At the wheel, Mac leaned over to give them a big wave, which they returned.
The bishop put his arm around his wife.
“She’s gorgeous, babe,” he said softly, as the car eased away from the curb. “Almost as beautiful as her mother.”
“Well, she has her father’s coloring, which is nice.” Trish turned in his arms and looked up at him affectionately. “By the way, there’s something I need to discuss with you. Would now be a good time?”
“None better,” he said cheerfully, keeping his arm around her as they turned back into the house.
* * *
Later, when Trish had reluctantly gone to bed, citing weariness, he sat at his desk in the dining room, organizing some receipts for their income tax files, forcing his eyes to stay open and his brain to keep functioning until he heard Tiffani’s key in the front door.
She skimmed in, her cheeks flushed and a small, happy smile on her lips. He breathed a sigh of relief on two counts: she was safely home, and evidently the evening had gone well.
“Well, hey, Tiff! How was it?” he asked, stifling a yawn with a fistful of papers.
“It was great! We had tons of fun,” she replied. “How come you’re still up?”
“Oh . . .” he gestured with the papers. “Income tax. Takes lots of preparation.”
“Uh-huh. Well—you can work on that tomorrow. Better get some sleep now, hadn’t you?”
The look she gave him told him that she understood exactly why he was still up after a tiring day and a long evening. He’d better learn to be more subtle. She was developing a way of reading him that was uncannily like her mother’s.
* * *
Ironically, even after he was in bed, he couldn’t sleep right away. Trish, lying on her side, turned slightly, murmuring, “Tiff home okay?” He reassured her, and she sank back into contented slumber. His mind was still processing a whole line of subjects, the young men of his ward figuring prominently among them. He thought of Elder Rand Rivenbark, flourishing now in his new mission assignment, of T-Rex and his venture into the spirit world, of Buddy Osborne, being such a stalwart little soldier amid the war between his parents, and of VerDan Winslow, former ward heartthrob and candidate for missionary service, now turned newlywed husband and expectant father. He was proud of—no, grateful for—all of them, even VerDan, who was at last standing up to his responsibility. Growth experiences were not always easy, but it did seem they were always personally tailored for maximum benefit, if we will only allow the Savior to guide us through the process.
Reflecting on growth, he thought of Jack and Melody Padgett, ever-so-slowly moving, perhaps, toward reconciliation—or, at least, toward healing of their wounded souls. He thought of Tom and Lula Rexford, humbled and refined by their son’s accident and the ward’s response. Necessity had instigated a good deal of stretching and growing outside their restricted comfort zone for Ralph and Linda Jernigan, and he was grateful for that. He thought of his own Tiffani and her sometimes painful progress toward maturity. He felt the pangs of stretching and expansion in his own soul, as well, from going through these varied experiences with the people involved.
Another kind of growth was occurring, too. A warm glow of gratitude suffused his heart as he snuggled closer to Trish and slipped an arm around her in the winter night. He relived the moment earlier in the evening when, sitting close beside him on the living room sofa, she had informed him that she was expecting—that another child was on the way for their family. He had held her hands, hardly able to credit it.
“Babe, are you sure?”
She nodded, her eyes brimming. “Just today, I found out for certain. I’ve suspected for a while, but I didn’t want to disappoint you if I was wrong. You know, I’ve hoped before and been disappointed. But this time, Doctor Jennings agrees with me!”
“Oh, honey, that is so—I’m so tickled! I know how you’ve wanted another baby!”
“Well, you have, too, haven’t you, Jimmy?”
“You bet I have. I had just kind of reconciled myself to its not happening, and this is . . . this is flat-out amazing!”
“Well, she said with a demure smile, “it’s not as though we don’t know how it happens.”
He took her into his arms. “I’m grateful for both the process and the result,” he told her. “When are we going to tell the kids?”
“I was thinking Sunday dinner—if you’ll be home for it?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Not a chance.”
“Tiffi will probably be embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s not quite like the old Mormon joke you hear, about ‘how can you tell which one in the reception line is the mother of the bride? She’s the one that’s eight months pregnant!’ But, still, Tiff probably thinks we should be beyond all that by now. Teenagers don’t like to think of their parents—you know—being intimate.”
“Well, too bad for them. But she’ll love the baby, won’t she?”
“I’m sure of it. And she’ll be a big help. Once she gets over rolling her eyes.”
Lying in bed beside Trish, listening to her softly breathe, he grinned in the dark. Growth was good, even if painful. Growth implied life, and life was good. It was good to be a husband and father. And it was good to be a bishop, the symbolic father of the living, stretching, growing Fairhaven Ward. Murmuring his thanks for such blessings, he gave himself up to sleep.
Through Cloud and Sunshine Page 24