Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

“I think my parishioners have moved beyond betting on my love life. They’ve resorted to prayer.” The moment I say those words, I want to take them back. The one thing I like about David is that I never get any pity from him. Only good-natured ribbing, and lots of it.

  He twirls me around and then smoothly guides me across the floor. “I wouldn’t worry until they start organizing twenty-four-hour prayer vigils.”

  I laugh. I always do when I’m around David. I laugh a lot in general, too. I think it’s one of the better aspects of my personality, although I haven’t had much opportunity for laughter in the past few years. No one thinks you have a sense of humor if you’re a preacher. They refuse to tell you the risqué jokes. Conversation grinds to a halt at your approach. This line of thinking is too depressing to pursue while dancing with David, so I change the subject.

  “What’s new at St. Helga’s?” It’s been a tough year for the parishioners since a tornado ripped through the sanctuary. They’ve been worshiping in their activity center for months while the debris is being cleared away. Currently, David is refereeing the design of the new “worship center”—apparently sanctuaries are passé.

  He grimaces. “The vestry has formed a subcommittee to hold listening conferences about rebuilding.”

  “I’m in prayer for you, friend.” We shake our heads over this development. Church committees move at glacial speed. Listening conferences (also known as gripe sessions) progress at the speed of geological epochs. At this rate David will be preaching from underneath a basketball goal for the next twenty years.

  He shrugs. “This too shall pass.”

  I admire his stoicism. He twirls me around at the far end of the dance floor. “So, what are you up to after this?”

  I sigh. “Quality time with my remote control. A pizza with everything if I’m feeling truly dangerous.”

  “How about a movie?”

  I’m immediately on my guard. Action flicks are David’s secret vice, his guilty pleasure. “Not if it involves Schwarzenegger, Vin Diesel, or Will Smith.”

  “What do you suggest? Romantic comedy?”

  “How about Pride and Prejudice meets The Matrix?”

  Laughing with David is my guilty pleasure. And one I sorely need tonight.

  “Okay,” I concede. “I’ll go watch a couple of testosterone-challenged men blow things up—if you’re paying.”

  “Deal.” He grins, and I’m reminded that he is, in fact, a nice-looking guy. I could do worse on a Saturday night.

  But shouldn’t I be doing better than a movie with an old friend? What if it’s not the clerical robe? What if it’s me?

  I lower my eyebrows and shoot him a meaningful look. “Let’s be clear about one thing. If you want popcorn, order your own. No mooching off me.”

  David spins me around and dips me until I’m so off balance I expect to feel my head make contact with the parquet. He snaps me back up, and I’m pressed against his chest. He grins down at me—half boy, half man. “Would I do that?”

  “Hah!” I push him away. “Of course you would. And I have the scars to prove it.”

  “Reverend Blessing, you’re a harsh woman.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t you forget it.”

  His expression suddenly sobers. “Believe me, I won’t.”

  Ouch. Where did that come from?

  “David?”

  But in the blink of an eye, he’s his usual self. He playfully punches me on the arm. “Gotcha.”

  “Mooch.”

  “Shrew.”

  “Shall we?”

  “But of course.”

  He offers me his arm, and we make our way off the dance floor. A quick good-bye to the bride and groom, and we’re tumbling out of the hotel into the cold February night. Two preachers trying to pass for normal people.

  I know what you’re thinking. What about David? Isn’t he perfect for her?

  Well, I’ll tell you up-front: There’s no way I’d marry another minister. I had several clergy-couple friends from divinity school, and without exception, they were all divorced within five years. It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other. But that’s what total immersion in church will do to a relationship. You have to have something outside the four walls of the sanctuary. So, while David makes a perfect movie buddy on the odd Saturday night, he’s not husband material. Really.

  Besides, because of David I’m trapped in Auditorium 11 of the Green Hills Cinema 16 watching a musclebound macho man blow up bad guys of indeterminate ethnic origin. It’s unclear exactly who these creeps are supposed to be—Colombian drug lords? Arab terrorists? Indonesian revolutionaries? Their deliberately vague identity means the movie studio can market it all over the world without offending anyone.

