door.”

  The bishop briefly explained to her what the message was. “We’re aware of this meeting, and we’re having a special fireside that same evening to celebrate the truth and try to generate faith among our people to fight against this kind of thing. These people are full of lies and hatred, and we don’t want to tangle with them on their terms.”

  “Huh! Too bad Mt. Olivet’s folks are falling for that nonsense. I c’n recall we had some of that sort of stuff happenin’ years ago, with people trying to run the Mormon missionaries out of the county, threatenin’ to shoot ’em on sight. We all fasted and prayed, and nobody got shot that I ever knowed about.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what we’re doing, so if you’d like to join your prayers with ours, especially on the third, we’d be grateful. I don’t know if you should fast, but—”

  “I can, for at least one meal. I’ll do that, Bishop. You can count on me.”

  “Thank you, Sister Buzbee.”

  “Will you leave a prayer, before you go?”

  He quieted the children and offered a blessing upon Hazel and her home, thanking the Lord for her faith and determination to do what was right. He felt strange every time he prayed in her home, because of the decibel level that was necessary for her to hear his words. He wished he had a microphone, just for her.

  “So, honeybunch, what’s that doggie’s name gon’ be?” she asked Mallory, as they all stood and prepared to take their leave.

  Mallory giggled. “What about Bouncer?” she asked. “’Cause he bounces all over the place.” Her father duly repeated her words, and Hazel clapped her hands in delight.

  “Bouncer he is,” she decreed. “That’s a good name for a watchdog anyhow, don’t y’all think?”

  “It’s perfect,” the bishop agreed. “And I hope he bounces anybody you don’t want around!”

  * * *

  Marguerite Lowell was mowing the lawn next door, and her mother was weeding a bed of petunias as the Shepherd family p
ulled into their driveway. The bishop went to his dining room desk and retrieved the most recent flyer Maxine had created and headed next door before he could lose his determination.

  Maxine stood up as he approached and looked as if she might throw her trowel at him.

  “Good evening!” he called loudly, to be heard over the mower.

  “Marguerite! Cut that thing off and go in the house!” the mother directed.

  “Good evening,” the bishop repeated, as the sound died away. “I wondered if we might discuss this for a minute.” He held up the flyer.

  “Where’d you get that?” she asked, frowning.

  “Well, they’re pretty easy to come by—they’re all over the neighborhood,” he said. “I know you and I obviously disagree on some points of religious doctrine, Mrs. Lowell, although if we were to sit down and have a rational discussion, you might find that we agree on more than you think. After all, we read and believe the Bible pretty literally, as I suspect you do. But I wonder why you feel it necessary to put out such libelous and hurtful information? There is such a thing as disagreeing without being disagreeable about it.”

  “Your name’s not on that paper and neither is mine,” she stated flatly.

  “No, but everybody knows who produces them and who’s referred to. Believe it or not, we’re not your enemy, Mrs. Lowell. In fact, we’ve tried to be friends, ever since you moved in.”

  “I don’t have friends that are the likes of you people.”

  “You know, I believe you’re mistaken in what kind of people we are. We’ve always gotten along well with our neighbors, and I hate it that there’s been this contention between us. I don’t want it to be that way. What can I do to make you feel better about us?”

  “Not a thing, unless you totally renounce your false religion, which is of the devil! If all the people in this neighborhood knew what I know about your so-called church, you wouldn’t have such a nice, cozy friendship with them, either!”

  “Just what is it you think you know, that you find so objectionable?”

  “The Mormon Church is a man-made institution—no, I’m being too kind on that point. It’s a devil-made institution, substituting another book for the Holy Bible and causing men to trust in a so-called prophet, who’s nothing but another sinful man, rather than in the good Lord! It’s—”

  “Do you believe in a changeable God?” Jim asked.

  “I do not. I believe in an unchangeable God, who is all-knowing, all-powerful, and mighty to save.”

  “Then haven’t you read in Amos, chapter three, verse seven, where the Lord says, ‘Surely the Lord God will do nothing, but he revealeth his secret unto his servants the prophets?’ If the Lord is truly unchangeable, wouldn’t he reveal his secrets to prophets in our day, the same as in Old Testament times? Don’t we need direction today, as much as the people did, back then?”

  “Certainly not. The Lord Jesus was the last great prophet, and his word is all we need. We have his word in the Bible, and it’s sufficient. That’s made plain in Revelation, twenty-two, eighteen: ‘ . . . I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book!’” Maxine threw down her trowel, and the bishop felt relieved that it wouldn’t be flying at his head.

  “Correct,” he said. “The Book of Revelation, written by the Apostle John, often called John the Revelator. Tell me, Mrs. Lowell, was John a prophet?”

  “He was one of the Lord’s disciples. He wrote what the Lord wanted him to write.”

  “So you believe that the book of Revelation is just that—a revelation from God, or a prophecy, as John himself calls it in the passage you just quoted?”

  “I believe it’s the word of God, along with the rest of the Bible, yes.”

  “So John was a prophet, prophesying after the death of the Savior? Then perhaps the Savior wasn’t the last prophet.”

  Maxine Lowell looked momentarily confused, then angry again. “I don’t know when he wrote the book. But I do know he warns against adding to the Bible, and that’s what you people do, with your phony Book of Mormon and other fake translations!”

