The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String

by Kris Knorr

  She smiled her patient-look. “This is the chancel; the area surrounding the table. Did you know the altar represents a table?” Allie shook her head. “Well, some early churches—Roman Catholics—” she emphasized the words, giving Allie a measured look to let her know Lutherans didn’t start the practice but accepted the symbolism, “used the lid of martyrs’ tombs as their communion table. That’s why most altars—tables—look like tombs. That ‘other’ Lutheran church in town, St. John’s, is all modern. Their altar looks like the pod they buried Spock in.”

  Allie stared at the granite block altar, trying to remember Star Trek movies. Her long discussions with her husband about joining a church hadn’t included this weird stuff. They simply wanted to raise their children with some kind of religious affiliation. They’d “test driven” ten churches in town, dissecting them afterward, during Sunday brunches. They’d decided to attend adult instruction classes at Shaded Valley to learn what the church believed. Strangely, they’d both liked the antiquity and symbols in the Lutheran church. They’d found the same old, solid symbols in cathedrals, but they’d discovered the Roman Catholics had more rules.

  The tipping point came at the annual Camp-Out/Eat-Out. “A church that incorporates beer and barbeque into their meetings is the place for me,” Fred had declared. So they became Lutherans.

  “Are you confused by my profound religious analysis?” Micki asked.

  Allie shook away her thoughts. “What?”

  “The altar’s symbolic.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “And I already told you this is the chancel,” Micki continued. “You can tell it’s special because it’s usually separated in most churches by a railing, or screen. In Jesus’ time, they used a thick, heavy curtain to keep the holy men from the sinners. I often wondered if they had little peep holes in it. You know, so they could sneak a peek and see who was doing penance. It’s hard to resist looking out from behind a curtain. Well, it is for me.”

  “So why isn’t there a curtain, here—with holes, of course?”

  “You’ve probably heard that the curtain in the temple ripped apart when Jesus died?” Micki said.

  Allie frowned.

  “Well, it means that now, we sinner-saints have direct access to God. We don’t need any holier-than-thou person to go behind the curtain and ask forgiveness for us or to kill livestock and offer it for our sins.”

  “Oh, yeah…animal sacrifice,” Allie said. “I’d like to learn more about that.”

  “Why? Do you have some animals that need killing?”

  Allie gave her a disbelieving stare.

  “I told you; we don’t do that anymore.” Micki grinned. “I’m not making this stuff up. Do you want me to continue?”

  “Is there more violence?”

  “I’ll try to keep it PG. Now, that part is the nave.” Micki pointed toward the pews with her elbow because her fingers were grabbing the wreath. “And outside the doors, that’s called the narthex. The terms come from old words meaning ‘ship.’ Most Lutheran churches are designed like an ark, only upside down. Lie in one of those pews and look up. You’ll think you’re in the belly of a big boat carrying you to safety. I don’t know about that modernistic St. John’s though. They must’ve designed it from a Klingon Warship.”

  “Do you often lie in pews?” Allie asked.

  “I’ve spent a fair amount of time prone in a pew. You should try it. Go on. Try out the front row.” She added a few more sprigs of blue cedar to the wreath for color and scent then clipped the wire.

  Allie lay in the pew, her hands crossed over her chest, staring upward. “The ceiling looks like a wash basin to me.”

  “Good grief, dear. Are you ill?” Vera asked, leaning over Allie.

  “Uh…no.” She quickly stood up. “I didn’t hear anyone come in. Micki said she lay in pews a lot. So I thought—”

  “I’m sure she did,” Vera said dryly, “when she was four years old.”

  “Yep. That was about the time they made me give it up.” Micki shot Allie a whimsical grin, “I was supposed to sit up and pretend to listen after that.”

  “Here are your Advent candles.” Vera released a heavy box into Allie’s hands. “Please put them in the right order,” she called over her shoulder as she left.

  “How embarrassing,” Allie mumbled. “She thinks I’m an idiot.”

  “I wouldn’t give it too much concern. At one time or another, Vera thinks everyone is short a brain cell or two.”

