by Jan Karon
“Timothy!”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Indeed, if such a sum were stashed in Miss Sadie’s ’58 Plymouth, he’d have to keep mum about it or the news would spread through Mitford like a virus.
He dialed the restaurant at Fernbank, looking for Andrew.
Andrew’s Italian brother-in-law and Lucera chef, Tony, answered.
“Andrew is buying for Oxford Antique in England, and be gone for three weeks.”
“Well, then. I’ll call in three weeks. Just wondering. Tony—is Miss Sadie’s old Plymouth still in the garage?”
“On blocks. Andrew had work on it, something here, something there. He says to use it in the Fourth of July parade.”
“Wonderful idea! It’ll bring back fond memories to see that great tank on the street again. So how is business at the high country’s finest restaurant?”
“Slammed! I hope you and Cynthia will come see us soon.You always be our guest. Andrew says Fernbank would not be ... belonging to us without the help from you.”
“We’ll drive in one evening and paint the town red! Give our warm regards to your lovely sister, I’ll speak with Andrew when he returns. Ciao!”
So the car was still there. But what about the nine thousand dollars?
Not a word from on high.
If Absalom Greer were alive today, he’d be hunkered over the wheel of his old Ford sedan, faithfully burning up the back roads to his little handfuls, as he’d called the small churches scattered through the coves. And what was he, Timothy Kavanagh, hunkered over? A volume of English poets.
He stuck the bookmark between the pages and got up and paced to the window seat and gazed out to the snow melting off the smokehouse roof.
... It isn’t anything fancy, and God knows, it will be a challenge.
He turned and paced to the kitchen door, pulled back the curtain, and looked toward the barn without seeing.
And now Cynthia had this terrific new project to get behind, and what did he have to get behind?
Four dogs and an armload of firewood.
“Three,” said Willie Mullis.
Willie stood at the kitchen door, bareheaded and mournful, holding forth a battered fedora containing the day’s egg inventory.
“Three’s all we need,” said Father Tim, reaching into the hat. “We thank you. Think the laying will pick up come spring?”
“Yessir.”
“Good! Think we’ll be having any more snow?”
“Nossir.”
“Your arthritis coming along a little better?”
“Yessir.”
“Looks like a nice, warm day. The temperature could soar into the high sixties, don’t you think?”
“Yessir.”
“Need any help at the barn?”
“Nossir.”
“If you do, just give me a call.”
“Yessir.”
He put the brown eggs into a bowl on the table, observing them with satisfaction. With a little grated cheese, a tot of cream, a smidgen of onion ...
“Was that Willie?” asked his wife, coming into the kitchen.
“Three eggs,” he said, pointing. “The laying will, of course, pick up come spring; we won’t be having any more snow; the temperature will probably be in the high sixties today; and his arthritis is improving.”
“My goodness,” she said, “I never get that sort of information from Willlie. He’s a perfect chatterbox with you.”
March 19. He turned the page on the Owens’ desk calendar.
Dooley was spending a couple of nights in town with his blood family and taking Lace to a movie in Wesley. Then he and Dooley would hie down the mountain to Holding where truck prices, according to Lew Boyd, were competitive. While in Holding, they’d try to hook up with Sammy.
In the meantime, he was plenty disgusted with his bishop and even more disgusted with himself. He had determined to go forth and do something, even if it was wrong.
First, he would call on his old friend and back-country soup-kitchen boss, Homeless Hobbes, who had moved to this neck of the woods when the Creek was developed into a mall. Maybe he could give Homeless a hand with his soup ministry.
Then he’d drop in on Lottie Greer, Absalom’s elderly sister, who lived up the road in the rear of a country store Absalom built in his youth. Dooley wouldn’t mind if he took Miss Lottie a piece of his chocolate pie....
“Bloom where you’re planted!” he muttered to himself, quoting a bumper sticker. Ah, but Wordsworth had had a far better way of putting it.
“If thou, indeed, Timothy, derive thy light from Heaven...” He walked to the coat pegs and took down his jacket.
“‘Then,’” he bawled in a voice designed to reach the uttermost pew, “ ’... to the measure of that heaven-born light ...’ ” He pulled on his jacket, shoved his stocking feet into his outdoor boots, and rummaged for his gloves....
“‘Shine, Preacher! In thy place, and be content!”’
“What on earth are you doing?” asked Cynthia, coming in from the hall.
He felt his cheeks grow warm. “Preaching myself a sermon!”
“You were rattling the windows.”
“Yes, well ...”
“It’s the snow,” she said, commiserating. “Three months of snow, certain to be followed by two weeks of slush.”
“Listen to this, it’s coming back and I can’t waste it. He’s talking of stars here.
“... Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness,
Are yet of no diviner origin,
No purer essence, than the one that burns,
Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge
Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem
Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps,
Among the branches of the leafless trees....”
“Untended watch-fire,” she mused. “Twinkling winter lamps. Nice!”
