by Jim Kraus
“You can’t help, Pastor Jake. It’s beyond anybody’s help. Really.”
Petey meowed, loudly, as if he understood, but disagreed with her.
“Tassy, Petey is right. Nothing is beyond God’s help.”
She sniffed loudly and wiped her face with her sleeve. She stared at Jake, not in anger, exactly, but more in supplication. Angry supplication, perhaps.
“I’m pregnant. Can you help that, Pastor Jake?”
Her words were indeed tinged with anger.
Jake resisted the urge to answer right away, to say the first thing that came to mind, to be blunt or bold or inconsiderate or unfeeling. He waited. He tried to allow the meaning of the words to sink in, to be assimilated fully before he spoke.
Petey spoke first, with a long, low, rumbly meow and purr combination.
Jake had not heard that before.
He tried out one response in his head, and then another, and another, and none of them sounded correct, sensitive, or pastoral enough. Then he remembered Sidney’s smiling face.
“First, Tassy, you have to remember that no matter what—God loves you. He will always love you. You cannot do anything that will change his love for you. I promise.”
Jake was now talking to her as well as himself.
“God is constant. We may change and get angry and make mistakes . . . but God will always be there, waiting for us, with open arms.”
Tassy stared back at him. Jake was not sure if she believed a word of what he said. But the words had to be spoken.
“And it doesn’t matter if we understand it or not . . . it’s true. That’s where faith comes in. We just have to believe in the truth. It’s pretty simple, actually. Just believe.”
Jake listened to his own words. Most of the time, he didn’t. But this time he did—and he found himself thinking, That makes a lot of sense. Just believe. Don’t complicate it with how it should be or how others think it should be—just believe. Faith. Belief. Just accept it.
“Maybe,” Tassy said.
She did not look convinced, but she appeared less angry.
“Why was Emma here?” Jake asked.
Tassy shook her head and said nothing.
“Tassy . . . why was Emma here?”
Tassy began to pet Petey.
“We were . . . we were going to . . . ‘handle it.’ You know. Take care of it. She said that having a baby now would complicate my life too much and it wouldn’t be right and if I handled it, I could just start over again. Sometimes things happen and you have to take care of it. This was a mistake I needed to fix. That’s all. I was going to take care of it.”
She started to cry again halfway through, and the tears began to course down her cheeks and fall on Petey’s head and back. He did not attempt to move away.
“That’s when Petey took her keys. That’s when he ran off with them.”
Jake waited a long time until he spoke again. “Tassy, I know that things seem dark right now . . . but what you were considering . . . well, that wasn’t the answer. If you had done that, you would live with that regret and that pain, every single day, for the rest of your life.”
She nodded.
“Whatever happens from here on in . . . I’ll support you however I can. The church will support you. I know they will.”
She nodded. “Do I have to go to church every Sunday?”
“If you want to, yes. If you don’t, then no.”
Her voice grew small. “I’ll probably go. But not if I don’t feel well.”
“I understand.”
“But I’ll probably go. Petey goes all the time. I guess I can go, too.”
Jake sat with Tassy and Petey until they both fell asleep on the couch, and then he silently slipped out. He knew where he had to go and what he had to say. He didn’t want to have to ask, but he knew he had to. The church was bigger than he was. He did not want people hurt. He did not want new faith damaged.
He would ask. But he remained unsure of what the answer might be.
He carefully got into his truck and closed the door as silently as he could. He let it roll to the edge of the parking lot before he started it up. He drove to Coudersport, always keeping the truck well below the speed limit.
He pulled up to Dr. Grainger’s office and drew in a deep breath. He closed his eyes, still trying to come up with what he might say that would help to keep others from peril, or damage.
He rang the bell on the side of the house. He heard footsteps and a series of rumbling barks. He waited. After a long time, he saw Emma’s feet first, descending the long staircase.
There was no welcome in her eyes as she propped the door open halfway, then crossed her arms over her chest.
“What?”
Jake threw away whatever practiced words he had formulated. “Listen, Emma. I . . . I want to apologize to you. I should have been truthful from the very beginning. And I wasn’t.”
“Okay. You’re sorry. Good. You’re still a fraud.”
Obviously, looking at Jake’s face, one could tell that the words stung.
“Maybe. Maybe I was. But not now.”
Emma offered a twisted smile in reply. “Just saying it doesn’t make it so, Jake. Words are cheap.”
Jake stood firm and did not look away. “You’re right. They are. Coming here, I was thinking how I could ask you not to say anything about Barbara Ann to anyone. And not to say anything to anyone about why I was fired from the church in Butler. But right now, this very minute, I decided that I couldn’t do that. It would be a lie. And I’m tired of lying—to others, as well as myself. So . . . I just want to say I’m sorry. For everything, I guess.”
“Good. You’re sorry. Anything else?”
Jake took a deep breath. “Emma, I am going to stand by Tassy. Whatever she needs to have this baby and to raise this child, I am going to do my best to supply that. Whatever it takes. I am not going to abandon her.”
