Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  LaRonda sighs into my ear that particularly resonant sigh of the long-suffering. “Do you think you prefer James to David?”

  “Well, don’t be offended since he’s your brother and all, but, no.”

  “No problem. James said you all had a friend vibe going, but nothing beyond that.”

  For the first time in my life, I’m relieved a guy just wants to be friends. “So what do I do now?”

  “You call David and ask him out.”

  The warm flush of social success disappears as quickly as teenagers cutting Sunday school to head to the Donut Den.

  “Just like that? Out of the blue?”

  “Look, Betz, you have him off balance. Now’s the time to move in for the kill.”

  For a preacher, LaRonda has excellent predatory instincts. She knows just when to pounce, which is how she gets her congregation to do things they didn’t think they could do. Like build a fifteen-hundred-seat sanctuary. Or partner with a sister church in South Africa to build a school for AIDS orphans. Then again, maybe those predatory instincts are why she’s flourished as a solo pastor while I’ve collapsed under the weight of conflict and criticism. She knows how to go in for the kill while I would rather not witness the carnage.

  “Okay, so I call him. What kind of date are we talking here? What if he doesn’t realize I’m asking him out?”

  LaRonda’s laugh is like buttercream icing on warm cake. “He’ll know you’re asking him out.”

  “How?”

  “’Cause you’re going to tell him.”

  I don’t know if I can. That would be putting it all on the line, no holding back, free-falling. “So I just say, ‘Hey, David, I’ve recently developed the hots for you. Wanna have dinner?’”

  “That’s a start.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Well, no one else is going to do it for you.”

  LaRonda continues to half-scold, half-coach me for the next twenty minutes. I dither, doing my best to keep her from hanging up. Finally, though, she shuts me down.

  “Call him. Now. Bye.”

  Call David. I’ve done it a million times. I know all his numbers by heart—home, church office, cell phone. I know his address, his birthday, his shoe size, even his IQ. What I don’t know is whether he’ll laugh, cry, or scream if I ask him out.

  I haven’t felt this stupid and awkward since junior high. The only place I’ve ever found courage is in prayer, so I climb into my favorite overstuffed chair, cross my legs, set my hands on my knees, palms up, and hope for a little divine inspiration.

  I wait. And wait some more. I try to clear my mind, to wipe away the words and simply sit in God’s presence. The words, though, don’t want to leave. Neither do the images. Passing notes to David in Intro to Theology. The two of us doodling caricatures of the disciples in New Testament Exegesis. His hand on my thigh exactly eight days ago.

  I abandon contemplative meditation and decide to cut straight to the chase. Well? What do you think Big Guy? How about a little divine intervention here?

  If you attended a liberal divinity school as I did, then you know it’s completely improper, politically incorrect, and otherwise verboten to refer to God in male terms. But I grew up talking to “him,” and it’s a little hard to change pronouns at this late date. Maybe if I have a daughter one day, she’ll talk to “her” the way I talk to “him.”

  I close my eyes and hope for an answer. Nothing. I don’t know if that means God doesn’t approve or he doesn’t want to get involved in something as irredeemable as my love life, opting instead for something easy. Like peace in the Middle East.

  My breathing has slowed, and I do try to focus. Breathe in, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. Grant me faith, O Lord.

  The warmth starts in my midsection and then gradually steals up into my chest. Over the next few minutes, it spreads through my limbs and up the back of my neck until my scalp is tingling. Grant me faith. The words replay in my mind. When every part of me is bathed in that warmth, I slowly open my eyes. Then I reach out and pick up the phone.

  I punch in David’s number, digit by digit, as deliberately as if I were a preschooler learning how to dial a phone. The receiver is still warm from my long conversation with LaRonda. Each ring seems to echo in my ear. One. Two. Please, God, let me get the machine. If it rings four times, I’ll get the machine.

  Three. Just one more.

  “Hello?” It’s not the machine. It’s David, breathless and sounding perturbed.

  “Hey, David. It’s me.”