  “Are you certain he was warning against adding to the Bible, which hadn’t even been compiled yet when he wrote, or was he warning against adding to or taking away from the prophecy of the Book of Revelation itself? I’m sure you must know that the books of the New Testament were still just in separate manuscripts, and everybody lucky enough to have copies had a different selection. The Bible as we know it today wasn’t compiled until many hundreds of years later. And some versions still don’t include the Book of Revelation.”

  “Well, mine does, whether yours does or not, and I believe the good Lord knew which book would end up as the final one, and told John to include that part about adding to it just to warn people against such falsehoods as you preach!”

  “Mrs. Lowell, why do you want to limit the Lord, if He’s all-knowing and all-powerful, as you say?”

  “Limit the . . . I beg your pardon!”

  The bishop shrugged. “Who are you—or any of us—to dictate to the Lord that He can’t speak any more of His will to us in our day? That He’s said enough, thank you very much!”

  “I know He doesn’t need to, because He hasn’t done! His word as given in the Bible is sufficient, and salvation cometh through his Son, through grace, though I know you don’t believe that, either!”

  “I can testify to you that prophets have spoken in our day. And actually, by the way, we do believe in the doctrine of salvation through grace.”

  “No, you do not! You believe in works—foolish works of man that can never save anybody.”

  “I think if you give a careful reading to all of Paul’s comments on faith, works, and grace, you’ll see the whole picture—that both are necessary. We do believe we’re expected to do certain things, but we also know that they’re not sufficient to save a one of us. We have a scripture that says, ‘For by grace are ye saved, after all ye can do.’”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s in the Book of Mormon. I’d be glad to show it to you.”

  “Then it was added recently! I know you all keep making changes, to suit your purposes. Now, good night, Mr. Shepherd. You have not convinced me of a single point.”

  “Just one more thing, Mrs. Lowell. I wonder what you think of the Savior’s admonition to us all in the Gospel of John, chapter thirteen, where He says, ‘A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another, as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, that ye have love, one to another.’”

  “He was speaking to his twelve disciples.”

  “Just to His chosen apostles? The twelve? Doesn’t He want all who follow Him and love Him, to try to love each other? He tells us to love our neighbor as ourselves.”

  “In the parable of the good Samaritan,” she retorted, “the neighbor was the one who cared for the fallen man. I’m only required to love neighbors who do the Lord’s will, not those who ignore His will and His word and create for themselves their own scriptures!”

  “Then you do believe works are important.”

  “I don’t know why I’m standing here arguing with you! I’ve been warned how slick you people are at twisting the scriptures. We have no common ground to stand on, Mr. Shepherd. Please get off my property.”

  “All right, I’ll be glad to. But . . .” He held up the open letter she had written. “It’s hard for me to believe that a woman with a true love of the Lord in her heart could produce such trash and lies as this. I’ll appreciate it if there’s no more of these.”

  “I’m commanded to warn my neighbor!”

  He looked her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am. So am I.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  * * *

  “ . . . Gird up your loins, fresh courage take”

  “Bishop, guess what?” cam
e Buddy Osborne’s low voice behind the bishop as they headed into the room where the priests quorum met.

  He turned with a smile. “Um, let’s see—you sold one of your paintings for a thousand dollars?”

  Buddy chuckled. It wasn’t a sound the bishop had often heard.

  “Well, no, but it’s almost that surprisin’,” he said. “My mom give me my own house key!”

  They exchanged high-fives. “Good for you,” the bishop told him. “And you’re responsible enough to handle it, too. Proud of you!”

  Buddy shrugged. “She just don’t want me over to Deddy’s whenever he’s got—you know—comp’ny.”

  “That’s a good enough reason, though I can think of lots of others. It relieves my mind, to know you won’t be locked out any more.”

  “Yeah, and I won’t have to keep hangin’ out at your place.”

  “Hmm. If you stay away too much, I just might have to swipe that key.”

  * * *

  “So all right, Bishop, have it your way about the visiting teachers wearing trousers like a man,” said Sister Tina Conrad. “Your Relief Society president showed me in the manual what it said—or didn’t say—on the subject. But I still feel it’s wrong, and I’m still going to insist that anyone who visits me in that capacity has to wear a skirt.”

  “All right,” the bishop said mildly. “I expect there’ll be sisters willing to do that, if it’s really important to you. And I was wondering if you’ve seen your daughter-in-law, recently.”

  “I have. Why?”

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine, of course. I rearranged her spices for her, in alphabetical order. She was grateful. I can’t think why she’d never bothered to do that, herself.”

  “Hmm. And was there any mention of how to fold garments?”

  Tina inhaled deeply. The bishop was afraid she might over-inflate. “No, Bishop, there was not, as I took your advice on the matter. I certainly don’t know why I should be prohibited from teaching my standards to my son’s wife, but I did what you said. I asked her to make a chocolate layer cake for my birthday.”

  “Wonderful! What did she say?”

  “Well, she agreed, of course. And then I complimented her on her patience with the children, just as you said to do, although I practically had to bite my tongue not to scold my grandson for banging the screened door every time he went in and out.”