  David’s hand sneaks toward me in the darkness, but I know what he’s up to. “Stop it,” I hiss and slap his fingers away. I move my popcorn as far to my left as I can, and he sulks. Don’t feel sorry for him. You heard me tell him to get his own.

  “Come on,” he wheedles. He’s slouched down in the seat, making puppy-dog eyes at me in an attempt to divest me of my popcorn. He should know by now that this cheap ploy will not work. At least not for another fifteen minutes.

  “No.” I scoop up a big handful of popcorn and stuff it in my mouth, chewing with gusto to show him how delicious the stuff is. Actually, it’s stale and has the bitter, metallic taste of popcorn that’s been in the warming thingie too long.

  “You’ve had that stuff for an hour. Come on, share.”

  “Nope.”

  The woman in front of us turns around and shoots us a disapproving glare. I, too, sink down in my seat.

  “Troublemaker.”

  “Scrooge.”

  Before I met David, I underestimated the value of being comfortable enough with someone to insult him on a regular basis. Now I find it comes naturally. Especially when he’s once again sneaking his hand across my lap to get to my popcorn.

  Except that this time David’s hand rests on my thigh for a moment. A sharp rush of sensation emanates from his palm, jumps through my skin, and races along my spine. A sudden sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.

  Dear lord, I’m embarrassed. More so than when I presided at the communion table with toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Or when I fell down the chancel steps during the recessional on Easter. Those were public humiliations. This one is intensely private—and ten times worse. I’m such a desperate old spinster, I’m getting my jollies from incidental contact with old friends.

  “Here.” I jam the bag of popcorn into his midsection. I don’t care about making my point, don’t care about losing face, don’t even care about the carefully calculated Weight Watchers points I’m sacrificing.

  David looks at me with surprise, enough that I can make it out in the darkened theater.

  “Blessing?”

  “Just take the stupid popcorn.”

  Wasn’t it freezing in the theater just a moment ago? It’s usually like a Frigidaire in here.

  “No.” He tries to put it back in my hands. “It’s yours.”

  I cross my arms and shove my clenched fists under my armpits. “I don’t want it.”

  The woman in front of us turns around again. This time she puts a finger to her lips and shushes us as if we’re a couple of school kids. David looks quizzically at me but falls silent.

  For the rest of the movie, we sit facing straight forward. I pretend to be engrossed in the defeat of the indeterminately ethnic villains. And when the closing credits roll, I leap to my feet and make a fuss of gathering up my purse and empty soda cup.

  “Okay, Blessing. What’s up?”

  David just stands there, waiting for an answer, and I know I can’t give him one. What would I say?

  Instead, I play innocent. “You won, so quit gloating. I hate it when you gloat.”

  The best defense is a good offense, right?

  He straightens up to his considerable height. “I’m not gloating. You gave me the popcorn.”

/>   “Nag,” I say.

  “Greed-head,” he shoots back, and we both smile, relieved the awkwardness is gone.

  “You owe me a chick flick.” We move out of the row of seats and make our way down the aisle steps. Movement is good. Conversation is good. Remembering the feel of David’s hand on my leg is bad.

  “Wanna go for ice cream?” We reach the escalator that takes us from the bowels of the theater back up to the main level, and I hop on with alacrity.

  “Nah. I’m preaching tomorrow, remember?”

  David grins. “Ah yes. Dr. Black’s golf injury. How goes the recovery?”

  I smile, even if I shouldn’t. “He’s actually feeling much better, but his wife told him she was leaving him if he didn’t stay in bed. Doctor’s orders.” Mimi Black is the classic preacher’s wife—disarmingly kind, has a lovely singing voice, and is a tiger when it comes to protecting her husband. I wish I could have a wife, but that probably wouldn’t go over well with the congregation, huh?

  “All right,” David concedes, “but next week we get ice cream.”

