The Thorny Path

by Sharon Downing Jarvis

  “Did she seem pleased at your compliment?”

  “She seemed surprised, but she said, ‘Well, thank you, Mother Conrad.’”

  “That’s excellent, Sister! You just keep finding good things to compliment in that girl, all right? But don’t offer any advice unless she asks.”

  “That seems so foolish to me! The young don’t know to ask for advice. They don’t even know they need it! Why shouldn’t I offer the benefit of my years of experience?”

  “If she knows you love her and approve of her, she’ll eventually feel safe enough around you to ask.”

  “Safe! As if I’d do anything to harm her or the little ones—what can you possibly mean by ‘safe’?”

  “I mean emotionally safe. Relaxed. At home. Not under examination. Then she’ll feel free to come to you with questions or concerns. But as long as she feels inhibited or criticized or nervous around you, you may as well forget it. She’ll never open up and ask for your help.”

  “You think she feels that way? What—has she been here to see you? Or have you talked to her? I didn’t give you permission—”

  “No, no, no, Sister Conrad, please. I don’t even know her name or where she lives. I’m just talking in general terms about things that are true in any in-law relationship. Personally, I’ve had the experience of feeling—well, of knowing—that one of my sisters-in-law was critical of me, and I know I wouldn’t have opened myself up to her as long as I felt that way. I’m just talking human nature, here.” He paused, and looked at her reflectively. “When you were a bride, didn’t you ever feel just a little worried about what your mother-in-law thought of you?”

  “My husband’s mother died before we met. But she would never have found anything to criticize in my standards, or my housekeeping.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” the bishop agreed. Privately, he thought the deceased Mrs. Conrad might have been the one suffering intimidation, with a daughter-in-law such as Tina.

  Tina swung one dainty, neatly-shod foot, today sporting a very pointed toe that the bishop imagined she would like to use to prod him. “Now, Bishop—regarding the instigators of this despicable rally you’ve been telling us about. Don’t you think it would be in our best interests to go and hear what they have to say against us rather than hiding our heads in the sand, here?”

  “Well, no, ma’am—I agree with our good stake president that this is our best course. If they’re the kind we think they are, many of those agitators will come looking for a fight and a confrontation. We don’t, as a church, generally indulge in either Bible-bashing or head-bashing, whichever it is they want of us.”

  “But wouldn’t it be good for people to see that we don’t back down and won’t allow ourselves to be intimidated by such activities? If we do nothing, won’t we be seen as weak and frightened, as if all the things they say about us must be true?”

  “We’re not exactly doing nothing. We’ll be meeting to generate faith and understanding among our members and our friends. We’ve also notified the police, and they’ve promised to have a man on duty here, just in case any of the rally folks get ideas about vandalism or such. Then the Reverend Peter MacDonald of Friendship Christian Church has been in touch with a number of other clergymen around the area, encouraging them to warn their members away from the rally. Some have agreed, others have not. So it’s not that we’re doing nothing—we’re just hoping to do exactly those things that the rally people don’t want us to do!

  “The missionaries in our area are bringing all their investigators to these firesides—and they have quite a few, right now—and we’re inviting friends and sympathetic neighbors to meet with us, as well. In our ward, we’ll be showing a film about Joseph Smith and the persecutions of the early Saints, and Brother Warshaw will be speaking. I don’t know if you’ve heard him yet, but he’s an excellent scriptorian and has quite a conversion story of his own.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose anything I say would move you, but I still think some of us should go to this rally, just to see what the opposition is using against us.”

  The bishop nodded. “Well, of course we can’t make anyone stay away—but that’s our direction from President Walker, and that’s what we’re choosing to follow. Every individual, of course, has his or her agency in the matter.”

  “Yes, indeed. Well—some of us may just choose to exercise that agency.”

  The bishop shrugged and smiled. “I’ll just say that we’ll hope to see you here on the third, then,” he said. He wondered, not for the first time, if Brother Conrad still had his agency intact.