Emma smirked. “Listen, Jake, we have all been abandoned. Me, you, Tassy, Petey. We are all abandoned. By someone. God, former boyfriends, parents—whomever. All abandoned. It’s the way of the world, Jake. You should be the first to realize the truth of that.”
Jake shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Emma. I just found out this morning. God never left me. He was always there. I may have moved away, but God did not abandon me. And he sent me Petey. God must have done that.”
Emma’s caustic, brittle laughter gave every indication that she considered Jake to be delusional.
“No. I am serious. If Petey had not been there, you and Tassy would have ‘handled it.’ And that would have scarred her, Emma. She would have to live with that forever. God knew what Petey was doing. God was saving me—and protecting an unborn life.”
“Okay, Jake. Sure. I believe that. God sends cats to save people. Right. And we’re done here, okay? We’re done.”
Jake saw in Emma’s face something hidden and painful and lost. “Emma?”
“We’re done. See you around, Pastor Jake. Maybe. See what happens this Sunday when people find out what sort of fraud you are. See what happens then. Abandoned? You’ll see, Jake. You’ll see.”
Emma closed the door.
“I’ll be back, Emma. God did not abandon me. I won’t abandon you, either.”
She spun around on her heel.
“Hey, don’t bother with any special treatment for me, okay? Once people find out, you won’t be around anymore. So don’t bother.”
And all Jake saw was the heels of her feet, hurrying up the steps and out of view.
15
Jake spent all of Friday and all of Saturday in his study.
He stopped at the RV several times, checking. Tassy did not work on Fridays and she said she felt a little better. Jake insisted she make an appointment at the county health department in Coudersport for a prenatal checkup, which she did.
Other than making coffee in the morning, Jake spent the majority of both days working on his message. By Saturday eveni
ng, he thought that his sermon was in good shape. Not spectacular—but good.
On Sunday morning, he woke up at 4:00, well before the sun rose, and walked into the office. He picked up his packet of sermon notes. By the time he read through the second point, he realized, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was a sermon he could not deliver. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He tossed the notes back onto his desk.
Petey walked in, meowing to himself.
“What do I say, Petey? What do I say? Emma must have said something about all this to at least one person . . . so the whole town knows about everything, by now. So what do I say?”
Petey jumped up on the desk in one fluid motion and then flopped onto his side, purring loudly. Jake petted his side.
“I don’t know what you want,” he said.
Petey purred louder.
“Lord . . . what do I say? What do I tell these people? How I betrayed them? How I found you? What?”
Jake held the hymnal for the first two songs of the Sunday service and pretended to sing, just mouthing the words, just moving his lips. Elder Keilback presented the announcements for the day—the upcoming all-church picnic, the status of the steeple fund. There might have been others, but Jake hardly heard a word of it.
He glanced down at the bulletin. The sermon would immediately follow the announcements.
Jake swallowed hard, stood up, and walked to the pulpit.
Petey was already in his usual chair, sitting, precise and attentive. The church was full. Jake had read all the studies that indicated if a church wanted to grow in attendance, it needed to have 10 percent of its seating capacity unfilled. Fewer open seats than that meant newcomers would feel uncomfortable and not return. Perhaps another ten people could fit in the church, if others scooted down a little bit. They had enough room to place folding chairs in the aisles, something the elders had talked about but had not yet scheduled. It would add another thirty spots.
“We’re always down a little during summer anyhow,” one of them said. “Let’s table the extra chair discussion until the fall. Then we’ll see.”
A building program . . . well, there had never been a building program at the Church of the Open Door, so none of the elders had experience holding on to the idea. They had never once needed to consider an expansion of their facilities.
Until the cat showed up, that is.
Along with Pastor Jake.
Jake took hold of both sides of the pulpit. They had raised it six inches a few weeks earlier, at Jake’s request. The carpentry work was not elegant, nor seamless, but the pulpit now stood higher and was more comfortable for the pastor.
Jake normally took his notes, which he always folded precisely, lengthwise, out of his breast pocket.
This morning, he did not take out his notes. He had no notes. This morning, he realized, something different would be required. There was no need for a prepared sermon.
Jake took off his sport coat and laid it on one of the chairs next to Petey.
That was not unusual. When the temperature rose, the church people cared less about style. The pastor could preach in a shirt, without a tie, when the thermometer rose past eighty degrees.
But today, the temperature hovered in the mid-seventies, with low humidity.
Jake looked out on the congregation. He knew almost all of them, at least by first name, maybe not all intimately yet, but he knew them all. And they knew him. He could not go to downtown Coudersport without running into someone from the church, or someone related to someone from the church.
Coudersport was a small town, but people already knew Jake . . . and perhaps even respected him, a little.
He looked at their faces. He tried to decipher what they were thinking. He attempted to gauge how many had heard the secret Emma held—the secret Emma said she was going to unleash on Coudersport.
He did not see incredulity or anger or disbelief or suspicion.
