by Janette Oke
“Yes, of—of course,” she managed with a little nod.
He smiled.
“Good,” he replied. “Open, honest, direct friends. Okay? If you feel—uncomfortable—like you feel now—” He stopped and smiled. She was surprised that he knew how she was feeling. “Then you say so,” he went on. “Tell me exactly what you are thinking—feeling—as a friend.”
Berta raised her head. “Are you suggesting—sharing secrets?” she asked forthrightly.
He smiled at that.
“I don’t suppose either one of us has many secrets to tell,” he observed candidly. “We are both too open and direct with our lives.”
“Then—” Berta did not finish the question. She knew he would understand what she was asking.
“If we are going to be friends—without interfering in each other’s lives—if we are going to keep the—boundaries that are desired—without making the other uncomfortable—then we must be honest with each other. Right?”
He waited for her to nod or answer. She did not.
“I couldn’t do that,” she finally said.
“What do you mean, you couldn’t”
“I’ve never done that—with anyone. I’ve never shared how I feel. I just couldn’t do that.”
“We must—”
“Wait a minute,” Berta said, lifting a hand to stop him. She sat down in her desk chair and looked up at him, challenge in her eyes. “How come you’re making all the rules?” she asked directly.
“Somebody has to make the rules.”
“Well—why should it be you? I mean—a friendship is to be mutual—a sharing—and you’re—” She felt so agitated that she stood to her feet again.
“So you feel challenged?”
“Challenged? Ordered. You’re telling me what I have to do to be your friend.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like it. I managed fine without your—friendship, I can go right on managing fine without it. I don’t need—”
“Good,” he interrupted, and he smiled.
“Good?”
“You’ve got it. Honest and direct. You just told me exactly what you thought and felt. We won’t even have to practice.” He smiled again.
For a moment Berta’s temper flared. She was so angry that he had—had manipulated things, had set her up. He had just proved to her that she was more than capable of sharing her feelings directly.
Then she saw the humor in the situation and gradually her anger began to seep away.
“I—I guess I can,” she said in admission. She even managed the hint of a smile.
He chuckled. Then sobered.
“An honesty without barbs or malice. Taken without offense or pique,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “I guess I can do that,” she began, then quickly added, “as long as it’s not an invasion of privacy. A person has a right to private thoughts and feelings.”
“Of course,” he answered, a twinkle in his eye. “I don’t intend to talk about every thought of mine with you either.”
She nodded and began to tidy the things on her desk. It was already past library hours.
He tucked the books more securely under his arm.
“Are you finished for the day?” he asked her.
She nodded as she glanced at the wall clock. “My word! I’ll be late for Children’s Club if I don’t hurry,” she said and hastened to get her hat and gloves.
He held the door while she passed through it and turned back to him.
“Make sure it’s locked,” she instructed in a wry tone, “or Miss Phillips will have my head.”
He chuckled softly as he pulled the door firmly shut and tried the handle.
“Locked,” he replied.
He fell into step beside her, and she didn’t even notice. She didn’t notice his smile either.
———
“What did you think of the service?”
Thomas posed the question as they walked home from church together.
Berta looked up in surprise. “What do you mean?” she asked, a frown furrowing her brow. She had never thought to have an opinion about the service. Services just happened. One attended them and accepted them—one did not think about them.
“I’m wondering if Pastor Jenkins isn’t getting a little—what should I say?—road-weary,” he replied.
“Road-weary?”
He nodded.
“That’s a bit—harsh, isn’t it?” contended Berta.
“Is it?”
They walked in silence.
“Or is it just being honest?” he asked again.
Berta turned to him. “Being honest again, are we?” she chided knowingly.
“I thought that’s what we had agreed to be. Without—”
“Barbs or malice,” finished Berta.
He chuckled.
They continued down the wooden sidewalk, both busy with their own thoughts.
“I don’t know,” Berta at last responded. “Perhaps he is tired. He’s been at it for a long time. He was the pastor when I was a child.”
Seeing the twinkle in his eyes, she quickly went on, “And not one comment from you.”
He laughed softly.
Berta was not sensitive about the fact that she was in her late twenties, but she surely was not going to invite jokes about it.
“Why do you feel he’s road-weary?” she asked suddenly.
He thought before he answered.
“I think he really tries. But there is just no—spark. No life.”
“Should there be?” asked Berta directly.
He turned to her as they continued down the walk. “Yes,” he said with feeling. “Yes—there should be. If our religion, our faith, is really what we claim it is, then there should be. Plenty.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we truly believe that God, the Creator, loved us even as sinful, destitute humanity, and loved us enough to send Christ, His Son, to redeem us from sin and set us on the right path—that He lives with us and in us as our Counselor and Guide—that He wants us at peace with ourselves and others, to express love and joy not just in our daily lives but in worship—then yes—there should be a spark—life.”