  * * *

  Trish’s girlhood friend Muzzie Winston and her children—Brad, Chloe, and Marie—had been invited to join the Shepherd family for Sunday dinner. Muzzie had recently finalized her divorce from her husband, Dugie, who had been her high school sweetheart. The last few years had been difficult ones for Muzzie, watching her husband gradually give in to pornography and other abhorrent practices, at first expecting her to go along with his perverted tastes and demands, and, when she refused, leaving her and the children choking in the dust of his accelerated rush into hedonism. Trish, to her credit, had stayed close to Muzzie, encouraging her to build a new life, based on true principles, for herself and her children.

  After the dinner, the adults relaxed around the table while the children went off to their own pursuits with their company. Brad, though older than Jamie, was just as interested in computerized games, and the girls were still young enough to play Barbies with Mallory. Tiffani’s friend Claire came by to visit, and the two girls repaired to the patio for a bit of privacy.

  “Oh, gosh, that was a wonderful meal, Trish,” Muzzie said, leaning back with her hand on her midsection. “I don’t know how you can be pregnant and put a meal like that on the table. I never could stand to cook when I was expecting.”

  “I’m past the point where the smells bother me,” Trish explained, “and not quite to the point where I’m too big and too tired to care. So you hit us at a good time.”

  “Well, that fresh peach dessert was to die for. Thank you.”

  “You’re totally welcome. It’s good to have a chance to spend a little time with you. We’re all way too busy, aren’t we?”

  “I know I am, since I’ve started working. But it’s good for me. And I actually think I’ll like working in real estate, once I get my license. I was afraid I’d gotten too old and too lazy to study, but so far, I’ve passed all the tests just fine.”

  “Good for you, Muzz!”

  “I enjoy it.” Muzzie played with her spoon, gazing at it unseeingly. “So I saw Dugie the other day,” she said quietly.

  “Oh, really? Where?”

  “He was going into the bank as I was coming out. I know he saw me, but he just looked at the gal he was with and said something to her—obviously something complimentary, from the way she reacted. I didn’t say anything.”

  “Mm. Had you seen the woman before?”

  “Somewhere. Looked like she might be a few years older than Dugie. She wasn’t bad-looking. Tiny, of course—not an ounce of fat on her, or Dugie wouldn’t be interested. Real short dark hair. Fair skin, big eyes.” Muzzie shook her own head of streaked-blonde hair. “I can’t place her. Not that it matters. It could be anybody. It’ll always be somebody. Probably a lot of different somebodies, for all I know.”

  Trish looked at her husband. They recognized the description.

  “What?” Muzzie asked, intercepting the look. “Y’all know who she is, don’t you?”

  “We think she’s someone who used to belong to our church,” the bishop said reluctantly.

  “Used to? You mean she what—left? Got kicked out?”

  “She asked that her name be removed from the records because she said she didn’t believe anymore,” Trish explained. “I don’t know, of course, but it’s my personal feeling that she found it inconvenient to believe in a God or a religion that disapproved of the things she wanted to do.”

  �
��Well, sounds like she’s a girl after Dugie’s heart, all right—more ways than one. Now, y’all don’t tell me her name, all right? I don’t need to know.”

  “Thanks, Muzzie,” said the bishop, feeling a little guilty already that they had said anything at all.

  “Just tell me this,” Muzzie continued. “Did she leave a husband or family behind, or was she already single?”

  “She left a very fine man behind, and they have a grown son and a grandchild,” Trish told her. “The poor man’s heart is about broken, I can see that.”

  “Well, then, she and Dugie deserve each other. I wonder which one of them will break the other’s heart first—if they still have hearts, that is. I’m not real sure about Dugie.” Muzzie shook herself, then looked up brightly. “So tell me—what’s all this about a bunch of hoodlums coming to town to harass y’all?”

  They told her what they knew, and she shook her head in disbelief.