He heaved a sigh and thumped onto the stool by the door.
“I need a ob,” he said.
“And I need you to have one, dearest. Oh, brother, do I ever.”
He was backing the farm truck onto the drive when Cynthia ran from the kitchen and waved him to a stop.
He rolled the window down.
“It’s Stuart!” she called.
He trotted up the walk, his heart pumping.
“Timothy, Stuart here, with unending apologies for the long delay. I could go on and on, but—to make a long story short ...
“How would you like to be a vicar?”
CHAPTER THREE
Faithful Remnant
He found Cynthia in the laundry room.
“I’m so happy for you!” She planted a glad kiss on his cheek.
“And I’m happy for you,” he said. “After all, this gets me out of your hair.”
She laughed. “But I love having you in my hair. Speaking of hair ...”
“Let’s don’t.”
“So tell me, darling—what is a vicar? I come from the Presbyterian side, you know.” She stuffed their jeans and denim shirts into the washing machine.
“A vicar is the priest of a church that isn’t a parish church.”
“So you’re still a priest!” In went the laundry powder.
“Absolutely!”
“Do we still call you Father?”
“You do! Only a couple of things change, really.... First, the money.”
“There’s the rub.”
“I’ll get a stipend, a mere dab. But not to worry, Kavanagh, I have big bucks set aside for our jaunt to Ireland next year.
“Now, here’s the good part—I won’t have to mix it up with a vestry.”
“Hallelujah!”
“Let’s see what else we can stumble upon.” He went to the kitchen bookcase and thumbed through one of the many tomes he’d toted to the farm, and returned to the laundry room.
“ ‘Vicar: A parish priest appointed by a bishop, to exercise limited jurisdiction in a particular tow
n or district of a diocese.’ Here’s another: ‘A bishop’s assistant in charge of a church or mission.’
“And finally,” he said, “ ‘A clergyman in charge of a chapel.’ ”
She cranked the knob to “On.” “That’s quite enough to be in charge of, if you ask me.”
“Especially as Holy Trinity has stood empty for nearly forty years.”
His heart pounded as he contemplated such a thing. Empty for forty years! Why on earth would Stuart have been “patently envious” of such a prospect? Just getting the mice and squirrels out would be a job of vast proportion—and then, to fill it with people from Lord knows where ...
“You look dubious,” she said, folding towels.
“Not dubious. Dumbfounded!” He closed the book and put it under his arm. “And scared silly, to tell the plain truth.”
“Remember, sweetheart, what James Hudson Taylor said; you’ve quoted it to me as I plunged into many a Violet book. ‘There are three stages in the work of God: impossible, difficult, done.’ ”
Of all things! he thought. Of all things ...
“Let me pray for you.”
She took his hand in hers, and he had at once the sure and consoling knowledge that her touch was a lifeline, one thrown out to him by God as directly as if He were present in the room—which, of course, He was.
They recited the Lenten devotion in unison.
“ ‘... Now as we come to the setting of the sun, and our eyes behold the vesper light, we sing your praises, O God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit....”
He asked the blessing then, and they looked at each other for a moment across the pine table.
“I’m thankful for you,” he said, “beyond words.”
The dogs snored, the fire crackled, the clock struck seven.
She leaned her head to one side and smiled at him. “Here we sit, under the dome of a winter sky, two people facing the unknown, holding hands across the table in a room lighted by a single candle and a fire on the hearth. I find it all too wondrous, Timothy, and I feel the greatest peace about your new calling; He has called you to come up higher.”
He knew she was right. No matter about mice and squirrels, or even, God forbid, snakes; he knew she was right.
He breathed easily, then did something he couldn’t remember doing for a while. He leaned back in the chair and felt the tension release. “Ahhh,” he said.
“Amen!” she replied with feeling.
After conferring with Cynthia, he went to the library.
Though he had no key to let himself in, he was off at dawn to see Holy Trinity, nicknamed Little Trinity due to its seating capacity of a mere forty souls.
No matter what obstacles lay ahead, he would roll them over on God and let Him do the managing; as for himself, he would pitch in head first, give it his all, and let the Enemy take the hindmost.
He would still wear his collar and vestments; he would still celebrate the liturgy and perform all other the offices of a priest. So indeed, hardly anything would change.
He shifted the truck into second gear for the incline, heading west. And so what if things did change?
The thought gave him a kind of buzz, as if something carbonated had been released into his system.
He glanced at Barnabas, who sat on the passenger seat looking fixedly ahead. “Vicar!” he said, tasting the word. “What do you think?”
Cynthia called him dearest; his cousin’s wife called him Teds; as a boy he’d been called Slick, more’s the pity; his mother had often called him Timmy; Dooley called him Dad; one and all called him Father; and now he’d collected yet another appellation, one derived, appropriately, from vicarious.
He made the sharp curves neatly, sticking tight to the shoulder. Some people in these parts enjoyed driving in the middle of the road, a risky affinity explained to him at the Farmer post office. “We pay taxes on both sides,” said Merle Hoff, whose property bordered Meadowgate to the north.
