by Jan Karon
“Hey, buddy.”
“Hey back.”
“Are you wearing a helmet?”
“Right now?”
“When you ride a motorcycle.”
“Yeah.”
“Every time, no excuses?” He knew country roads, and the lure of breaking a few rules.
“Yes, sir,” Dooley said over a burst of background laughter.
“Good. I’m counting on it.” He paused to let that pronouncement sink in.
“Don’t worry,” said Dooley.
Music to his ears. “Is Meadowgate having a party?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Reba came over for supper, we’re having spaghetti. Miz Owen says tell you thanks for what you sent. Got to go.”
I give him into Your hands, Lord, he prayed as he hung up. Send
Your angels with him, to keep him from every harm. He pondered a moment. And bless him, please, with wisdom and discretion in all that he does, through Christ our Lord, Amen.
While he was at it, he figured he’d better pray for Reba Sanders, too.
At seven o’clock, he was rustling up a partial reprise of lunch, and found he wasn’t even remotely tempted by the sweetened tea; thank heaven he’d learned a little sense in this life. For safety’s sake, he’d packed Dooley off to Meadowgate with the rest of the cake.
“Preacher?”
Startled, he turned around from the kitchen island to see Uncle Billy peering through the screen door. “Are you’un’s havin’ y’r supper?”
“Getting ready to, Uncle Billy. Come in here and have it with me.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said the old man.
Father Tim was shocked to see his friend—some inner illumination had gone from him, like sap tapped from a tree. “How did you get way down here?”
“Harley seen me a-comin’ down th’ street an’ picked me up. I like t’ never climbed in ’is truck, hit seemed tall as th’ Wesley bank buildin’. I’d as soon walked.”
“You’re out of breath, my friend. I’ll carry you home.”
“I’d be beholden.”
“How are you?”
“I ain’t been too good.”
Father Tim helped the old man to the island.
“Can you swing up here on this stool?”
“Let me git ahold of you.” Uncle Billy set his foot on a rung, then grabbed Father Tim’s shoulder with one hand and pushed on his cane with the other. “Aye, law!” he exclaimed as he hauled himself up and thumped onto the stool. He couldn’t help but wonder why an important man like the preacher didn’t have a table and chairs like the rest of Creation.
“Glad to see you, Uncle Billy. I hope you don’t object to leftovers.”
“Nossir, I like leftovers, as we don’t usually have none. A man stays s’ hungry on Rose’s provisions, they ain’t nothin’ t’ leave over, don’t you know.”
Father Tim ducked to the refrigerator and pulled out the platter of chicken and the bowls of potato salad and cranberry sauce, and displayed them proudly. “And there’s fresh corn to boot. Puny cut it off the cob and creamed it, it’s sweet as sugar. Let me heat you a bowlful.”
“That’d be good,” said the old man. “I hate t’ trouble you.”
“No trouble at all!” In truth, he was thrilled to do something for somebody after weeks of being as useless as moss on a stump.
He poured a hearty portion of corn into a bowl, assembled a few leftover biscuits, and zapped the whole caboodle in the microwave. He’d gotten to be a pro at microwaving; it was a liberation he never dreamed he’d enjoy.
As he served two plates and got out the flatware, he eyed the old man from the corner of his eye. Something was wrong. “Uncle Billy, you’re not your old self. I’m going to ask a blessing on our supper, then I’d like you to tell me what’s what.”
Uncle Billy clasped his hands under his chin and bowed his head. His left hand was doing its best to keep his right hand from trembling.
“Father, thank You for sending this dear friend to our table, it’s an honor to have his company. Lord, we ask You for Bill Watson’s strength: strength of spirit, strength of mind, strength of purpose, strength of body. May You shower him with Your mighty, yet tender grace, and give him hope and health all the days of his long and obedient life. We pray You’d heap yet another blessing on Puny for preparing what You’ve faithfully provided, and ask, also, that You make us ever mindful of the needs of others. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“A-men!”
He set the bowl of corn and a plate of hot biscuits in front of his guest. “Piping hot! Have at it, Uncle Billy, and here’s the butter.”
“Yessir, I will, an’ I hope they ain’t too much salt in y’r corn, doc said stay offa salt.”
“You’re in good hands. We don’t use much salt around here.”