  “Why do people let her run everything?”

  Micki sighed, staring at the door. “Gospel truth?” She turned her stare on Allie. “We’re lazy. As the pastor’s wife, she made sure things got done, and we let her. Now people are getting tired of it. New members want to try new things. Now that her husband is gone, there’s an uprising for change. For me, it’s easier to live with Vera’s attitude than take over her duties.”

  “She’s seems pretty inflexible. An order to the candles? That’s a bit much,” Allie said.

  “Oh, that’s not Vera. There’s an order to everything here. A progression through seasons and worship. Everything you see in this sanctuary has a purpose. All of this is supposed to help you be still. Help you restore the order meant to be in your life.”

  “My life is not in order. It’s full of screaming children and dirty laundry.”

  “That’s why people come to a sanctuary. Seeking peace. Looking for answers. They come here, or a cemetery.”

  “I’ve done that. I’ve gone to a graveyard. It was quiet. Eternal.” Allie lightly stroked the candles.

  “Well, I prefer the sanctuary. Less heat and bugs,” Micki said. “Hand me the purple candle with a crown on it.”

  “Would the roof fall in if you used the wrong candle?”

  “It would’ve been noticed in ancient days. That’s why this isn’t a Christmas decoration; it’s a time keeper. Only the priests could read in the early church, and the peasants didn’t have iphones. Lighting a candle on each of the four Sundays of Advent told the story of Christ’s birth and prepped the peons. If some poor soul was going to receive an extra crust of bread for the holidays, all he had to do was look at the candles and see how long he had to wait.” Micki stuck it into a holder on the wreath and wiggled it, checking its stability.

  The Prophet’s Candle is first; it foretells a King is coming. Second Week, the Bethlehem Candle. Third Week, the Shepherd’s Candle. No, it’s the pink one with a little sheep on it.”

  “Why?”

  “Joy. The shepherds were the first men to visit Jesus. It’s a Sunday to rejoice. There’s a story with every candle. You’ll hear them. Now give me the last purple one, representing the angels’ announcement. When this last Advent candle was lit in those dark, old cathedrals, the peasants knew the wait for the coming King was almost over.”

  “Sounds apocalyptic,” said Allie.

  “It was, but traditions change. Look at Martin Luther; he translated the Bible into German, rewrote hymns using beer drinking songs and got kicked out of the Roman Catholic Church. Things change.”

  “When do we light this?” Allie waggled a long white candle.

  Micki took it and fitted the slender taper into the uppermost ring of the candelabra. Shrill screams came from the narthex.

  “No! I don’t want to! I DON’T WANT TO!” pulsed into louder and louder yells accompanied with something beating the floor.

  Micki and Allie gave each other a startled look and headed toward the door.

  The Christmas Play

  WHEN THE SANCTUARY door opened, high-pitched shouting bounced off the walls.

  Nan, the church organist, poked her head through the doorway. “Hey Micki, are you gals done? We need to set up in here.” Behind her, one of Kay’s teenage sons twisted right and left, trying to hold onto a screaming, stomping four-year-old boy.

  “Is that kiddo all right?” Micki asked.

  “Yeah.” Nan glanced at the tantrum. “His mom volun
teered him to be in the Christmas play. Say, do you think you could help us?” she said as children filed in and sat in pews. “We kind of have our hands full here.”

  *

  Nan had decided to do The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, a multi-generational play about a rowdy group of unchurched kids who accidentally deliver the true meaning of Christmas. She looked at the actors in front of her.

  “All right, all right, listen up.” The five-and six-year-olds had dropped to the floor and were belly-crawling under pews, something they never got to do when sitting with parents. Several teenagers had been lured to the practice by the promise of pizza. Kevin, sixteen and Marcus, fourteen—Kay’s sons—were plugged into their ipods, waiting for the pizza to be served. Three girls had their heads close together, whispering. The adult actors stood at the back of sanctuary, chatting.

  “Kevin. Marcus. Get those kids out from under the pews,” Nan ordered, but the boys sat with their eyes closed, listening to their music. She walked over to the teens. The girls stopped chatting as she pulled an ear-bud out of Kevin’s ear.