  His easy assumption that at this same time next Saturday night we’ll be leaving the theater together irritates me, especially since next Saturday is Valentine’s Day. Since I moved back to Nashville, David takes me for granted. It never bothered me before, but tonight is different. Tonight I don’t feel like being a foregone conclusion.

  “Not next week. I’m busy.”

  “Busy, Blessing? What’s up? Hot Valentine’s date?”

  “Yep.” I lie blatantly, instinctively, without the least bit of remorse. Yet.

  “All right!” He raises his hand, and I realize I’m supposed to high-five him. “Go, Betsy!”

  David rarely calls me by my first name. He likes the irony of my last name far too much to deprive himself of the pleasure of using it as often as possible. He says it’s as much fun as addressing Dr. Butcher, the surgeon, or Ms. Swindle, the accountant.

  We reach his car—the same beat-up Volvo he drove in divinity school. “So, who’s the lucky guy?”

  I’m momentarily speechless. Why did I lie? But I know the answer to that question. Because of what I felt when David’s hand touched my leg. Because a girl’s got to have some pride.

  “He’s no one.” I try the dismissive approach, even though I know David will never go for it. Besides, it’s the truth, since my date doesn’t even exist.

  He unlocks the Volvo, and we slide inside. Well, I don’t slide so much as scooch, really, given the rips in the leather of the passenger seat. David turns toward me as he starts the car.

  “Hmm. Must be pretty serious if you won’t spill the details.” In the low light of the parking garage, it’s hard to read his eyes. They’re usually such perfect mirrors of his thoughts, but tonight their message is clouded.

  “I don’t want to jinx it.” I wrap my seat belt around me and try not to look at him.

  “Betz, it’s not one of your parishioners, is it?”

  I can read his eyes now. He’s dead serious.

  “No! No poaching sheep from my own flock.”

  He sighs and leans back in his seat as he puts the car into reverse. “Just checking.”

  What he doesn’t know, though, is that I’ve broken another cardinal rule—the one about mixing friendship with romantic feelings. And I know in this moment, as we pull out of the garage and head for home, I can never let him know how I feel. Because I won’t risk losing his friendship. But mostly because I’m afraid of what I felt in that theater tonight.

  I had a professor in divinity school who taught us that the opposite of faith isn’t doubt; it’s fear. When she said that, my whole world shifted into place like puzzle pieces sorting themselves out and interlocking with neat precision. Don’t get me wrong; I have my doubts. But they’re nothing compared to my fears.

  One by one I’ve tackled a lot of things that scare me. That’s why I can stand up in the pulpit and preach to five hundred people on a Sunday morning. I can even plumb a toilet when the third-grade Sunday-school class decides to see how many paper towels can be stuffed down it before it backs up.

  But some of the deepest fears, well, they’re still down there, lurking, waiting to swallow me. Conflict. Loneliness. Rejection. A twisted Garden of Eden from some evil parallel universe. I’m not sure I have enough faith to face those babies.

  Like a lot of people, I’ve discovered that if I keep very busy, I don’t have as much time to think about those fears. Still, they creep in, and sometimes they jump up and snag me by the throat at unexpected moments.

  Like at coffee fellowship the next morning.

  I’m standing in the middle of the fellowship hall between services, the classic cup of church coffee in hand. It tastes like it was filtered through an old rubber-soled shoe. Mix that with the wax on the paper cup and a packet of Sweet’N Low (the church hostess refuses to order Equal), and you get that bitterly potent mixture that has powered the spiritual life of the mainline Protestant church for the past thirty years.

  Mrs. Tompkins, the gossip queen, makes a beeline for me. Before I can escape, she’s pinned me down.

  “So, you and Dr. Swenson? Are you an item?” She has a crazed gleam in her eye, and I can’t tell if she’d rather I said yes or no. From where she stands, she’s a winner either way. She can spread the news of a budding romance, or she can revel in my inability to attract a man.

  “David and I are just friends.” They say dogs can smell fear; Mrs. Tompkins is nine-tenths canine.

  “Hmm. That’s what celebrities always say in the tabloids, and then they turn around nine months later and have a love child.”