First thing to be done was call a locksmith, he’d take care of that when he got back to the farm. And who would he call to sweep out the place and patch the roof and mend the chimney and replace any rotten floorboards, and generally make things right? He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.
Stuart said his coadjutor had planned to come and look over the situation at Holy Trinity, but circumstances had intervened, and they knew almost nothing of the details. In truth, the consecration of the cathedral, Stuart’s retirement ceremony, and the consecration of the new bishop were all scheduled to happen in a single day, a fact that had every soul at diocesan headquarters upside down and backward, not to mention beside themselves and altogether witless.
Stuart had thus turned the entire Holy Trinity caboodle over to him. It was to be Tim Kavanagh’s baby, lock, stock, and barrel; in other words, check it out, go to work, and get it done. According to Stuart, someone who’d anonymously given a cool million to help build the new cathedral also had a special interest in seeing Holy Trinity revived, and had pitched in an extra twenty-five thousand toward that end.
Further, Holy Trinity was to withhold all offerings from the diocesan assessment, to help fund physical improvements and local outreach programs.
“You’re absolutely the one for the job,” Stuart told him. “The fact that you currently live within shouting distance of the church had nothing to do with my decision—though it makes things convenient for my new vicar, I should think!
“You know my unbounded esteem for you, Timothy. I have no intention of prattling on about it and giving you the big head, except to say you’re among the single finest pastors—please read my meaning here—that I’ve had the privilege to serve with.”
“You’re more than gracious,” he’d replied. “But I must tell you I’ve promised to take Cynthia to Ireland next year for two or three months. I’ve been a bump on a log far too long and I must keep my promise.”
“Can you give our arrangement one year?”
“Just that, I’m afraid.”
“To quote you, Timothy, ‘Consider it done.’ You get Holy Trinity up and running, and we’ll send in a curate for the long haul.”
He didn’t ask what, exactly, made his bishop feel so all-fired, patently envious.
He estimated he’d climbed several hundred feet along the winding track, which was in fairly rough condition. Some of the ruts were as deep as watering troughs.
Always a trick to keep a steep dirt roadway from washing ...
It was still a winter landscape, though the minutest of leaf buds were visible. Glancing left into the barren woods, he occasionally caught a glimpse of mountains, a sight that never failed to compel his spirit. On the right, endless upland meadows with vast outcroppings of stone ...
The road leveled off for a mile or two, then ended abruptly at a bold stream. He was relieved to see that the track continued on the other side. “A ford!” he explained to Barnabas. He hadn’t seen a ford in years.
He drove the truck carefully through the high waters created by snowmelt from the mountaintop and checked his watch. If the directions from Willie Mullis were right, he should be close. As he left the stream behind, the trees began to form an arch above the lane; light filtered through interlocking branches and danced on the hood of the truck.
At an ancient white oak, the road curved sharply and he saw it—a white, shingled building with a bell tower, resting on a stone foundation and facing west.
But this wasn’t what he’d expected, not at all.
Though the church sat with its back to visitors, it was obvious that the building and grounds were tended, even tidy. Nothing about it spoke of decline or disrepair.
His eyes searched the green tin roof and the tall window at the rear. Both appeared to be in decent order.
Was it indeed Holy Trinity? The weathered, hand-painted sign in what he construed to
have been the parking lot confirmed that it was.
He turned off the ignition and reached over and opened the truck door for Barnabas, then jumped down himself. He felt at once the sharp sting of fresh mountain air in his lungs.
From where he stood, he could see sunlight warming the mountaintops, but the larger view was obscured by a low stone wall that ran in front of the church.
“Come on, buddy!”
He trotted alongside the church with a surge of excitement, as if he’d never before seen a rising sun illumine the hills beneath.
Good Lord!
Beyond the wall, it appeared that the whole of Creation opened itself to him. An ocean of the world’s oldest mountains rolled away on their journey to the west, green upon green, and in the great distance, blue upon blue. Small lakes of mist collected in the hollows; a poker-red sun cast its light upon the ridges and hog-backs as it ascended above the trees behind him.
He crossed himself, exultant.
He might have been standing at the top of the world, with every fret and horror far beneath him; indeed, he might have been standing on hallowed ground ...
But of course, he was standing on hallowed ground.
He turned and faced the church. Through open double doors and a shallow narthex, light gleamed in upon the pews.
“Barnabas! Is this a dream?”
He hurried up the three stone steps and entered the narthex.
The smell was incense to him, redolent of old wood and evergreen, of mist and stone and leaf mold, of the whole amphitheater of nature in which Holy Trinity had been set over a century ago.
He moved into the nave and bowed deeply toward the wooden cross above the altar, to the source of joy that had come upon him so unexpectedly.
And he’d expected the worst!
In truth, the pine floor was swept; no cobwebs draped themselves from the rafters; even the windows looked respectably clean.