  “What?” he said with a surprised look. “I’m not doin’ nothin’.”

  “Would you and Marcus please get those kids out from under the pews?” She returned to the front of the sanctuary to make announcements. “Now, practices will be…”

  Kevin yanked both ear buds from his younger brother’s head.

  Marcus whipped a knuckle into his brother’s arm. “What, Jerk Face?”

  Nan ignored them. “Look at home for costume materials…”

  “We gotta get the rug-rats from under the pews.” Kevin pointed downward. The little ones had wormed all the way to the back of the church, giggling and laughing. The brothers looked at each other then dove for the carpet.

  Nan continued, “I expect you to have your lines memorized by—”

  “EEEEEEEEEEE!” high pitched squeals came from the last row.

  “Gotcha!” More squeals were interrupted with lots of thumping on the underside of the pews.

  “All right. That’s enough!” yelled Nan, striding to the back of the church. “You all sound like a herd of pigs. Come out of there.”

  Marcus made a snorting sound. The five- and six-year-olds began snorting, too. Kevin’s long legs stuck out in the aisle; Nan nudged them—not too gently—with her foot.

  “Stop it. Stop it now. Get out here, all of you.” Slowly they arose, one by one, and filed to their seats. “Because you love playing with the children, you both can sit with them and keep things under control,” Nan said.

  With the reading of each scene, Nan had to stop and find the actors or quiet the set. Kevin and Marcus traded punches with the little kids when it wasn’t their scene. Mary, mother of Jesus, played by Micki’s teenage girl, was outside on her cell phone when it was time for her part. When Nan discovered the adults had gone to the Fellowship Hall for coffee, she threw a manuscript at a pew, telling everyone to go home.

  What had she been thinking? Vera had told her to organize the pageant which meant she could’ve delegated this job to the Sunday school teachers. It was that empty-nest-syndrome. Right after her youngest had left for college, she’d felt the void and decided to direct this pageant of slackers and rebels. She looked at Ray, her husband, as he restored the sanctuary to a normal order after the rehearsal. He had wisely taken up golf to fill his empty-nest time.

  In the following weeks, adults came to help, but rehearsals birthed new dramas. Mother Mary had a meltdown when her sparkling neck warmer was deemed an inappropriate head piece. She had talked her mother into buying it for the program, denying that she wanted it because everyone at the high school had one.

  The dinner-scene rehearsal should have been easy because only five members of the cast were on-stage. Disappointed with plastic steaks and doll-food props, Nan bought a baked chicken with vegetables at Bob’s Box Mart, so the actors could get used to working with real food. She stuck the plate in a warm oven—it would be dinner for Ray and her after rehearsal tonight. Unfortunately, when Kevin grabbed the hot plate, he yelled a word that made the little kids open their mouths and stare.

  Pizza seemed to make the youth forget bad rehearsals, but it did nothing to improve their memories for their parts. The shepherds were helpful, using their staffs to prod anyone who missed their cue. Foreseeing disaster, a couple of adults dropped out of the play using timeworn excuses: “My job has become too demanding,” “My dog needs surgery.”

  “You’ve got to help me,” Nan begged Hettie, Kay, and Micki. “The little-girl-angels wave and the little-boy-angels stare when it’s time for them to sing. The teenagers only know half their lines, and they say those at the wrong time. Now, two actors have dropped out. It’s going to be a debacle. I’ll have to change churches after this play or move out of state. Help me.”

  “I wish I could. You know how I like to put on a show,” Hettie said, “but I don’t think my brain could remember all those lines.”

  “I’m begging you.” Nan grabbed her. “Please? You can read the lines. You don’t have to memorize a thing.” Her voice was thin and her eyes shiny with delayed-tears.

  “I get nervous in front of adults.” Hettie gave a self-conscious giggle. “I can talk to kids all day, but adults.….”

  “Please, just read the lines? You don’t even have to look at anyone.”