  He hesitates for a millisecond. “Hey, Blessing. What’s up?” he asks, as casually as if last night never happened.

  What’s up? My hopes. My blood pressure. The likelihood that I’m about to crash and burn the most precious friendship I’ve ever had.

  “Nothing. Just trying to unwind from church.”

  David doesn’t understand why Sunday mornings wear me out. Every time he leaves his church and climbs into his beat-up old Volvo, he’s as charged up as an addict on speed.

  I clear my throat. “What are you up to?”

  There’s a muffled noise and some rustling on the other end of the phone. Then his voice comes through, loud and clear. “I just got out of the shower.”

  The rustling is probably him toweling off his hair. I decide I’d better not speculate what the other muffled noises might be.

  “Want to head over to Radnor Lake for a walk?” The words fall from my lips before I even know what I’m doing. I hadn’t meant to say them, and yet they feel so natural. It’s what I might say to David anytime I call him on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

  But it sure doesn’t qualify as asking him out on a date.

  David is quiet for a moment, and suddenly it’s awkward again, like it was last night. I can hear him swallowing over the phone.

  “Betz…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I just figured you’d be doing something with the guy from last night.”

  “With James?”

  “Yeah. You two looked pretty tight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen, I assumed you’d be tied up, so I went ahead and made other plans.”

  “Other plans.”

  “Yeah.”

  My stomach feels as if someone punched me in the solar plexus. I can tell from David’s tone of voice that these plans involve a female.

  “That’s cool. We can do Radnor another time.” I hate the slight catch in my voice because I know David will hear it. He knows me too well not to.

  “Look, Betsy, about last night…”

  “Yeah?”

  “About what I said…”

  “What you said?” Babies in the church nursery couldn’t look as innocent as I sound. As if every word he’d uttered wasn’t burned on my brain.

  “About … you know … about your outfit and stuff.”

  Where is he going with this? Is he apologizing, or is he going to tell me again that I looked ridiculous?

  “I didn’t mean it to sound like it did.”

  “Did it sound like something?”

  I’m doing it again. Ducking for cover. Emotionally cutting and running. Here’s a chance to get real with David, and I’m lying through my teeth to avoid it. It makes my prayer seem as false as it felt. Grant me faith, indeed!

  “I was afraid I’d insulted you.”

  My laughs as empty as the chalice at the communion table on Sunday morning. The presiding minister always lifts up the silver cup as he says the Words of Institution, but the truth is, in our tradition that cup is flat empty. All the juice is in the trays of shot glasses the deacons pass through the pews.

  “David, I never expect you to find me attractive. We’ve been friends too long.”

  That lie cuts my tongue like a shard of glass. Why can’t I be honest? This is the time. I know it. It’s never going to get any easier than it is right now. And I can’t do it.

  “Oh, well, good. That’s good then.” He
hesitates for a long moment. “Look, Blessing, I’d better go. I have to pick up my date in twenty minutes.”

  “Oh, sure. Have a good time. And don’t wear that Dave Matthews Band T-shirt. Wear a real shirt, with a collar.”

  David sighs. “I don’t ever go anywhere without a collar, one way or another.” He sounds as tired and as empty as I feel.

  “Bye, David.”

  “Bye, Betz.”

  I hit the Off button on the portable phone and toss it onto the coffee table. It lands with a clunk next to the remote and the Pizza Hut coupon I clipped from the Sunday paper. I’m glad I have caller ID because LaRonda will call before the evening is out for a full report, and I can’t bring myself to tell her that despite her excellent coaching, I’ve failed at Asking-Out-Your-Best-Friend 101.

  The phone rings five minutes later. To my relief it isn’t LaRonda. It’s Ed Newman, chair of the personnel committee at the church and twin brother of my nemesis, Edna Tompkins. Weird, because I never think of older people as being twins.

  “Betsy? It’s Ed.”

  “Hi, Ed. What can I do for you?”

  “We need to talk.”

