A New Song

by Jan Karon

  “I can’t complain. But how about you, how’s the hip?”

  “That hip ain’t keepin’ me down. This mornin’ I rolled to th’ kitchen an’ made a pan of biscuits.”

  “Buttermilk?”

  “Thass all I use.”

  “Wish I could have one.” He sounded positively wistful. “With plenty of butter and . . . what kind of jam, do you think?”

  “Huckleberry!” said Louella.

  “Bingo!”

  “When you an’ Miss Cynthia comin’ home?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe by the end of the year. Soon!”

  “Not soon enough. We miss you aroun’ here. I go an’ pray with Miss Pattie, poor soul. Law, law, that Miss Pattie . . .”

  “What’s Miss Pattie done now?”

  Louella gave forth with her rich, mezzo laughter.

  “Miss Pattie have eyes for Mr. Berman, you know he’s a mighty handsome man. Now she quit throwin’ ’is clothes out th’ window, she likes to wear ’is shoes.”

  “How on earth does she get around in his shoes?”

  “Oh, she in a chair, you know, like me; she can’t walk a step. She put those shoes on, climb up in that buggy, an’ off she go, pleased as punch.”

  “Aha.”

  “Mr. Berman is sweet, honey, he gave her a pair of alligator loafers, said to Nurse Lola, let ’er have ’em, a man can’t wear but one pair of shoes, anyway. Ain’t that nice?”

  “I’ll say!”

  She sighed. “Not a soul to sing with up here.”

  He sighed. “Not a soul to sing with down here.”

  “You hit one and I’ll join in,” she said, chuckling.

  He didn’t think he’d ever sung four verses of anything over the phone before, but when he finished, he was definitely in improved spirits.

  His wife set freshly made chicken salad before him, with a hot roll and steaming mug of tea. She stood holding his hand as he asked the blessing.

  “What do you think of me coming home for lunch?” he asked. “I’ve known some who don’t take kindly to husbands falling in to be fed.” Might as well learn the truth, which his wife seemed generally enthusiastic to deliver.

  “I love that you come home for lunch, Timothy, you’re my main social contact now that I’m working so hard to finish the book.” She set her own plate on the table and kissed the top of his head.

  “How’s it coming?”

  “Peaks, valleys, highs, lows,” she said, sitting down.

  “Life,” he said.

  “Oh, gosh, that reminds me, I need the car this afternoon. I’m running over to the Sound to sketch a blue heron.”

  His wife needed live fodder, flesh and blood; no Polaroids for her, thank you—she was plein air all the way. Except for an occasional beach umbrella or background bush that might be lifted from memory, she went looking for the real thing. Violet, who was certainly the real thing, was the fourth or fifth white cat in an unbroken chain of actual Violets adopted by his wife over the years. He had, himself, been recruited to appear as a wise man in her book The Mouse in the Manger. He didn’t think he’d looked very wise in her watercolor—more idiotic, truth be told—but she’d been pleased.

  They’d once gone to the woods together, where he tried to enter her world of absorption as she fixed her gaze on lichen—but his mind had wandered like a free-range chicken, and he ended up thinking through a sermon based on Philippians four-thirteen.

  “Oh, and after the Sound, I’m running by Janette’s and taking the children out for ice cream.”

  “Good deal.” He thought her eyes were as blue as wild chicory.

  “By the way, just before you came in, Roger Templeton called. He said he didn’t reach you at church.”

  “Aha.”

  “Wants you to give him a ring.”

  “Will do.”

  They ate quietly, the clock ticking over the stove.

  “Timothy ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t ever leave me.”

  Every so often, quite out of nowhere, she asked this plaintive thing, which shook and moved him. He put his fork down and took her hand. “I would never leave you. Never.”

  “Even when I’m old and covered with crow’s-feet?”

  “I love your crow’s-feet, Kavanagh.”

  “I thought you once said I didn’t have any crow’s-feet.” He was relieved to see her veer away from the fleeting sadness, and laugh.

  “You’ve nailed me,” he said, grinning.

  He lifted her hand and kissed her palm and held it to his cheek. “You mean everything to me. How could I ever thank you for what you are, day and night, a gift, a gift. . . .”

  She looked at him, smiling. “I love it when you talk like that, dearest. You may come home for lunch whenever you wish.”

  Roger met him at the church office on Wednesday morning, carrying a paper bag closed with a twist-tie, and looking bashful.

  “Face your desk and close your eyes,” said Roger.

  Father Tim did as he was told, hearing the rustle of the paper bag being opened.

  “Okay, you can turn around now.”

  The green-winged teal in Roger’s outstretched hands looked him dead in the eye.

  Newly painted in all its subtle and vibrant colors, he found it beautiful, breathtaking, alive. He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words.

  “It’s yours,” said Roger.

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “It’s yours. It’s been yours all along. I saw the look on your face when you watched what I was doing. I know that look; it’s yours.”

  He took it reverently, moved and amazed.

  “Turn it over,” said Roger, flushing with pleasure.

