“As my dad would say, those on their way into the Church, and those on their way out.”
“That, too, I’m afraid.”
“Sounds pretty normal to me.”
“Sounds like an incredible challenge to me, to build a united ward with all that diversity. I don’t think I can do it.”
“To quote a famous general authority, ‘You’re right, you can’t. But you and the Lord can.’”
“Who said that?”
“I imagine it’s been said by more than one. But the one I know about was Elder Mark E. Petersen, when Dad was called to be stake president the first time, in California. I was just a little kid then, but I’ve heard him tell about it.”
“Are you telling me your dad didn’t think he could handle being stake president?”
She gave him a sideways look. “What—you think he was born with full-blown confidence and testimony and know-how?”
“Um—well, he does sort of project that image.”
She laughed. “Trust me, he earned it. He paid his dues.”
“Reckon he’ll be real surprised to hear about our news—he and your mom, both.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe not as surprised as you think. I’ll call them soon as they’re back from Mexico.”
They had completed their usual route and were heading back down their block, stepping carefully on the buckled sections of sidewalk that resulted from the unremitting growth of the oak trees that stood like sentinels before the big old homes they guarded. The bishop’s grandfather had built their house, having abandoned the farming life to his brothers, preferring instead to move to town and help distribute their produce in his market—the forerunner of the bishop’s own present business. The grandfather’s expressed desire had been to live in a substantial home on a tree-lined street, and two generations later, his descendants were still grateful for that preference. The house was sturdy and welcoming—a two-story brick with generous-sized rooms and a wide verandah across the front. The present occupants had been able to modernize the kitchen and add a family room just behind it, on the back of the house, and still retain a good-sized backyard for Trish’s gardening adventures and the children’s activities. The front yard was smaller, and this year she had dug up most of the lawn and planted a garden of English wild flowers behind the Victorian wrought-iron fence. The bishop had cringed when she did that, but he had to admit the effect had its charm. He didn’t miss mowing that bit of lawn, either. It gave him pleasure to see his family home looking attractive and to know that Trish enjoyed caring for it and experimenting with its decor and landscaping.
Their neighbor on the west, Mrs. Hestelle Pierce, was out enjoying the evening in her yard, as well. Trish turned to her husband and mouthed the words, “Now, be good,” as they approached. It was exactly the same wide-eyed, significant warning she often gave the children, when she anticipated some naughtiness. He smiled.
“Evenin’, Miz Hestelle,” he called out as they drew abreast of her.
“Well, good evenin’, neighbors,” she replied, smoothing back a wisp of gray hair. “How you folks doin’?”
“Well enough,” the bishop replied, fanning himself with one hand. “Awfully warm, though, for April, don’t you think?”
“Oh, idn’ it hot? I declare, I suffer so from the heat I can’t hardly stand to be outdoors.”
She plucked at the front of her blouse to cool her neck.
“You better go get you a nice tall lemonade, with ice,” the bishop offered.
“Iced tea with lemon, that’s the thing. It’s good to cool a body. I b’lieve I will.”
Hestelle made her way up her front porch and into her home, and Trish pulled her husband unceremoniously toward theirs.
“You are so bad,” she told him with mock sternness.
He showed her a face of injured innocence. “What?”
“Hot evening, indeed. It’s perfectly pleasant, and you know it, Jim Shepherd. Cool for April, if anything.”
“Well, weather’s almost always a matter of opinion, don’t you think? Miz Hestelle and I think it’s warm.”
They headed for the kitchen. “You just enjoy the power you have over that poor old lady’s mind. You’re naughty!”
“Why is Daddy naughty?” asked Mallory, strolling in with an armful of struggling Siamese kitten.
“Because he teases nice old Mrs. Pierce.”
“Aw, Trish—she doesn’t even know she’s being teased!”
“That’s what makes it naughty.”
The kitten escaped and leaped for the counter and the top of the refrigerator, where she settled, safe from Mallory’s over-affectionate grasp.
“Daddy’s naughty, Daddy’s naughty,” Mallory sang.
The bishop hugged his wife’s shoulders. “You reckon even a naughty old daddy could get a bowl of that pineapple tapioca?”
“Only if he promises to repent, and be nice.”
“He’ll promise just about anything.”
“Ah, yes,” said Trish with an exaggerated sigh. “That’s a man for you. Even if he is a bishop.”
* * *
He woke in the early dawn, with echoes of a voice resounding in his mind and heart.
“Fear not, James. You were called of Me. I needed a shepherd.”
He lay perfectly still. The voice was peaceful but with a quality that burned its message forever in his consciousness. He recognized it; he had heard it a few times before. He never forgot information that came to him from that source.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered, “thou hast a shepherd in name, and I promise thee, I’ll do my best to become one in deed.”
Chapter Two
* * *
“ . . . glorious things of thee are spoken”
It didn’t take long for Sister Helen Morley, the stake public affairs representative, to get an article in the Fairhaven Lookout’s religion page about the new ward and bishopric. The bishop didn’t even have to read it to know exactly when it appeared.
