© 1830 Sharon Downing Jarvis.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jarvis, Sharon Downing, 1940-
A fresh start in Fairhaven / Sharon Downing Jarvis.
p. cm. — (The Fairhaven chronicles)
ISBN-10 1-57008-937-X (pbk.)
ISBN-13 978-1-57008-937-4 (pbk.)
1. Mormons—Fiction. 2. Bishops—Fiction. 3. Southern States—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3560.A64 F74 2003
813'.54—dc21 2002153747
Printed in the United States of America
R. R. Donnelly and Sons, Harrisonburg, VA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Special thanks to Emily Watts, Richard Peterson, and Dr. Bonnie Lyon
For my husband, Wayne, in appreciation for his love, advice, and encouragement—and in honor of all good bishops, everywhere
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
* * *
“ . . . thy sheep to bless, thy lambs to feed”
It wasn’t much of a hill, but weighed down as he was with the concerns of the day, James Shepherd, newly called but not-yet-sustained bishop of the Fairhaven Alabama Ward, felt he might as well have been carrying a week’s supply of food and camping gear up Cheaha Mountain. He dropped to the grass, knowing and not caring that the heavy dew would soak the seat of his jeans, crossed his arms on his bent knees, and bowed his head against them. It was a relief to be alone for a little while; privacy was a rare commodity these days, and he suspected it was about to become even more rare and valuable.
Eyes closed, he found himself listening to the sounds of the April morning coming awake around him—grasses being lifted by a light breeze, songbirds and the squawk of a jay from a wooded area behind him, and from over the hill, the impatient voices of his cousin’s milk cows lowing for relief. The ground he sat on had been his grandfather’s and now belonged to his aunt’s two sons, Rodney and Spurling Deal, though the farm still bore the name of Shepherd’s Pass, in honor of his great-great-grandfather, Micajah Shepherd, who had purchased and farmed it in the mid-1800s. Shepherd’s Pass had always been a favorite retreat for this descendant, who, though he legally owned no part in it, still held title in his heart to its peace and solitude and green sweep of meadow in the foothills of the lower Appalachians as they stretched down from Tennessee and Georgia.
Bishop-to-be Jim Shepherd raised his eyes to the sky, pale green now in the early dawn, with a faint pink cast to a lone shred of cloud showing toward the north. The vista, the peace, and the freshness of the air relaxed him to the point that he wished he could stretch out and nap for an hour. There had been little enough sleep the last few nights.
“This probably isn’t an important question, or even a needful one to have answered, Father,” he prayed softly, “but why me? It’s not that I mean to doubt President Walker’s inspiration. He’s a faithful man—always seems to be in tune with the Spirit. And I do confess I’ve had inklings lately that there was some change coming in my life, something I should prepare for, though being called as bishop never entered my mind. I’d have thought of Brother Warshaw for that—he has such a good knowledge of the scriptures—or Brother Tetton. With that degree in social psychology, seems like he’d have a good understanding of people and their needs and their motivations. But, Lord, I’m just a grocer! Thou knowest I’m willing, and I promise thee I’ll do my best, but am I bishop material? I feel so inadequate, Heavenly Father!” He rubbed his forehead, which throbbed with the dull ache of sleeplessness.
“It’s not that I mean to counsel thee,” he added. “I’m just trying to understand what I have to offer. But I’ll trust thee—and President Walker—until it’s wisdom in thee for me to know more. Please, please help me, Father, to learn my duties quickly and to be responsive to the needs of the people. I know I’ll need thee to be with me every minute, every hour. Please bless the ward members to accept me, and bless my wife and children to be strong and sustained through this because I realize this calling affects them deeply, too. I thank thee for the trust that has been placed in me. Now, please help me to get to my first meeting on time!”
He closed his prayer and stood up, blowing his nose and stuffing the handkerchief back into the pocket of his damp jeans as he headed toward his truck.
* * *
“Jim, where’ve you been?” Trish Shepherd asked sleepily, leaning up on one elbow in their rumpled bed. “I got up an hour ago, and you were gone.”
Her husband shucked off his jeans and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. “Oh, just felt like I needed to go for a little drive, clear my head this morning.”
She reached over and rubbed his back. “You’re worried, aren’t you, hon?”
He drew a deep breath. “Why me, Trish? Why would the Lord want me?”
“Why not you? You’re a faithful priesthood holder, a good family man. You know a lot of people, and everybody seems to like you. So why not you?”
He rubbed a hand over the graying blond stubble of his close-cropped hair. “Because I don’t feel prepared. I mean, why not Brother Tetton, or Brother Warshaw, or even Dan McMillan? Somebody with some credentials, or experience, or whatever? I’ve never even served in a bishopric.”
