“Sorry, Mrs. Gillis. I was just thinking how I might not have missed him if I wasn’t such a dialing dummy.”
“Dialing dummy?”
“I was trying to . . . Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Yes. He knows where I’m staying. I’m gonna go get something to eat now. Tell him if he gets the voice mail to either e-mail or leave me a message and let me know if he can stay overnight with us; I’ve got my own room with an extra bed. It’s okay with my mom if it’s okay with you. I’m kinda stuck here, so I’ll probably be around all day. But if I do miss his call, and if he’s coming, tell him to let me know what time he thinks he’ll get here. Oh, and Mom said we could drop him off in the morning on the way out of town.”
“I’ll give him the message. Tell your mom I said hello. Goodbye, Josh.”
“Bye.”
Josh hung up the phone and punched his bed pillow. “If I don’t get to see him . . . it will be nobody’s fault but my own!”
When Katie got back to the hotel, she was surprised to find Josh alone. “Where’s Alex?”
“He couldn’t come . . . I guess.”
“What do you mean ‘you guess’?”
“I never actually talked to him. We played phone tag, and then he must have ended up going out with the guys.”
Katie studied her son’s face. Lost and lonesome. At least she’d had a spa day. From the looks of him, he’d had nothing but nothing.
12
May Belle and Dorothy usually flanked Earl in church, although Dorothy tried to change seats each week. She rotated from front to back and side-to-side so she could stay familiar with the congregation and not appear as though she’d staked her claim to any particular slot. She believed when people became creatures of habit in church and sat in the same exact spot every week, they developed blinders to newcomers and neighbors. May Belle was always on the look-out for visitors anyway, presenting them with a half dozen of her cookies, brought along every week on a paper plate wrapped in cellophane and decorated with curly ribbon—just in case.
The whole rotating-seats routine was important to Dorothy. She sometimes felt that people who sat in the same place every week radiated a prideful message that they had “paid” for their permanent seat in one way or another, and that their family was therefore entitled to that particular row. She’d gotten this perspective from her parents, who always went out of their way to “stay alive and alert to the message,” and those whom God would send to sit beside them while they received it. She’d also been raised up to chat with everyone in her pew about the message as they filed out to see how uniquely God spoke to each of them about the same topic. “Dorothy Jean, it’s important to stay open to different opinions; otherwise, a mind can get too set in its own ways for its own good,” her dad used to say. No doubt he had tailored that message especially for his stubborn daughter.
Then again, as Dorothy occasionally examined her own habits and realized how easy it was to fall into a judgmental spirit herself, she remembered hearing a journalist say that we should always question our assumptions. If one assumed it was bad to sit in the same pew every week, one could, she concluded, rightly be challenged on this basis: at least when folks did do that, it was easy to notice when they were absent, which was a heads-up that perhaps they were ill or needed a call. For instance, Gladys always sat right in the first pew in front of the pulpit where she could be seen, and where her every harrumph could be heard by Pastor Delbert Carol, Jr. (“Somebody needs to let that man know he’s being scrutinized by somebody other than God!”) But thank goodness she did, because it had perhaps saved her life back in 1987 when she’d been stricken with bacterial pneumonia.
That Sunday Dorothy had noticed—for the entire sermon, since Gladys did sit right up front—that Gladys was missing. Jake was on the road and her son attended St. Augustine Catholic Church with his wife and family every week, so it wasn’t unusual for her to be alone. It was highly irregular, however, for her to be absent, so Dorothy drove directly to her home when church dismissed. Turns out the pneumonia had washed over her so quickly, it was as though she’d literally been slam-dunked into immobility and all she could do was pray she didn’t die before help arrived. When Dorothy’d found Gladys’s car in the carport and got no response to her knocking and endless ringing of the doorbell (she tried the door but it was locked; Gladys tried to holler and get out of bed, but she couldn’t), she drove straight to St. Augustine, which didn’t let out until later than United Methodist, to find Caleb, Gladys’s son, who, wouldn’t you know, was seated all the way in the front pew—chip off the old block that he was. Although Dorothy had tried to flag an usher, she couldn’t catch his eyes. She didn’t want to be disruptive, but she worried time might be of the utmost if Gladys was in trouble, so she quietly walked up the side aisle, tapped the person sitting at the end of the pew on the shoulder and motioned toward Caleb.