  “What’s the world coming to, that people want to travel around the country behaving like that?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, you’d think they could find a better cause to go up against—like wife-beating or incest or pornography or something. I could tell ’em a bit about that one! Why do they want to fight against good religious folks with great family values like you guys?”

  “They think we’re impostors when we say we’re Christians,” Trish explained. “They get our beliefs all mixed up with a lot of misinformation, and then they feel compelled to expose us for the frauds they think we are.”

  “What a bunch of nonsense! I know you’re Christians. And what business would it be of theirs, if you weren’t? Honestly! So what in the world do y’all do to try to counteract that kind of mischief?”

  They told her of the fireside and invited her and her children to attend.

  “We’re inviting friends of other faiths as well as Latter-day Saints,” Trish explained. “Our idea is to generate as much love and faith as possible, to try to neutralize the negative influences they’ll be bringing to town. Of course we know some folks will go to the rally, and some will believe their claims, but rather than engage in a shouting match—or worse—we’ll just do our thing and have an evening of rejoicing in faith and truth.”

  “Well, the kids and I will be there,” Muzzie promised. “Although I’ve gotta admit to a sneaking desire to go out and do the shouting-match thing in your behalf!”

  The bishop chuckled. “Thanks, Muzzie. We’ll accept the thought in lieu of the deed.”

  * * *

  The days marched on. Bishop Shepherd tried to keep his mind and heart on the daily work of taking care of his business and ministering to the needs of his family and his ward. He tried to keep a light touch in talking with people about the impending rally, but in his heart, he deeply resented the motives of the organizers and dreaded the influence the visitors might have on his neighbors and their view of the Church and its members. He spent much time in prayer, laying his concerns before the Lord and asking for peace and direction. A measure of peace came, but not quite enough to dispel all his fears. This he attributed to his own lack of faith and prayed more fervently, asking the Lord to throw a shield of heavenly protection around the honest in heart of Fairhaven and the surrounding areas, that those people might not be deceived and misled.

  One perfect summer evening, just before sunset, he saw his neighbor, Maxine Lowell, heading up the street with a sheaf of papers in her hand. She passed his house with a triumphant smile and turned in at Hestelle Pierce’s gate. The bishop thought he might never have seen such a chilling smile in all his days. He bowed his head and prayed for Maxine and with even more fervency, prayed for himself to have the grace to truly mean the words he spoke.

  “Please forgive her for the mean and intolerant spirit she manifests,” he prayed. “I know she doesn’t understand. And please forgive me, dear Father, for my anger toward her and help me to somehow forgive her and all who believe and act as she does. Please let Thy truth prevail.”

  “And,” came a mocking voice into his consciousness, “what if the truth really is with her, and you’re the one who’s deceived? What then, Mr. Goody-goody Bishop?”

  He knew that voice was not from the One to whom he prayed. In fact, it had an uncanny way of manifesting itself to his mind in the tones of Marybeth Lanier.

  “Father, please, in the name of thy Holy Son, Jesus Christ, remove this doubting spirit from me,” he pleaded. “I know, from all the experiences I’ve had and all the scripture I’ve studied, and the prayers Thou has answered, wherein the truth lies. I know I belong to the Restored Church of Thy Son. But right now I feel led to say, ‘Lord, I believe! Help thou mine unbelief.’”

  * * *

  Wednesday evening was his usual time for home teaching and other visits to members’ homes, and on the last Wednesday in July, he found himself and Brother Sam Wright at the home of Sergeant and Elaine Forelaw and their three children.

  “Well, how’s it goin’, you kids?” asked Sam, smiling kindly at the three little people sitting in a row on the sofa.

  “Good,” they chorused, and he laughed.

  “I declare, Sister Forelaw, if they ain’t the cutest young’uns I’ve seen in an age! A mighty fine family, for sure. Where’s your good husband?”

  “I’m just out here in the kitchen,” Sergeant called. The bishop had warned him of Sergeant’s tendency to hang about in the background, pretending not to listen to the discussions with his wife and the stories told to the children.