  He turned it over. On the flat bottom was burned the name of the island, today’s date, and a message:

  Green Winged Teal

  For Tim Kavanagh

  From Roger Templeton

  Fellows in a ship

  Clutching the prized possession in his left hand, he embraced Roger Templeton and pounded him on the back.

  “Thank you,” he said, just this side of croaking.

  “I’ve only given away a few. Ernie has one, and my son and his wife, and . . .” Roger shrugged, awkward and self-conscious.

  “I can’t thank you enough, my friend. I’ll treasure it more than you know.”

  He set it on his desk and gazed at it again, marveling.

  A few months ago, he’d relinquished an angel; today, he’d been given a duck. He’d come out on the long end of the stick, and no two ways about it.

  He stood in the sacristy, vested and waiting with the anxious choir, and the eager procession that extended all the way down the steps to the basement.

  There was new music this morning, composed by the organist, something wondrous and not so easy to sing, and choir adrenaline was pumping like an oil derrick. Adding voltage to the electricity bouncing off the walls was the fact that the music required congregational response, always capable of injecting an element of surprise, if not downright dismay.

  He peered through the glass panels of the sacristy door into the nave, able to see only the gospel side from this vantage point. He spied quite a few faces he’d never laid eyes on, given that today was Homecoming.

  Some of the faithful remnant had been beaten to their pews by the homecomers, so he had to search for Otis and Marlene and the Duncan lineup, on the far right. Down front was Janette with Jonathan on her lap, flanked by Babette and Jason, thank You, Lord. And two rows back was Sew Joiner, gazing at the work on the walls and ceiling, and generally looking like he’d hung the moon.

  At the sound of the steeple bell, the crucifer burst through the door and into the nave with her procession, the organ played its mighty opening notes, and the choir streamed forth as a rolling clap of thunder.

  Carried along by the mighty roar and proclamation of the organ, the choir processed up the aisle with vigor.

  “Sing to the Lord a new song<
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  And His praise from the ends of the earth

  Alleluia! Alleluia!

  You who go down to the sea, and all that is in it

  Alleluia! Alleluia!”

  The congregation joined in the first two alleluias as if waking from a long sleep; at the second pair, they hunkered down and cranked into high gear, swept along by the mighty lead of the choir.

  “Let them give glory to the Lord

  And declare His praise in the coastlands

  Alleluia! Alleluia!”

  As the choir passed up the creaking steps to the loft, the organ music soared in the little nave, enlarging it, expanding it, until it might have been o’ercrossed by the fan vaulting of an English cathedral.

  Quickly taking their places by the organ, the choir entered again into the fervent acclamations of Isaiah and the psalmist.

  “Sing to Him a new song

  Play skillfully with a loud and joyful sound

  Alleluia!

  For the work of the Lord is right

  Alleluia!

  And all His work is done in faithfulness!

  Alleluia!”

  A full minute of organ music concluded the first part of the new work, celebrating God’s grace to the people of St. John’s, and the joyful first homecoming in three decades. Many of the congregants, marveling at the music that poured forth from the loft, turned around in their pews and looked up in wonderment.

  “Alleluia! Alleluia!”

  In the ascending finale, which was sung a cappella, the soprano reached for the moon and, to the priest’s great joy and relief, claimed it for the kingdom.

  “When trees and power lines crashed around you, when the very roof gave way above you, when light turned to darkness and water turned to dust, did you call on Him?

  “When you called on Him, was He somewhere up there, or was He as near as your very breath?”

  He stood in front of the pulpit this morning, looking into the faces of those whom God had given into his hand for this fleeting moment in time.

  “What some believers still can’t believe is that it is God’s passion to be as near to us as our very breath.

  “Far more than I want us to have a bigger crowd or a larger parish hall or a more ambitious budget . . . more than anything as your priest, I pray for each and every one of you to sense and know God’s presence . . . as near as your breath.

  “In short, it has been my prayer since we came here for you to have a personal, one-on-one, day-to-day relationship with Christ.

  “I’m talking about something that goes beyond every Sunday service ever created or ever to be created, something you can depend on for the rest of your life, and then forever. I’m talking about the times you cry out in the storm that prevails against you, times when your heart and your flesh fail and you see no way out and no way in, when any prayer you utter to a God you may view as distant and disinterested seems to vanish into thin air.

  “There are legions who believe in the existence of a cold and distant God, and on the occasions when they cry out to Him in utter despair and hear nothing in reply, must get up and stumble on, alone.

  “Then there are those who know Him personally, who have found that when they cry out, there He is, as near as their breath—one-on-one, heart-to-heart, savior, Lord, partner, friend.

  “Some have been in church all their lives and have never known this mighty, marvelous, and yet simple personal relationship. Others believe that while such a relationship may be possible, it’s not for them—why would God want to bother with them, except from a very great distance? In reality, it is no bother to God at all. He wants this relationship far, far more than you and I want it, and I pray that you will ponder that marvelous truth.

  “But who among us could ever deserve to have such a wondrous and altogether unimaginable thing as a close, personal, day-to-day relationship with Almighty God, creator of the universe?

  “It seems unthinkable, and so . . . we are afraid to think it.