  My fear disappears. It feels good to laugh. “I can assure you, Dr. Swenson and I are in no immediate danger of having a love child.”

  Her look of disappointment is priceless. I store that tidbit away to share with David later. At least, I think I’ll share it with him later, but the way things have gone in the past twenty-four hours, I’m not as sure as I once would have been. Maybe it was the pre-Valentine’s wedding. But I’ve done lots of weddings, and they haven’t hit this close to home. Not in a long while. Maybe it’s the law-school acceptance letter that’s still in my purse. The one I haven’t told David and LaRonda about because I don’t want to see the identical looks of disappointment on their faces when I tell them I’m finally going to be just like my perfect sister and go to law school. At least my dad will be happy. He won’t have to send me money every month to help cover my rent. And at least I won’t have all these pesky parishioners making my life a nightmare. Just rows and rows of leather-bound books to stand between me and the outside world. Surely in the logical, rational world of a law firm, I won’t have to navigate all these treacherous emotional waters.

  Mrs. Tompkins sniffs. “Well, I’m relieved to hear there’s nothing serious between you. It simply wouldn’t do.”

  How do I respond to that pronouncement? My first impulse is to tell her in a precise, yet slightly profane way, that my love life is none of her business. Yet the strange reality of being a minister is that your life does become the business of your congregation. They have a stake in you. If you mess up, it reflects on them. Your errors hurt them. So you go through your days in a sort of behavioral straitjacket that keeps you from traumatizing yourself or anyone else. I’ll be so glad to leave that behind.

  “Have you signed up to work in the community soup kitchen yet?” I decide to turn the tables on her. At the prospect of communing with homeless people, Mrs. Tompkins melts away like snow in July. She’s gone, but her words remain to stoke the embers of my fear. What if I told David how I feel? Would he laugh? withdraw? I couldn’t stand it if he shuffled his feet, ducked his head, and made a beeline for the nearest exit. Like a boy I once asked to dance at a junior-high social.

  Still, the seed’s been planted deeply enough in the fertile soil of my mind where it might actually take root. Perhaps it would be better to know. Maybe that frisson was a freak incident; maybe if h
e touched me again, I wouldn’t feel a thing.

  Of course, I have one tiny problem. I told David I have a hot Valentine’s Day date next weekend. I don’t want him to know I lied, don’t want to look that desperate. So first things first. I’ll find a date for next weekend. And after that I’ll tell David about what happened while the indeterminately ethnic villains were plotting to blow up the world. Surely I can scrape up enough courage for such a simple act. Yeah, sure. And after I’m done, I’ll bungee jump from the Jefferson Street Bridge.

  Church of the Shepherd is your typical graying, dying downtown congregation, which is one of the reasons I chose it when I fled my first church. How demanding could it be to serve a relic? These days we can count on our fingers and toes the number of members under thirty.

  We hold two services on Sunday morning. The early service at eight o’clock attracts the eldest of the elderly, the golfers, and those headed to a Tennessee Titans game. Most Sundays you could shoot off a cannon in the huge sanctuary at that service, and no one would be harmed.

  The later service at eleven o’clock is the main event. But even then you don’t have to come early to get your favorite pew, unless you like to sit in the back row. No matter what the size of the congregation, the seats furthest from God always fill up fast.

  I like the early service better when I’m preaching, although in some ways it’s harder to stand in the pulpit and proclaim a Great Truth to thirty people scattered about such a huge space. But somehow my sermon feels more like an offering to God at that service.

  Now, though, it’s time for the late service, and the pressure to perform increases with the size of the congregation. I’m also feeling the burden of stepping into Dr. Black’s pulpit for the first time since I’ve been on staff at Church of the Shepherd. Can I measure up?

  I’m a one-woman show this morning. The lay liturgist didn’t show up, which means the whole service is mine. That makes it tough on my voice, which is more on the soothing end of the spectrum than the booming one. In my old church, folks who liked to nap during the sermon loved my preaching.