  That’s odd, because I haven’t hinted to anyone about my plans to leave the ministry. And Tricia’s “Holy to Hottie” piece hasn’t aired yet. After last night’s fiasco, I banished the leather, hair gel, and heavy cosmetics to the back of my closet. At church this morning I was my usual average Jane.

  Our conversation doesn’t take long. Turns out that any notions I had of a dramatic exit next August have been upstaged. Dr. Black has just announced his immediate retirement, and Ed’s calling to tell me I’ve been appointed interim senior minister.

  “It won’t be any more money, of course, and you’ll still need to see that all your Christian education programs keep running. But we have faith in you, Betsy. We know you can do it.”

  Faith? A slow flush creeps up my neck and heats my cheeks. This isn’t about faith. It’s about being too cheap to pay a real interim minister.

  “Look, Ed, I’m flattered—”

  “’Course you are. Most churches wouldn’t trust a woman with this kind of thing. But we’re progressive at Church of the Shepherd.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “Thought we’d better have an emergency meeting of the personnel committee tonight to iron out the details.”

  I sigh. The church steamroller is fully engaged and running in high gear. “What time?” I’ll have to go and figure out how to head all this nonsense off at the pass.

  There’s a moment of silence, and not the prayerful kind. “Um, well, Betsy, you don’t need to be there.”

  “Doesn’t the senior minister serve on the personnel committee?”

  “Well, yes, but you don’t need to worry about that. We’ll take care of everything.”

  I’m quite sure they will. Just like my last church took care of everything, including running me out of town. “But I wouldn’t want to shirk my duties before they’ve even started, Ed. What time did you say the meeting was?”

  “Um, seven. In the boardroom.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  For a second time I toss the phone down next to the pizza coupon. I will not answer it again today; I don’t care who calls.

  So much for a pleasant Sunday afternoon. I’m avoiding my best friend, torturing myself with imagining exactly how Paris Hilton-like David’s date is, and I have only a few hours to prepare for escaping the personnel-committee steamroller.

  I see now why God said we shouldn’t work on the Sabbath. That would leave us at least one day a week when we couldn’t ruin our lives.

  The boardroom at Church of the Shepherd is aptly named, though not correctly spelled. It should be b-o-r-e-d. A heavy mahogany conference table, harvest gold upholstered chairs, and generic framed artwork provide the perfect setting for the long-winded, self-aggrandizing speeches that consume most of the oxygen in the room.

  I’m late for the meeting, thanks to a last-minute panic over pantyhose. I ran my last pair of taupe—a color that would appall the sales assistant at Oh Là Là!—which necessitated a mad dash to CVS. By the time I arrive at church, looking smartly professional and completely un-madeover in my aforementioned navy suit and crisp white blouse, the personnel committee has assembled. Hunched over the conference table, they remind me of a row of buzzards on a dying tree branch.

  They’ve also occupied all the chairs, leaving me with no place to perch.

  “We’ve already started,” Ed informs me as I wrangle a straight-backed chair from the reception area through the doorway. I sink into it and gasp when the pointed corner of the conference table catches me squarely in the midsection.

  “As I was saying—” Edna Tompkins casts me her customary look of disdain while completely ignoring her twin brother. She gets away with this behavior because it’s an open secret that she’s the largest contributor to the church’s budget, even though that information is technically kept in confidence. Even from the pastors.

  Edna looks around the table like Queen Elizabeth addressing her household staff. “I feel it is a mistake to ask Reverend Blessing to take on the role of senior pastor.”

  Like one of Pavlov’s conditioned dogs, I feel my stomach sink and beads of sweat break out along my forehead at the prospect of conflict. I arrived prepared to inform the committee I have no interest in becoming the interim senior minister. But this time, despite the sweat and the sinking stomach, Mrs. Tompkins’s clear disdain for my ministry raises my hackles. Maybe it’s my frustration with my feelings for David. Maybe it’s the chemicals from the makeover. Or maybe I’ve just finally had enough of these kinds of meetings.