  “For this fragile time in history, this tender and fleeting moment of our lives, I am your priest; God has called me to lead this flock. As I look out this morning, my heart has a wish list for you. For healed marriages, good jobs, the well-being and safety of your children; for Eleanor, knees that work; for Toby, ears that hear; for Jessie, good news from her son; for Phillip, good news from his doctor. On and on, there are fervent desires upon my heart for you. But chief among the hopes, the prayers, the petitions is this: Lord . . . let my people know. Let them know that the unthinkable is not only real, but available and possible and can be entered into, now, today—though we are, indeed, completely undeserving.

  “It can be entered into today, with only a simple prayer that some think not sophisticated enough to bring them into the presence of God, not fancy enough to turn His face to theirs, not long enough, not high enough, not deep enough. . . .

  “Yet, this simple prayer makes it possible for you to know Him not only as Savior and Lord, but as a friend. ‘No longer do I call you servants,’ He said to His followers in the Gospel of John, ‘but friends.’

  “In the storms of your life, do you long for the consolation of His nearness and His friendship? You can’t imagine how He longs for the consolation of yours. It is unimaginable, isn’t it, that He would want to be near us—frail as we are, weak as we are, and hopeless as we so often feel. God wants to be with us. That, in fact, is His name: Immanuel, God with us. And why is that so hard to imagine, when indeed, He made us for Himself? Please hear that this morning. The One who made us . . . made us for Himself.

  “We’re reminded in the Book of Revelation that He created all things—for His pleasure. Many of us believe that He created all things, but we forget the very best part—that He created us . . . for His pleasure.

  “There are some of you who want to be done with seeking Him once a week, and crave, instead, to be with Him day after day, telling him everything, letting it all hang out, just thankful to have such a blessing in your life as a friend who will never, under any circumstances, leave you, and never remove His love from you. Amazing? Yes, it is. It is amazing.

  “God knows who is longing to utter that simple prayer this morning. It is a matter between you and Him, and it is a prayer which will usher you into His presence, into life everlasting, and into the intimacy of a friendship in which He is as near . . . as your breath.

  “Here’s the way this wondrous prayer works—as you ask Him into your heart, He receives you into His. The heart of God! What a place to be, to reside for all eternity.

  “As we bow our heads to pray under this new roof and inside these new walls, I ask that He graciously bless each and every one of us today . . . with new hearts.”

  He bowed his head and clasped his hands together and heard the beating of the blood in his temples. Ella Bridgewater, sitting next to the aisle with her walker handy, looked on approvingly. Captain Larkin, seated to her right, bowed his head in his hands.

  “Sense, feel God’s presence among us this morning . . .”

  He waited.

  “. . . as those of you who are moved to do so, silently repeat this simple prayer:

  “Thank You, God, for loving me . . .

  “. . . and for sending Your Son to die for my sins.

  “I sincerely repent of my sins . . .

  “. . . and receive Jesus Christ as my personal savior.

  “Now, as Your child . . .

  “. . . I turn my entire life over to You.

  “Amen.”

  He raised his head, but didn’t hurry on. Such a prayer was mighty, and, as in music, a rest stop was needed.

  The recitation of the Nicene Creed was next in the order of service, and he opened his mouth to say so, but closed it again.

  He looked to the epistle side and saw Mamie and Noah; Mamie was smiling and nodding her head. Behind them were Junior Bryson and Misty Summers; he thought Junior’s grin was appreciably wider than his tie.

  “If you prayed that pr
ayer and would join me at the altar, please come.” He hadn’t known he would say this; he had utterly surprised himself.

  Some would be too shy to come, but that was God’s business; he hoped he wouldn’t forget and leave out the Creed altogether.

  “If you’d like to renew your baptism vows in your heart, please come. If you’d like to express thanksgiving for all that God has fulfilled in your life, please come. If you’d like to make a new beginning, to surrender your life utterly into His care, please come.”

  Though this part of the service was entirely unplanned, he thought it might be a good time for a little music. His choir, however, was stricken as dumb as wash on a line.

  From the epistle side, four people rose and left their pews and walked down the aisle.

  On the gospel side, five parishioners and a homecomer stood from the various pews and, excusing themselves, stepped over the feet of several who were furiously embarrassed and looking for the door.

  Father Tim opened a vial of oil, knelt for a moment on the sanctuary side of the rail, and prayed silently. One by one, the congregants dropped humbly to their knees, at least two looking stern but determined, others appearing glad of the opportunity to do this reckless thing, to surrender their hearts in an act of wild and holy abandon and begin again.

  He dipped his right thumb in the oil and touched the forehead of the first at the rail, making the sign of the cross and saying, “I anoint you, Phillip, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit . . .”

  In the choir loft, the organist rose from the bench, and walked stiffly down the stairs and along the center aisle with the aid of a cane.

  Madeleine Duncan scrambled to her knees in the pew and whispered in her mother’s ear, “Look, Mommy, it’s a little tiny man with a big head.”

  Observing the penitent who now approached the altar, Leonard Lamb didn’t realize he was staring with his mouth open, nor that tears suddenly sprang to his eyes.