  Hettie shrugged and rolled her eyes, “Oh, all right. Maybe little note cards could be hidden in the scenery, and I could use them to jog my memory, so I wouldn’t get nervous.”

  “Yes. Yes. You could do that. Oh, thank you, Hettie. Thank you!” Nan looked at Kay.

  “I don’t want a speaking part.” Kay frowned and shook her head. “Actually, I don’t want any part at all, but I feel sorry for you, and if you’re drummed out of this church because of this disastrous Christmas pageant, which will make people lose faith and become agnostics, then I suppose I must help for the sake of all Christendom.” She drew a big breath, “But I’m actually doing it just for myself since that would mean Mrs. Benjamin would take over your job as organist—and you know she plays so slow, that I have time to do crossword puzzles during the hymns. In frustration, I’d have to find you in whatever honky tonk you’re playing in. So, it’ll simply be a lot easier for all of us if I help.” Then added, “I just don’t want a speaking part.”

  “Like we would ever give you a speaking part,” Hettie said.

  Kay gave the teacher a you-wish-you-were-me-stare. “I provoke insight. My comments force you to explore.” She smiled at Nan, raising her eyebrows twice. “Not that I want a speaking part.”

  “I need for you to be the Head Angel.” Nan interrupted before Hettie and Kay escalated their banter. “Your boys are riding herd on the little ones. I need you to ride herd on…all of them. Do you think you could get those kids to sing instead of just mumble a tune?”

  “Done,” said Kay.

  “Micki,” Nan lay her hand on the large woman’s shoulder, “just continue what you’ve been doing.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kay shook her head. “All I’ve seen her do is sit outside the door and gab with everybody who walks through the narthex. I want her job.”

  “Let’s get some coffee.” Micki smiled, took Kay’s arm, and began walking toward the door. “I distract folks who come to observe. That way Nan can work out the problems before people watch and start critiquing her.”

  “I can distract people,” said Kay. “I’ve worked diversion into an art form.”

  “Distract,” Hettie said as she followed, “not drive them away. After you finish with them, they need counseling. Micki channels folks to other activities until the program is a little more presentable.”

  “Who would evaluate a kid’s play?” Kay asked. “It’s not supposed to be perfect. Remember that, Nan.” Kay called over her shoulder as Micki walked them out the door. “Strive for imperfection. It can always be achieved.”

  *

  They rehearsed for three Sundays. Ray spen
t the week before the play gluing Hettie’s speaking parts to dishes and various props. To the audience, it would appear that Hettie spent a lot of time admiring her plates or reading the family Bible while she spoke.

  Very quickly, everyone of Kay’s little five-and six-year old angels knew the words to “Away in a Manger.” Some grinned and waved, some looked frightened, but they all sang. Loud and off-key.

  “How did you get them to do it?” Nan cocked her head and blinked at the kids.

  “The boys did it. I don’t know how,” Kay shrugged, “but the kids learned it in a jiffy after spending a little time with Kevin and Marcus.”

  A grin spread across Nan’s face just before voices—loud voices—drifted from the narthex. She turned to see who Micki was running interference against.

  Vera pushed through the doors. “I need to talk to you about the Christmas pageant. Now.”

  I’ll Be Home For Christmas

  BEFORE VERA HAD gone to the church that afternoon, she’d tried to finish Christmas cards. Actually, she’d been making half-hearted attempts for a couple of weeks. What could she tell people? Jim’s dead and everything’s sliding to the thin end of the wedge. Three envelopes lay in the completed pile. She sat at the kitchen table, grabbed a card, and began writing quickly, hoping she wouldn’t get stalled this time.

  Dear Aunt Ula,

  Things have been hectic. The demands of the season continue as usual this time of year.

  Things weren’t usual. They were screwier than the Elvis impersonator she’d once heard give a sermon. She’d expected to make some alterations after Jim had died, but she’d never thought life would parachute out of order. Like the Halloween party. No one had asked her. She had to hear about the cancellation from Walt. Walt, of all people. His main function was to complain about how much work other people made for him. It was a tragedy. After all those years, she deserved more respect.