He spoke with such fervor that Berta could only blink. She had never considered it before. Had never given thought to what she should expect from a morning in the worship service—from herself, from the pastor or the congregation. She had always gone to church. It was not just her right and privilege. It was her duty.
“But—” she began, then wasn’t sure what she wanted to say in argument. His words made sense.
“Don’t you believe it?” he asked.
“Believe what?” she countered.
“All that the church teaches?”
“Of course I believe it. You think me an infidel?”
“And you don’t miss the—spark?”
She stopped and half turned to him. “Are you sure you aren’t just a little bit—emotional? One’s faith is not a—a giddy feeling. It’s a commitment—a way of life.”
“I’m not talking giddy,” he responded. “And I am not criticizing our pastor—or what he preaches. He speaks the truth—but he does so with such—such control. Like he was giving a math equation. The Law of Gravity.”
He paused beside her to press his point.
“And what, pray tell, are you suggesting he should do?” she asked him.
“Sound like he believes it. Exclaim over it. Rejoice about it. Get enthused. Why—he—he gives his sermon with less enthusiasm than I teach a history class.”
Berta’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe that he would say such a thing about the pastor.
He flushed. “I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized. “I shouldn’t have said that. It—it sounds dreadfully disrespectful. Critical. I had no business getting so carried away. It’s just—just that I go to church wanting—longing to rejoice in my salvation—and—and—” He stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he
said again. “I should not have brought it up.”
They began to walk again. In silence now. But Berta’s thoughts were whirling around in her head. It was the truth. The pastor did seem near exhaustion. How could he preach with enthusiasm when he appeared so tired? “Road-weary.” Had they pushed him too hard for too long? How could he give to others what he did not himself possess? Why had she never thought of it? Why had she been content to just make her weekly appearance at church? Where was the life Thomas was talking about?
Chapter Sixteen
Jamie
Glenna’s second baby, a girl, was named Berta Rosemary, and they called her Rosie. From the beginning, big brother Jamie adored her. He called her Sister and was the first to coax a smile from the infant.
“I think she likes me,” he proudly informed his Aunt Berta one Sunday morning when they met at church.
“Of course she does,” agreed Berta. She didn’t say what she really felt in her heart. That no one could help liking the young Jamie. Berta still resisted openly showing affection for her nephew. She felt there was safety in holding the small boy at arm’s length. She continued her stern, no-nonsense approach, but if Jamie noticed the distance, he never let it bother him. Warm, affectionate, giving, he was much like his mother. Berta felt the need both to protect him from future hurt by those who might take advantage of his good nature and to keep him from becoming too self-confident because of never being in conflict with others. It was a strange combination. Berta had a hard time keeping it all in balance.
“Do you love me, Aunt Berty?” Jamie surprised her by asking next.
“What makes you ask such a question?” she responded a little stiffly.
“I wonnered,” he replied simply.
“One shouldn’t fish for compliments—or for avowals,” she said, nudging him toward the sanctuary door.
Jamie’s expression indicated he had no idea what his Aunt Berta was saying, but he seemed to fully accept her just as she was. Stern and often reprimanding, yet at times affirming and supportive, the child seemed to be sure of her love whether or not she answered the question.
“Sister’s too little to sit with us,” Jamie explained, taking her hand and looking up into her face.
Berta nodded. Jamie still liked to sit with her in church.
“Someday she’ll be big enough,” he continued as though making excuses for the wee baby.
“Maybe she’ll never wish to sit with us,” Berta said rather abruptly. She was sure that she wouldn’t appeal much to little girls. And Glenna’s little girl was bound to be all softness and femininity. All laughter and giggles. All ribbons and lace.
“Sure she will,” argued Jamie with confidence. “She likes me.”
But will she like me? Berta could have asked but did not. There was no use trying to explain such complicated, grown-up things to the small boy.
They went in and took their places. From across the aisle Thomas gave Berta a good-morning nod. They never sat together in church. She had firmly stated that folks would misconstrue the action. She returned his nod without a smile and seated Jamie properly on the seat beside her. She smoothed out her skirt and picked up the hymnal to be ready for the opening song.
Pastor Jenkins took his place. He sat in the straight-backed chair, his face solemn, his eyes on his polished shoes.
He does look tired, Berta found herself thinking. Something like Miss Phillips.
Strange that she should think of Miss Phillips. The two were so totally different. Yet there were similarities. They were both pale. Listless. Neither one “mixed” a good deal. The pastor had once been a good socializer in the community, but since he had lost his wife he seemed to stay at home—shut in by himself. Berta suddenly wondered if he ate proper meals, or if, like Miss Phillips, he merely snacked—if he ate at all.
I wonder what we’ve been doing for him since Mrs. Jenkins died? she asked herself. She had not given the man much consideration until Thomas had brought up the subject. Surely there are those in the congregation who are caring for the pastor, Berta’s thoughts continued. The elders. The deacons. Someone must be concerned about his welfare. As a single woman she could hardly be expected to entertain the widowed pastor.