  “Oh, hello there, Brother,” Sam replied. “All right, y’all young’uns, what do you know about a man called Samuel the Lamanite?”

  They knew nothing, but they listened wide-eyed while he told them of brave Samuel, the Lamanite prophet, standing on the city wall and preaching about the coming of the Savior to a people who were not inclined to listen—who, in fact, pelted him with stones and arrows that all failed to find their mark.

  “And that’s how it is, you see, with folks who try to beat up on the servants of the Lord. They shoot their arrows, all right—but they just don’t do no damage. Sometimes they seem to hit home, but pretty soon we realize they didn’t hit any vital organs at all, and everything’s okay.”

  Elaine Forelaw seemed to realize that these last remarks were for her benefit as much as for her children’s, as she smiled and said, “So is that how it’s gonna be on Saturday, you reckon? Just a lot of stray arrows, that don’t do no real harm to the Church?”

  “That’s what we’re a-hopin’,” Sam affirmed. “What do you say, Bishop?”

  “I say if we can have the faith of a Samuel, we should weather this attack in good shape,” he said. “We all need to pray for added faith and for the Lord’s will to be done. Actually, I’m really looking forward to our fireside on Saturday evening. Are you folks considering coming?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Elaine replied. “Kids go down pretty early, and I wouldn’t want ’em to disturb anybody. I’ll just have to see.”

  The bishop nodded. “Love to have all of you, if you feel so inclined,” he said. He spoke for a few more minutes about having faith in the face of opposition, then Sam gave a prayer and they took their leave.

  “Reckon they’ll come?” asked Sam, fastening his seat belt once they were in the bishop’s truck.

  “Sergeant’s only been to one meeting, so far. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking—but I know he is thinking because he’s reading the scriptures on his work breaks and lunch hour, according to Elaine. She saw a Bible and Book of Mormon in his truck several months ago, but he only recently admitted to her that he’s been reading them. I think the jury’s still out, as far as what he concludes about them. I’d sure like to see him listen to the missionaries, but it seems he’s a real independent sort of fellow.”

  * * *

  “All right now, James,” said the bishop’s former fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Martha Ruckman, who was still allowing her young granddaughter, Tashia, to attend the ward and take part in
church functions, though she had not yet permitted her to be baptized. “I want to know what you think about the goings-on with this a.m. Sunshine Rally business. Tashia tells me y’all are having a sort of revival meeting that night, to counteract the influence.”

  The bishop smiled in Tashia’s direction, and the little girl smiled back impishly, her eyes gleaming in her dark face.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t know if I’d exactly call it a revival, although that might be as good a name as any for what we’re trying to do. We’re calling it a fireside—a less-formal meeting than most. We’re going to be showing a short film about Joseph Smith and some things that happened in Church history. Then we’ll be having a talk by a brother who’s very well-versed in the scriptures and who himself is a Jewish convert to Mormonism, with lots of interesting experiences to tell. I believe the missionaries will speak, and we’ll sing several songs and bear testimony—that sort of thing. You and Tashia are more than welcome to attend—we’d love to have you.”

  Mrs. Ruckman frowned. “I might drop Tashia by, if I can ask you to keep an eye on her, James. I’m committed, I suppose, to attend that rally with the choir from my church. We’ve been asked to sing, and Doctor Burshaw accepted for us. A few of us are not so happy about that decision, but I am a member of the choir and expected to participate. Personally, I don’t hold with folks picking on other religions like that. I’ve seen enough prejudice in my day to prejudice me against it!”

  “I understand,” the bishop said. “And of course I’ll watch out for Tashia—she’s one of my favorite people!”

  Sam Wright spoke. “I’ll bet she’ll be sittin’ right up front with the Arnaud family, won’t you, honey? I know they’re comin’, and I believe you’re real good friends with their young’uns, aren’t you?”

  “Well, Angeline and Tamika, yeah,” Tashia agreed. “I mean, yessir,” she added, with a glance at her grandmother. “But not Currie. He’s too silly, and he bugs us.”