“Hey, congratulations, Reverend Jim,” called Arthur Hackney, the produce manager at Shepherd’s Quality Food Mart. “I read where you’re the new preacher, or whatever, at your church.”
“Oh, it’s not quite that, Art. It’s a temporary calling, for a few years. I just sort of run things, with the help of several other people. Actually, with the help of practically everybody in the congregation. We’re a lay church, you know what I mean? Everybody does his part.”
“That right? Well, whatever—I know you’ll do a great job. You do, ’round here. ’Course, you don’t have to preach to us, and save our souls.” He chuckled.
The bishop laughed with him. “Preach to this bunch? I’m afraid that’d be beyond me.”
“Well, I gotta say you set a dern good example, and I’m told that’s even better’n a sermon.”
The bishop thanked him, but immediately several scenarios flickered across the little movie screen he felt sure was installed somewhere in his brain. There was the time he had come to work on a Monday morning and found that the frozen food display that housed the fish sticks, popcorn shrimp, and Carolina crab cakes had been left unplugged, for who knew how long. A vile-smelling puddle had formed and snaked its way across the aisle and under the ice cream cabinet, requiring that both heavy containers be emptied and moved for the cleanup, and a good deal of stock had been lost. His language on that occasion, if memory served him, had been somewhat less than exemplary.
He also remembered thoroughly losing his temper with Mitzi Blaine, one of his checkers, when she kept calling in sick at the last minute every Friday afternoon—which just happened to be when her boyfriend got home from college for the weekend. He and Trish, had run into them on two of those Fridays—once in the movie theater and once over in New Hope at a little grill that served the best fried mullet and hushpuppies around. When he had confronted Mitzi about her bogus Friday illnesses, she had flown into a temper and accused him of sneaking around and following her. In actuality he had stayed
late at work himself on two other Fridays to cover for her, so no one else would have to. But he wasn’t exactly proud of the tongue-lashing he had administered. She, of course, had quit before he could fire her (which he really hadn’t intended doing), her voice quavering with tearful indignation as she leveled him with, “And I thought you were a nice man!”
Trish had shaken her head, then consoled him by saying that it was a good wake-up call about methods of dealing with the impulses of young women—one that might stand him in good stead someday if his own daughter should show signs of rebellion. The image this possibility produced on his inner screen made him cringe. Daughters didn’t tender their resignation to the family, if caught out in some flagrant bit of mis behavior, did they? Yet he knew they sometimes did.
* * *
“James Shepherd!” The imperious voice was unmistakable. It belonged to Mrs. Martha Ruckman, his fifth grade teacher. “James Shepherd, I need a word with you, if you can spare a moment!”
He turned from what he was doing with alacrity. “Yes, ma’am, Miz Ruckman. I always have a moment for you. How can I help you?”
The head of this small, fierce black woman didn’t even reach his shoulder, but she commanded his attention—and that of half of his customers—as she peered into his face as if she suspected him of cheating on his spelling test.
“I want you to tell me,” she said in measured tones, “exactly why I should allow my granddaughter to attend your church, instead of coming with me to Balm of Gilead to hear the sermons of Dr. Philemon Burshaw, a learned man and a mighty preacher of the word of God. His sermons are well thought out, articulate, and powerfully comforting to the soul! Now, why should Tashia not have the benefit of hearing him? What do you offer that’s better, and how is it that you suddenly set yourself up as a preacher, when you and I both know you’re a grocer and the son of a grocer, and never even been to divinity school?”
He wiped away the moisture on his forehead with the handkerchief Trish always insisted he carry. “Tashia’s your granddaughter?”
“That’s right. Tashia Jones.”
“She’s a wonderful little girl.”
“She is, and I intend for her to stay wonderful. Now, answer my question, James. I am serious about this.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can tell you are—and you should be. And goodness knows, if it came down to a contest between my preaching and Dr. Burshaw’s, I’d have to say take her to hear him, every Sunday. I don’t even speak to my congregation very often. We all take turns doing that. But there’s more to it than who’s delivering a message.” He looked at the floor for a moment, searching his mind and heart, then back at his inquisitor. “Why does Tashia say she comes to our church?”
“She says she likes the feeling there. Says it’s warm, and feels like home. Says nobody yells Jesus’ name, but instead say it soft and reverent, and it feels right to her. Things like that.”
The bishop nodded. “Well, I believe the good feeling that Tashia’s responding to comes from the presence of the Holy Ghost, Miz Ruckman. Or maybe you’d call it the Holy Spirit. Same thing. We believe he testifies to us in our hearts, comforts and instructs us, helps us feel the love the Savior has for us.”
“Now you’re talking like a Christian, but some of my friends tell me your church isn’t Christian. That’s another thing you’d best tell me the truth about, right up front.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will. The name of our church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and like Paul said, we preach Christ, and him crucified. We also preach him resurrected and living and able to bless and help us, today—we preach him the same yesterday, today, and forever. Does that sound Christian to you?”
Mrs. Ruckman favored him with a smile in which he saw the antecedent of Tashia’s, but then she grew serious again.
“Then what about that Joseph Smith, and Brigham Young—and a whole string of other men Tashia talks about? Why are they important?”