“When we’re done, I’ve got a joke drummed up f’r you.”
“Great!” he said. “Great!” And he’d laugh if it killed him.
Uncle Billy picked at his supper; then, with what Father Tim’s mother had called “a coming appetite,” he worked up momentum and laid his bowl and plate thoroughly bare.
The old man grinned. “I’ve eat ’til I’m about t’ bust!”
“And I’m bustin’ to hear your joke.”
“They’s three in all. Hit’s took a good bit of time t’ collect th’ dadjing things.”
“I understand. Sermons can come hard, too.”
“Are you glad you ain’t a-preachin’ steady n’more?”
“I’ll be preaching next Sunday—right down the street. And the Sunday following, as well. I hope you and Miss Rose will be there.”
“If we’re able.”
“Tell me how you’re feeling. What does Hoppy say?”
“One of them pills he give me made me swimmy-headed, so I ain’t a-takin’ ’em n’more.”
“I don’t know who’s the worse patient, you or me.”
“He says my heart ain’t a-pumpin’ right, makes me weak as pond water.”
“You can’t stop taking your medication, Uncle Billy, this is serious business.” He heard the sternness in his voice. “Maybe it’s time for you and Miss Rose to move to Hope House.” He knew the reaction he’d get, but it wouldn’t hurt to bring it up again.
“Nossir, we ain’t a-goin’ up there, you couldn’t drag Rose out of ’er brother’s place with a team of mules. What with m’ arthur a-botherin’ me an’ m’ heart a-givin’ out, I’d as soon go on home to th’ Lord if it won’t f’r leavin’ Rose.”
Father Tim sighed.
“They’s not a soul a-livin’ that’d put up with ’er, don’t you know.”
He would call Dr. Wilson tomorrow and find out the whole story. Right now they’d better cheer up before both their chins were dragging on the floor.
“How’s your garden coming along?”
“Hit ain’t. They didn’t nothin’ come up from them seeds Dora give me. I got one little sprout is all, an’ a rabbit eat that.”
“Let’s go sit in the study, Uncle Billy, I’ll help you down.”
With Father Tim’s assistance, the old man aimed his feet at the floor and slid from the stool. “By johnny!” he exclaimed, as the mission was accomplished.
“Wellsir…,” said Uncle Billy. The first joke had gone over better than he expected. Now came the preacher joke, which he reckoned had a fair chance due to the subject matter. Standing by the coffee table, which seemed a central location, he took a deep breath and leaned on his three-pronged cane.
“A preacher died, don’t you know, an’ was a-waitin’ in line at th’ Pearly Gates. Ahead of ’im is a feller in blue jeans, a leather jacket, an’ a tattoo on ’is arm. Saint Pete says to th’ feller with th’ tattoo, says, ‘Who are you, so I’ll know whether t’ let you in th’ Kingdom of Heaven?’
“Feller says, ‘I’m Tom Such an’ Such, I drove a taxicab in New York City.’
“Saint Pete looks at th’ list, says, ‘Take this s
ilk robe an’ gold staff an’ enter th’ Kingdom of Heaven!’ Then he hollers, ‘Next!’
“Th’ preacher steps up, sticks out ’is chest, says, ‘I’m th’ Rev’rend Jimmy Lee Tapscott, pastor of First Baptist Church f’r forty-three years.’
“Saint Pete looks at ’is list, don’t you know, says, ‘Take this flour-sack robe an’ hick’ry stick an’ enter th’ Kingdom of Heaven.’
“Preacher says, ‘Wait a dadjing minute! That man was a taxicab driver an’ he gits a silk robe an’ a gold staff?’
“Saint Pete says, ‘When you preached, people slept. When he drove, people prayed.’”
Father Tim threw back his head and hooted with laughter. Then he clapped his hands and slapped his leg a few times, still laughing. Uncle Billy had never seen such carrying on. Why didn’t the preacher save something back for the last joke?
“Hold on!” he said. “I got another’n t’ go.”
“Right,” said Father Tim. “That was a keeper.”
“You can use that’n in church, won’t cost you a red cent.”
Uncle Billy felt his heart pumping, which was, in his opinion, a good sign. He straightened up a moment and rested his back, then leaned again on his cane as if hunkering into a strong wind. This was the big one and he wanted it to go as slick as grease.