“What?” The older gentleman’s voice belted out of him; he was obviously hard of hearing and thought he’d missed an instruction since Dorothy’s pointing made no sense to him. Realizing anything short of yelling would be futile, she leaned forward and quickly walked in front of the row until she reached Caleb, then whispered in his ear. As Caleb rose from his seat, encouraging his wife and family to stay seated—which they did not—Dorothy turned to Father O’Sullivan, a longtime friend of hers, who had been, up until this moment, right in the middle of his homily.
“Good Father, I beg your pardon. But we might have an emergency situation here with Gladys. Might.” As they were exiting the church, Dorothy heard Father O’Sullivan begin, “Lord, we take a moment to thank you for being with Gladys, knowing exactly what she . . .”
Gladys had been hospitalized within thirty minutes of her family’s arrival.
Dorothy, Earl and May Belle were finally seated in the third pew from the back on the left side next to the Carters, Challie Carter being the one who both leased and farmed acreage on Crooked Creek Farm and that of the Landerses. He also had his own hearty spread. The Carters always sat in the back pew, usually arriving a few minutes late and scooting out at the sound of the last Amen. Dorothy had intentionally meandered around in the narthex awaiting their arrival, Earl on her heels, since they usually occupied that pew alone and she hadn’t visited with them for quite some time. Thankfully, they’d arrived today just before Chester rang the church bell.
After a few friendly greetings and inquiries about when Challie speculated the corn would be ready for harvest this year, Dorothy opened her bulletin. When she saw that Pastor Delbert Carol, Jr., who had succeeded his deceased pastor father upon his death some eleven years ago, had named his sermon for the day “Ready to Forgive,” she gasped and clasped her hand over her mouth, believing God had a message not only for her today, but that unquestionably, His hand was already going before her situation with the Core Four Covenant. I can’t believe I’m surprised! You did recently assure me with all that holy chirping and color! Why, God, is it so easy to forget, even Your signs and wonders? Nothing but God and the Holy Spirit could have nudged Pastor to preach on this very subject, especially now. And okay, maybe there was a church calendar Pastor had to follow, but for this to now be the . . . It gave her goose bumps.
She leaned over to May Belle and pointed to the sermon topic. May Belle’s eyebrows raised, then she smiled and said, “Isn’t God always just so faithful!”
Although Dorothy still hadn’t revealed any particulars to May Belle, she’d made it clear that whatever it was had been held inside of her for a long while, and that it was B-I-G, and that it involved several people, and that she trusted that in the long run, God would heal her and everyone involved, but that it might, indeed, be a long run. She’d also shared that she was the last living person to know the details (at least those that she did know), which seemed more and more likely to soon be discovered. “The tough part’s going to be the forgiveness, May Belle, and I’ll be needing as much of it as anyone. Many folks—possibly a snowballing lot of folks—
are going to have to find it in their hearts to forgive other dear souls even more so, and they have already passed on.”
May Belle had spent extra time in prayer for Dorothy, praying for her ability to trust God the way Dorothy had always trusted Him. She’d also prayed that she herself would be a good, sensitive friend, and a safe harbor to which Dorothy could turn if she needed to talk more.
Pastor went on to preach his message of forgiveness from Psalm 86:5, For Thou, Lord, art good, and ready to forgive, And abundant in lovingkindness to all who call upon Thee.” He delivered the sermon with eloquence and conviction. As usual, she took plenty of notes on the back of the bulletin and in the margins of her Bible, especially noting today’s date near the passage when she underlined it for the third time, and she could tell by the different color of ink in each underline how many times that passage had stood out to her during her personal studies over the years.