Trish smiled lazily. “I don’t think the Lord requires references with his job applications, or credentials, or letters after your name. Maybe not even experience.”
He grinned wryly. “Yeah, but I didn’t even apply!”
“I don’t know about that—you might have.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe in the premortal life, you agreed to this calling.”
He stopped unbuttoning his shirt and looked at her. “Hadn’t thought of that. You really think so?”
She shrugged, her cheeks still rosy from sleep. “Well, I don’t know, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised. So maybe you’re more prepared than you think you are.”
He shook his head. “I surely hope so. How about you? Are you all geared up and excited to be the bishop’s wife?”
Her nose wrinkled, and she gave a little flip of her head to clear a dark strand of hair from her eyes. He thought she looked about sixteen. Way too young to be the bishop’s wife.
“I don’t think excited is exactly the right word, though it’s probably part of it. I’m also pleased, and honored, and scared, and kind of dreading not having you around as much as I’d like. But mostly just determined to be as supportive as I can.”
“Well, yo
u heard what President Walker said—they don’t even consider a man to be bishop unless his wife is willing and able to support him, spiritually and emotionally. I sure couldn’t do this without you, Trish—that’s a given.”
“I’m here for you, honey. But I suspect neither one of us really knows what all we’re getting into.”
He nodded ruefully. “And I suspect you’re exactly right on that one.”
* * *
Standing in the congregation, facing President Walker at the pulpit, the new bishop remembered to raise his hand to sustain himself. His heart was pounding, and a trickle of sweat found its way down the small of his back. His two counselors, standing in other parts of the chapel, probably felt the same way, he comforted himself. At least they were in this together. It had been no problem selecting them. Their names had presented themselves to him as soon as he had begun to pray about the choice, with an unmistakable rightness that he had seldom felt about any decision, and that, in itself, was as reassuring as anything else about this experience so far.
He saw the sea of hands go up, was briefly aware of Trish and the three kids seated next to him, solemnly raising their hands to sustain him. Nine-year-old James Jr. elbowed four-year-old Mallory to remind her, and Mallory’s little pipe stem arm went up into the air. Her daddy allowed himself a quick wink at her. There were no opposing hands raised, and he hoped that fact reflected honestly the ward’s acceptance of him as their bishop.
He imagined his parents being there in the congregation. He knew his mother would be, if her health had permitted, but she was not well, having suffered the effects of a stroke and now undergoing a slow recuperation process at his older sister’s home in Anniston. His father, who had never joined the Church, and who had passed away six years before, would have been there, too, he was sure, not knowing all the calling entailed but supporting his son in these new responsibilities, looking up at him with pride and confidence. Was it possible that he knew? Was it in any way possible that his dad was there?
“Now, brothers and sisters, change is never easy,” President Walker remarked, after the new bishopric had taken their seats behind him. “And the changes we’re making today go a little deeper than a simple change of bishopric. As you’re well aware, we’ve made the difficult decision to combine the Fairhaven First and Second wards, because of the loss of so many fine members with the closing of Theodore Ruckman Field and the relocation of ChemSoft Industries. For twelve years, Fairhaven has supported two more or less fully staffed wards, but sadly, our numbers have dwindled, and we feel, with the approval of the Brethren in Salt Lake City, that it’s in everyone’s best interest to unite the two wards for the foreseeable future and to call an entirely new bishopric to serve you, rather than try to combine the two existing organizations.
“Bishop James Shepherd comes to you from the former Fairhaven First Ward, as does his second counselor, Brother Sam Wright. First counselor Robert Patrenko and ward clerk Joseph Perkins hail from what has been the Second Ward. Brothers and sisters, I testify to you that these men have been called of God to these positions. There is no doubt in my mind on that matter. The Lord has made it plain to me. They’re going to have a lot of reorganizing to do, and I trust you’ll put aside all former boundaries and regard yourselves as one body, one ward, as though there had never been a division.”
He smiled. “You know, this is a bit like a marriage.” He went on, “Maybe a second marriage, with children on both sides. Two separate entities unite, renouncing all former loyalties, except that which we owe to the Lord, and form a new family. And if you’ll think about it, a ward is very much like an extended family, isn’t it? We’ve got the parents and grandparents and the original children—those who have been in the area from way back. Then we’ve got some adopted children, who have joined the Church just recently, and some in-laws who have married into the family and taken up residence. And there will be more coming—those who will be converted or born or move in to join us in the days to come. But all are equal members of the family.”
Bishop Shepherd continued to listen to the warm, familiar voice of his leader with half his attention, even as the other half ranged across the chapel, pausing briefly at one face and then another. He was acquainted with more than half of the members, either from church or the store or other associations, but it startled him to realize how little he actually knew of their personal lives and circumstances. That would have to change. As their bishop, he would have to know and be known. Cheery, casual greetings would no longer be enough.