“We believe those men are prophets, like Moses and Elijah—men chosen by God to be his mouthpiece on earth to the people in our day, as the earlier prophets were in theirs. We honor and respect them, but we don’t worship them, any more than we worship Noah or Peter.”
“And so it was Joseph Smith that wrote that book Tashia brought home—the Book of Mormon?”
“Well, no ma’am, not exactly. Y’see, it was actually written by ancient men of God, and Joseph Smith was allowed to translate it into English, with God’s help. What it amounts to, is another witness for Christ—the Bible, of course, being the first witness.”
She considered his words for a long moment. “Well, I don’t know if you’re inspired or deceived, but you always were an honest boy, James. Honest and polite. I suppose, for now, I’ll let Tashia keep worshipping with you.”
“Thank you, Miz Ruckman, and why don’t you come with her, sometime? We’d be honored to have you.”
There was that smile again—hard to win but definitely worth it. “Personally, I quite enjoy the challenge of Dr. Burshaw’s sermons,” she said, with a lift of her head. “But you never know when I might come visiting. I thank you for your time, James. Good day, now.”
She marched out of his store, straight-backed as a twenty-year-old, without buying anything or looking right or left. The bishop headed for the restroom and then took a can of soda pop to his office, where he stretched out on the old sofa he kept there. He sorely needed a break. In fifth grade, it had been called recess.
* * *
Those first couple of weeks, he and his counselors spent a good deal of time in deliberation and prayer, presenting to the Lord the names of those they felt might best fill the various callings needed to staff the ward and keep things running smoothly. But he had also tried to reserve some time for appointments with members who requested a visit with him.
He found an executive secretary in Brother Dan McMillan, who was a retired military supply officer and a very organized person. Brother Joseph Perkins became the ward clerk, a position he knew well and had held previously in the Second Ward. He also understood computers, with which neither the bishop nor either of his counselors had a great deal of experience. The bishop had Mary Lynn Connors to deal with the system at the store, and Trish, Tiffani, and Jamie at home, all perfectly comfortable with the one there. It was an area of expertise the bishop hoped to postpone delving into until retirement, when presumably there would be hours to fill. From the way Mary Lynn fussed at the store’s computer, he wasn’t sure he needed that kind of frustration in his life right now. He was especially grateful to have Brother Perkins on board.
A woman he didn’t know, a former Second Warder, presented herself at his office on a Tuesday evening and introduced herself as Sister LaThea Winslow. He shook her hand and invited her to sit down across from him in one of the two church-issued chairs that faced his desk. She was a tall, rather severely elegant woman. He guessed her age to be somewhere in the late forties or early fifties.
“I’m real happy to have a chance to get acquainted with you, Sister Winslow,” he said. “There’s a good number of folks I don’t know yet. What can I do for you this evening?”
“Bishop, I’m just here to offer my services to you in the ward and to let you know that I have some experience and background that will be useful to you.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. Could you tell me a little about your background?”
“I’d be glad to. You won’t be aware, I suppose, that I’m a sixth-generation Latter-day Saint, and a descendant of several pioneer families who crossed the plains.”
“Is that right!” He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the desk. “We don’t have too many folks around here whose families have been in the Church that long.”
“No, I suppose not. A few, I guess, may have moved in through the military, or what-have-you, as we did. My husband likes the climate, so we stayed here when he retired last year.”
“I see. I s’pose you must’ve lived a number of different
places then.”
“Oh, yes—California, Arizona, Germany, Florida, here in Alabama—and Utah, of course.”
“And I expect you’ve served in a lot of different Church callings.”
“Here and there. Of course, it was somewhat difficult, while we were raising our family, and moving around so much. But now the children are grown, and we’re settled, and I can take a more active part.”
“Well, excellent. I’m sure we can find just the right calling for you. Let’s see—do you happen to play the piano or organ?”
“I—well, yes—piano, that is. But I had something larger in mind, to be frank.”
“Larger?” The bishop studied her face, trying to understand just what she was saying.
“Not to brag, but I do have some leadership capabilities, Bishop. I know how to conduct meetings, and I’ve had quite a lot of experience in entertaining groups. I’m well versed in the art of conversation and the rules of etiquette, and I’m told I’m an excellent cook.”
“I see! That’s terrific. Those are surely useful skills. Have you ever served in Relief Society?”
She smiled. “Bishop, may I just say that my mother and my two grandmothers served as Relief Society presidents in Salt Lake City, for a total of twenty-eight years between them? You might say Relief Society’s in my blood!”
Light began to dawn. “Now, that’s truly remarkable,” he said. “And what experience have you had in Relief Society?”
“Oh—well, as I said, it was difficult in our position in the military to have much time to work in the Church. We’d no sooner get acquainted and begin to serve in callings, than Harville would be transferred. But I’ve been—let’s see—a visiting teacher, and I’ve occasionally taught cooking classes—German cuisine, Southwestern specialties, and so forth.”
“Sounds delicious. Well, you know, with your family background in Relief Society, it’d be nice to carry on that great tradition of service, wouldn’t it?”
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 2