But every once in a while she’d squint up her eyes and stare at Pastor, appearing as though she really wondered about something he was saying. Twice he’d caught her doing so, the second time having to clear his throat, the look on her face so broadcasted her . . . questioning, disapproval . . . what? Pastor was used to seeing Dorothy nodding affirmingly at his words. Although he’d learned to ignore most of Gladys’s tsk-tsking, this look coming from Dorothy caught his attention and he had to shift his eyes away from her so he wouldn’t become distracted. After all, he was preaching!
He pressed on and closed by repeating the scripture verse. “Yes, friends, our Lord is always good, and ready to forgive. Whether you read that as good . . .” and he paused for dramatic effect where he saw the comma in his bible, “. . . and ready, or good-and-ready,” and this run-through he’d spoken the phrase as one word, “forgive is what He does.”
At the Amen, Dorothy leaned past May Belle and grabbed hold of Challie’s sleeve before he could escape. “What did you think about Pastor’s sermon today, Challie?” Challie looked more like a busted sheep than a fed one.
“Um, I . . .”
“Go ahead, Challie,” his wife said, smiling and gently leaning into him, nudging him with her shoulder. “Why not just admit you slept through the sermon, as usual.” Then she looked at Dorothy. “Poor Challie. I know how much he loves the Lord, but try as he might, he just cannot stay awake once the sermon begins. Now you know why we sit in the back every Sunday.”
This “news” would surprise nobody since Challie’s snores occasionally rippled clear up to the choir, who sat behind the pulpit. No amount of fierce staring at Challie—not even by the entire choir—had ever awakened him, not even for a nanosecond. Although his wife used to elbow him until he’d at least change positions enough to lessen the sound, she’d finally just given up and decided to concentrate herself on the sermon so she could tell him about the message on the way home. It wasn’t usually until the choir started leading the congregation in the last hymn that he’d come back to life, just in time to beat it out the back door.
“As we were told today,” Dorothy said, looking kindly at Challie, “the good Lord is always ready to forgive, even sleeping through a sermon, I’m sure.” She laughed a nervous laugh, working to lighten her own mood and kill enough time for others to depart so she could have a few private words with Pastor.
With true affection, Pastor bid each of his Sunday morning parishioners at United Methodist Church a farewell for the week. One after the other, they congratulated him on his “sterling sermon about forgiveness,” a couple even going so far as to say his daddy would have been proud since this had always been one of his favorite topics. “Chip off the old block,” Rick Lawson, Attorney at Law, had told him. More than once, Pastor responded to their accolades with “Just preaching what the Good Book says.” Just like you, Dad. Not only what the Good Book says, but what you, by the grace of God, taught me to believe. What you so clearly knew in your heart to be true. He gave private thanks to God for the accolades, which surely belonged to God, not him. After all, it was God who’d nudged him to dig deeper and deeper into this sermon topic, checking just one more book, one more concordance, one more biblical cross reference only to rewrite several thoughts a few more times. He couldn’t remember when he’d spent more time preparing for any sermon, not even on Easter Sunday.
Pastor Delbert Carol, Sr. had been a stalwart and respected shepherd right up until the heart attack that had claimed his life. Although by the time he died his son was already well into seminary in a second career move (“God yanked me out of my accountant’s chair,” he was fond of saying), it had always grieved Delbert Junior, as well as the entire congregation, that Delbert Senior never got to hear his son preach. They’d allowed Delbert Junior a month to get through all he’d had to handle after his dad’s death, since he’d lost his mom when he’d been only six, and he was their only child. Then after local licensing, Delbert Junior was blessedly appointed by the Conference to serve as their pastor. Congregants were relieved, knowing that permitting his honest and continued grief as he ministered to them would also help them to walk through their own.