  “In what way, Mrs. Tompkins, would that be a mistake?”

  The other committee members shoot me a nervous glance. They know that the financial consequences of standing up to Edna could be fatal.

  “Now, dear, I’m only looking out for your best interests. You’re far too young and inexperienced. Besides, taking on these responsibilities would leave you with no time for what little social life you do have.” She pauses. “Oh dear, I mean—”

  “Thank you, Edna, but this decision has nothing to do with Betsy’s social life.” Thin, balding Ed looks around the table too, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as if he’s checking temperature gauges at fifteen paces. He’s the only one who would dare contradict his sister. “The bottom line is that Dr. Black’s contract gives him the right to retire on short notice. It also requires us to pay his salary through the end of the year.”

  Pay his salary through the end of the year? My jaw drops, and I have to tell the muscles in my face to pull it closed. I knew senior ministers had a little more butter on their bread, but this is the whole cow.

  Gus Winston, the chair of the stewardship committee, clears his throat behind the restriction of his bow tie. “We don’t have the reserves to pay three ministers for that length of time. Our debt load on the new activity center is too high.” He’s referring to the addition we built in a last-ditch effort to attract some members not eligible for AARE It’s now shuttered and silent, and it isn’t even paid for.

  Ed nods. “That’s why Betsy’s the perfect solution. She can fill both chairs. In the meantime, we’ll start a search committee. We can have a new senior pastor in place by next January.”

  I snort with laughter, and their vulture-like heads swing my way. “Um, sorry, it’s just that a search process normally takes at least a year. Sometimes eighteen months. Isn’t it a little … um … ambitious to think a new minister would be in place by January?”

  Ed frowns at me. “That’s really up to us, Betsy. We just need you to hold the fort through the end of the year. It’s not that much to ask, really, considering what we’ve done for you.”

  What they’ve done for me? He’s got to be kidding, but there’s not a hint of humor in any line on Ed’s face. This is the church that put me up in a Motel 6 when I came to interview, refused to pay my moving e
xpenses unless I rented a U-Haul and carted all my stuff myself, and makes me pay the church hostess for any leftovers I take home from fellowship dinners.

  “I don’t think—”

  I never get a chance to finish the sentence. Judge Blount clears his throat in preparation for rendering a decision. As the chair of the elders, he represents the spiritual leaders of the church. On cue, the others swivel their heads toward him and wait in respectful silence.

  “We don’t need a real senior minister for this interim. Just someone to preach and make hospital visits. Betsy can do that, which leaves our bottom line intact.”

  I wouldn’t be surprised to see steam coming out of my ears. If these people valued me any less, they’d have me typing up the Sunday-morning worship bulletins and sticking address labels on the weekly newsletter.

  “I’m not sure—”

  Marjorie Cline, who’s sitting next to me, sets her knitting down on the table and reaches over to pat my hand with her gnarled fingers. “I’m sure our Betsy will be delighted to do what we ask. She knows we couldn’t get along without her.” Marjorie says it so sweetly, with such trust, that I can’t do anything but stammer.

  “That’s settled, then,” Ed says. He nods at me. “Betsy, we’ll have to ask you to excuse yourself so we can talk about starting the search process. Thanks for coming.”

  Just like that. In less than ten minutes, they’ve decided my fate, and all I’ve managed to do is splutter out a few half-formed sentences of protest.

  I try to form the word no, but my lips won’t move. Not because I don’t want the job and I’m afraid, but because suddenly I do want the job. And I’m very afraid.

  I love preaching. I love visiting people in the hospital. It’s why I took a small country church in the first place. And why it devastated me to leave in disgrace. I despise the routine tasks of Christian education—finding Sunday-school teachers, reviewing curriculum, running to Wal-Mart for markers and tape. But to dangle something like the senior-minister position in front of me—even temporarily—when I’m headed to law school is just not fair. Why put this temptation in front of me when I’ve already acknowledged I’m inadequate for the demands of the ministry?