He saw the same earnest, hardworking, honest (for the most part), genuine people he saw the very first time he spoke in this church. He saw Jimbo and his wife. He saw Eleanor and Vern. He saw Tassy sitting next to them, her face more radiant today than ever before. He saw Sidney’s mother, beaming. He had told her about his meeting and prayer with Sidney. He saw people expecting to hear from God that day—not hoping, not wishing but expecting. This is the day when God would speak to them most clearly.
They knew God was everywhere, and all the time. They knew that. But they also knew—no, felt—God spoke to them most clearly and directly in church. That is how it worked in their lives. God speaks most clearly when they are behind the church doors and under the cross on the steeple.
Jake cleared his throat.
He said a very short and very concise prayer—silently, to himself.
Help me.
And he concluded it very concisely.
Thank you.
He cleared his throat again. It was a nervous tic, and he knew it, and he did his best to keep the throat-clearing under control. He did not want to be that pastor who every teenage boy in the youth group could imitate with startling clarity, and all they would have to do is clear their throats a few dozen times before speaking.
“Friends,” he began.
And they are my friends. For the first time in my church career, I have friends in the church.
“I have to share something with you today. I never intended on sharing this with you. But I have to. I always knew, eventually, the truth would come out. And the truth will be better now than waiting until later. That’s when truth turns bitter.”
Now he noticed a shift in the attitude of those listening. They had noticed he had not started off the sermon with a joke or a personal story, or something he had read in the newspaper.
Today felt real and serious.
Several people leaned forward. Some people appeared to be bracing themselves, as if they were about to embark on some roller-coaster thrill ride at Kennywood Park.
“I am going to tell you something about myself that I hoped I would keep forever hidden. But there is no secret that can remain a secret forever. All secrets get told, eventually. No confidence is forever confidential.”
Now, everyone was listening—even the few older men who always fell asleep during the first two minutes of Jake’s sermons.
“When I came to this church, when you invited me to this church to become your pastor . . . I am sure—no, positive—you all expected me to have this strong faith and a resolute, bedrock trust in the Almighty. You expected me to have no doubts as to the center of the Christian life. You expected, and you deserved, a man who had a solid, sure, positive, longtime, deep-seated, forever sort of faith.”
He took a breath. The rest of the congregation seemed to breathe in with him. A great deal of fresh air left the sanctuary with one assembled breath.
“I was not that person. I had doubts. Serious doubts. When I was a pastor in Butler . . . at the church where I served before I came here, I told a woman I was dating I just wasn’t sure about my relationship with God. I told her I wasn’t sure if God was really watching me and directing my life. I was honest when I told her I just didn’t have . . . I didn’t have faith anymore.”
Jake stopped for a moment.
The congregation did not seem to be incensed or angry or to be thinking about getting out their pitchforks and torches.
They did seem as if they were intent on hearing this story play out, however. Very intent.
“When I told her, this woman I was dating, that information, that secret was no longer a secret, and it got back to the senior pastor of the church. I know. I know. It was bound to happen. That’s why I said that no secret ever stays a secret long if more than one person knows it.”
Jake walked away from the pulpit. There was a microphone on the pulpit, and a small amplifier, but the sanctuary was not large. Anything spoken aloud, with some power, even a little power, was loud enough for everyone to hear. Jake made sure he spoke loudly and clearly.
“So my boss, the senior pastor, asked me if it was true—me admitting to this woman that I had lost my faith. I could have lied and said she had been mistaken.”
Jake paused.
“Did I mention this young woman was the senior pastor’s niece?”
There was a smattering of nervous laughter, and those who laughed quickly realized it was not a laugh line and immediately ended their smiles and laughter.
“I could have lied and blamed this woman for ‘misinterpreting’ what I had said in confidence. But even I couldn’t do that. I told him it was the truth. That what she had said was true.”
Jake sat down in the chair next to Petey. Petey meowed as Jake sat, as if to say his actions were most unusual and did he really know what he was doing this morning?
“He fired me. He had to. He had no choice. You can’t have a pastor—someone in charge of the spiritual well-being of hundreds of people—who doesn’t have faith. An oxymoron.”
Jake wasn’t sure if a majority of people sitting in front of him knew what an oxymoron was.
“Like jumbo shrimp. That’s an oxymoron. Is it jumbo or is it small?”
He grinned at them. “He fired me and I can’t blame him one bit for doing that. A pastor who no longer has faith may be acceptable in some churches, but not a church that really believes in the Bible and everything it teaches. A pastor without faith.”
He stood. “An oxymoron.”
He walked back to the pulpit, carefully choosing each step.
“So I started here as a pastor without faith. And I think I was doing okay. Even though I thought God had abandoned me. I’ve told you about my childhood. I’ve told you my father left us. He abandoned us. I intimately knew that feeling—the feeling of being alone. What I felt about my father’s leaving, well, I thought God had done the same thing to me. And when my father left, I pretended to be brave and strong. I thought if I did everything right and went to seminary and became a pastor, then everything would be fine and dandy. It wasn’t. It caught up to me. A few days ago, I was praying with a young man who was looking for faith. And he found it—just like that. He was filled with faith and the Holy Spirit. Immediately.”