His eyes rested on Richard Tetton, one of the men he would have expected to be called to this position. Yet he hadn’t even felt impressed to call him, or Brother Levi Warshaw, for that matter, to be his counselors. A curious thing. He moved on to Sister Linda DeNeuve, a cheerful, patient young mother who had served well as Relief Society president in the First Ward. How would she feel if she were released at this time? Relieved? Or bereft, as if she had been let go for incompetence? And who was the Relief Society president of the Second Ward? He realized he didn’t even know.
He noticed Tashia Jones on the right side of the chapel, five or six rows back. As usual, she was sitting by herself. An eleven-year-old black girl, she came to church regularly and promptly, her shining eyes and terrific smile testifying to her delight in being there, even though she came alone and as yet was not baptized. She was friendly and bright, but had a natural reticence that wouldn’t allow her to gravitate toward any individual or family unless she was specifically invited to sit with them. He wondered what he might do to gather her in, and to facilitate her baptism.
He smiled to himself. He was already thinking like a bishop.
* * *
“That was a beautiful blessing President Walker gave you, in your setting apart,” Trish observed. The two of them were taking their traditional Sunday evening walk around their neighborhood, hand in hand. Sometimes the children came along; today they seemed to know that their parents needed a quiet time together, and each was occupied with pursuits of his or her own in the family room—reading, coloring, putting together jigsaw puzzles.
The bishop sighed. “Was, wasn’t it? I wish we could have recorded it because I know I’m going to need to draw on all those promises for reassurance—probably on a regular basis.”
“Even Tiff said it was awesome.”
“Did she?” He chuckled. “I’m glad she was there. Of all the kids, she’s old enough to know what’s going on, and remember.”
Tiffani, their eldest, at fifteen, had been uncharacteristically quiet about the advent of her dad’s new position.
“I think she’s just sort of digesting the whole thing,” Trish said. “Probably trying to get a handle on exactly how it’s going to affect her life—especially her social life.”
“D’you think it will affect her social life?”
“I imagine so. Some, anyway. Maybe when she starts dating, the boys will be a little more careful how they treat the bishop’s daughter.”
He grinned down at her. “Can’t be all bad, then.”
“Right. Unless she decides to head in the other direction, just to show she’s no goody-goody, and no different from anybody else.”
“Whoa! Mercy, mercy . . . you sure do know how to put fear in a daddy’s heart.”
She squeezed his hand. “I saw a book in the library once. It was called The Truth about Preachers’ Sons and Deacons’ Daughters. Now I kind of wish I’d read it.”
“But in our church, everybody has a calling or two. I don’t really see why it should be any harder to be the bishop’s kid than the Gospel Doctrine teacher’s kid or the Primary chorister’s kid.”
“Trust me, it is. If your dad’s the bishop or the stake president, you feel this great obligation to be good all the time, and set an example—and yet, you still just want to be one of the guys—or gals.”
“That’s right, you’ve been there, haven’t you? You were how old—seventeen or eighteen—when your dad was stake
president in Arizona?”
“It was my senior year—I was just turning seventeen when he was called. I felt the weight of it to some degree, but I’d already made it through some of my teenage wim-wams, and before long, I was off to BYU. I think it’ll be tougher for Tiff. She’s younger, and not very sure of herself.”
“We’ll have to do what we can to ease the way. I guess it’ll mostly be up to you, hon, but please advise me how I can help, okay?”
“Sure.”
They strolled in companionable silence along the familiar, tree-lined streets. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the evening chorus of crickets, tree frogs, and mockingbirds had begun. It was the bishop’s favorite time of day, with lights just coming on behind the windows of the various homes they passed, families gathering for supper, children reluctantly going indoors for baths, homework-checks, and bedtime. At least, he hoped those were the scenarios for most of the households in Fairhaven. He especially hoped such peaceful pursuits were the norm for the one hundred thirty-four families that comprised the newly reorganized Fairhaven Ward of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“You reckon there’s ever been a more—uh—diversified ward than ours?” he asked.
Trish smiled. “Maybe. In some inner city wards in New York or Philadelphia, or some European cities. But I think we’re right up there.”
“Think about it. We’ve got black folks, white folks, Native Americans, Filipinos, Tongans, and Europeans. We’ve got college professors, miners, farmers, computer programmers, an attorney, a librarian, auto mechanics, teachers, retired military, and the unemployed.”
“Even a grocer.”
“Even a grocer,” he agreed. “We’ve got country folk and city folk, new converts and descendants of the Mormon pioneers. Gospel scholars and the totally clueless. Willing to serve and willing only to be served.”
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 1