He stood and announced the first hymn of the morning. Berta turned to the page and shared her book with Jamie even though he could not read one word from it.
Her thoughts turned from the minister to the service at hand. There wasn’t anything different about the morning from any other Sunday. The events of the program proceeded just as she had grown to expect.
But at the end of the service her mind was jarred to attention. Deacon Burns stepped forward after the last hymn, cleared his throat, toyed with his rimmed spectacles, and began to speak.
“It is with deep regret that the Board of Elders has accepted the resignation of our pastor of thirty-seven years.”
A hush fell over the entire congregation. It was followed by a low moan from Mrs. Tinker, who expressed all of her feelings by varying tones.
“Pastor Jenkins has handed us his resignation to be effective at the end of the month. He will be taking leave of his responsibilities in order to seek rest and restoration.
“Pastor Jenkins has served us long and well, and we are sorry to see him go. But we do believe—” He stopped and cleared his throat again. “We believe that he has earned the rest—that he needs the restoring. It has been difficult for him to carry on the ministry alone after the death of his dear wife two years ago. She has been deeply and sorely missed.”
Again a moan from Mrs. Tinker.
“The elders will be actively searching for a replacement for our dear pastor. We would ask for your prayers—in regards to the search for the right minister to fill this pulpit—and for Pastor Jenkins as he seeks what God has for him in the future.”
Another moan. This one low and long, a sign of Mrs. Tinker’s deepest emotional distress.
Berta could not believe her ears. A new minister? She had never in her entire life had any minister but Pastor Jenkins. She couldn’t imagine a worship service without the good man standing behind the pulpit. She wondered if she would even wish to attend on Sunday mornings with someone new representing the Lord.
Thomas would find my attitude shocking, she found herself thinking and wondered why Thomas and his response had popped into her mind.
“What did he say?” It was Jamie, tugging at her Sunday suit jacket and trying to keep his voice to a whisper.
Berta gave him a stern look and a caution to be quiet. She bent to him and whispered in his ear, “Pastor Jenkins will be leaving.”
“Why? I like him,” said the youngster.
“Shh. We all like him,” replied Berta.
The congregation was stirring about now. The pastor had gone down the aisle to take his customary place at the door, greeting his congregation and receiving their regrets about his departure.
“Why?” asked Jamie in a rather loud whisper.
“He’s tired,” Berta whispered back. “He needs a rest.”
“Like Mama?” asked Jamie, used to being cautioned to allow his mother to rest since the arrival of little Rosie.
“Sort of,” replied Berta in a normal tone now that their discussion was covered by sounds of the people leaving the building. She began to gather her things together.
“I’m gonna miss church,” said Jamie at her elbow. “I liked the stories and everything.”
“We’ll still have church,” Berta was quick to tell him. He looked surprised.
“Who’ll talk?” he asked her. “Mr. Burns?”
“We’ll find another minister.”
“When?”
“As soon as we can.”
“I don’t think I’ll like him much,” said Jamie stubbornly. “He won’t be the same.”
“No,” agreed Berta shaking her head as she led the young boy from the pew. “He won’t be the same.” She looked down at Jamie beside her, a bit nonplussed that he had put her thou
ghts into words.
———
“Can I see you—in private?”
Thomas stood before her, his eyes shadowed. Berta could sense bad news, though she knew not why.
“What is it?” she asked sharply.
He nodded his head toward the small private room behind her.
Wordlessly she got up and led the way, fear and anger mingling within her. Why didn’t he just say what was wrong?
“Is it Mama?” she asked as he closed the door firmly behind them.
He shook his head. “Jamie,” was all he said.
Berta stood motionless. Her thoughts began to whirl. Jamie? Jamie wasn’t sick. He was young—and strong. What possibly could have happened to Jamie?
Hands were easing her into a chair, gently but firmly. She wanted to strike out—to make him back off and leave her alone so she could sort it out.
“He fell—from a tree,” he said.
“What—” she demanded.
“He’s been taken to the hospital. Glenna is there. She sent word to me to come for you.”
Berta’s muddled head began to clear. Had Jamie broken an arm? A leg? Children were always breaking limbs. They healed quickly. She felt a measure of relief.
“They aren’t sure of the injuries,” Thomas was saying.
“What injuries?” she asked dumbly, panic again overtaking her.
“They don’t know,” continued Thomas. “He hurt his head—seriously. They don’t know—”
But she stopped him with a swift backhand that caught him across the chest. She wrenched herself free from him and stood to her feet. “Don’t talk nonsense,” she declared. “His father’s a doctor.”
For a moment Thomas’s eyes reflected surprise, then he seemed to understand.
“Of course,” he agreed. “He’ll get the best of care.”
Berta headed for the door. He reached out and took her arm.
“Berta,” he said, “Berta—”
“I need to get back to work,” she said firmly, frowning at his hand on her arm.
“No,” he said just as firmly. “No, you don’t need to go back to work. I came to take you to the hospital. Glenna needs you.”