After the Carters finally made their way out the door, Dorothy pretended to be rearranging hymnals—something Earl usually liked to do and could sometimes be found doing, even in the middle of a weekday—then she feigned trying to organize her coat and handbag, which really only needed picking up. At last, everyone was gone but she, Earl and May Belle. “You two run on along. I’ve got to stay today and clean up the altar anyway. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
“We’ll help you, dear, won’t we, Earl? The more hands, the quicker it will go!” May Belle started to remove her coat.
“No!” The word came out with a harshness Dorothy hadn’t intended. Earl looked wounded. Dorothy settled her palm on his arm. “I’m sorry, honey. Dorothy didn’t mean to be so sharp. You know how I love your help. But today, to be perfectly honest with you, I’d like a moment to talk with Pastor and this seems like as fine a chance as any.”
“Good,” May Belle said, nodding her head in approval. She buttoned her coat back up and reassured Earl that Dorothy meant what she said about enjoying his help, then they said their good-byes to Pastor and made their departure. Dorothy looked all around the sanctuary to make sure everyone else was gone. When she looked back, Pastor, his wife and their children were just about to take their leave.
“Pastor Delbert! Do you have a moment for a question?”
“Certainly, Dorothy. What is it?” He turned to his family and told them to head on home, assuring them he’d be right along. “Promise,” he added like a ten-year-old. He and his wife had engaged in more than one discussion the past few months about the lack of time they’d had for each other, even though they lived in the rectory that was right next door to the church.
“It’s about forgiveness,” Dorothy blurted as soon as they were alone.
He walked up and stood in front of her, waiting for the question, wondering if it had something to do with her facial expressions during his preaching. “Yes?”
“Do you believe what you preached today?”
“Dorothy! Of course I do! God said it and I believe it! What kind of a question is that coming from you, who I know believes what God says in His Word?”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t phrase that just right. Seems to be a lot of that going around for me today.” Pastor furrowed his brows, not having a clue what she meant, but she waved her hand to dismiss whatever it was. “Of course you believe what you preached; that was evident. But let me ask you this: Do you believe because the Lord is always ready to forgive that we are too?” She stared hard at him, searching his very depths, something Dorothy was good at, no matter whose face she stood before.
He raked his fingers through his reddish-brown thinning hair, made an attempt to straighten his crooked glasses, which only made them lopsided in the other direction, then paused to collect himself. He could tell Dorothy, who was not only one of the solid rocks in his flock but one of his favorite people
, was asking a sincere spiritual question that called for an earnest examination and answer. Although he was grounded in his faith, he sometimes wished he felt less mortal when he was trying to address folks who had outlived him by several decades, their wealth of experience often lending them insights no amount of books and study could supply.
With measured words, he finally responded. “I believe we are human, Dorothy. I believe God asks us to forgive, and He intends for us to forgive. I believe He empowers us to do just that through His son’s example on the cross when he said, ‘Father, Forgive them for they know not what they do.’”
Dorothy sighed, her shoulders slumping forward. She glanced at the floor, then at the cross behind the pulpit, then locked eyes with Pastor again. “Having lived nearly nine decades, Pastor, and watching first my mother, then my own Caroline Ann go through those horrible treatments for breast cancer, only to finally succumb to the ravages of such a terrible disease, I find each encounter has only made me stronger in my faith since God is the one I cling to during such times. Our sovereign God never fails us—although it sometimes might appear that way when we’re angry that anything, including disease or darkness, or . . . whatever, can still seem to have rule over our earthly lives.” Her voice cracked, and although she stopped speaking for a few moments to gather herself, she never broke her eye contact with Pastor, who was taking into account her every word.
“Are you angry with God about those things, Dorothy?”
“Goodness me, no! Not anymore. I must admit, I did walk—and occasionally even stomp, you might say—through the anger phase of grief, even in the midst of my faith. But thankfully God is a God who can take our railings, and, with God’s help—which was as gentle and patient as any mother’s, I might add—I finally came out the other side of my rage. I’m thankful to God for holding me so close in all phases of my pain when I’ve lost some of my dearest ones along the way.”
Dearest Dorothy, Help! I've Lost Myself! Page 13