“Wellsir, three ol’ sisters was a-livin’ together, don’t you know. Th’ least ’un was eighty-two, th’ middle ’un was ninety-some, an’ th’ oldest ’un was way on up in age. One day th’ oldest ’un run a tub of water. She put one foot in th’ water, started a-thinkin’, hollered downstairs to ’er sisters, said, ‘Am I a-gittin’ in th’ tub or out of th’ tub?’
“Th’ middle sister, she started up th’ stairs t’ he’p out, don’t you know, then thought a minute. Yelled to ’er baby sister, said, ‘Was I agoin’ up th’ stairs or a-comin’ down?’
“Th’ baby sister, she was settin’ in th’ kitchen havin’ a cup of coffee, said, ‘Guess I’ll have t’ go up yonder an’ he’p out…boys, I hope I never git that forgetful, knock on wood!’
“Went t’ knockin’ on th’ table, don’t you know, then jumped up an’ hollered, ‘I’ll be there soon as I see who’s at th’ door!’”
Uncle Billy couldn’t help but grin at the preacher, who was not only laughing, but wiping his eyes into the bargain. The old man took it to be his proudest moment. He’d had laughs before; he reckoned anybody could get a laugh now and again if he worked hard enough, but crying…. that was another deal, it was what every joke teller hoped for. His heart was hammering and his knees were weak. He sat down, hard, in the preacher’s leather chair and heard something he hadn’t heard in a good while—
It was the sound of his own self laughing.
After Father Tim dropped his friend at the town museum and walked him to the door, he drove home and parked in the garage. As he switched off the engine, the exhaustion switched on. It came suddenly, in a wave that left him feeble and shaken. But for Barnabas needing a walk, he would have sat in the car ’til Kingdom come. Would this snare to his soul never end?
He would force himself to walk his good dog to the monument. It was a known fact that both dogs and diabetics required exercise.
Barnabas was slower this evening than his master, which was something Father Tim didn’t enjoy noting. His dog wouldn’t be with him forever; a man might mourn the loss of four or five best friends in a lifetime—but he mustn’t think of that now.
The fireflies were coming out as they walked through town. At the monument he stood transfixed in the grassy circle and watched the minuscule lights dancing above the hedge. One briefly illumined the ear of his dog, others sparkled among the branches of trees across the street. He should go home and find a Mason jar and punch holes in the lid and catch a handful and turn the lights out in his room and, with Barnabas lying on the foot of the bed, watch them flicker and gleam like stars. Later, of course, he would open the window and let them go, just as he’d done as a boy….
He was leaving the circle through the opening in the hedge when a car approached. It was Edith Mallory’s black Lincoln Town Car, a new model that gleamed and glittered under the light of the street lamps. Driving slowly, it cruised by the monument and turned right onto Lilac Road.
Barnabas growled, low in his throat. When Father Tim reached down to pat his head, he felt the hair bristling on the back of his dog’s neck.
At nine o’clock, he sat in his darkened bedroom, listening to Barnabas snore.
He wondered whether he should have taken the job at the Children’s Hospital. Several years after retirement, he was still trying to figure out what God wanted of him. How much more could he, much less God Almighty, stand of his boundless and incessant navel-gazing? Was this a blasted midlife crisis, delayed by thirty years?
Drifting toward some other purpose, Cynthia had said. What other purpose? He seemed to have no purpose at all, much less an other purpose. With the Children’s Hospital, he’d be able to work his own hours, contact the existing donors, nearly all of whom he liked immensely, and build a list of new contacts—there were a number of people he’d never contacted in the western diocese….
The last time he’d spoken with John Brewster, the position hadn’t been filled. What harm could it do to call John and inquire about the lay of the land?
But did he really, in the deepest part of his spirit, want the job? Or was he trying to fill time with his own agenda for good works, unwilling to wait on the Lord’s agenda?
He remembered a story, heard from the Wesley pulpit. A young boy found a cocoon, and seeing how hard the insect struggled inside, split the cocoon with his camp knife, thinking to let it escape. Instead, the nascent butterfly died. A butterfly collector told him that it’s the struggle within the cocoon that gives strength to the butterfly and enables its wings to grow and develop. Only then can it emerge and go free.
Was he trapped in this confused and unspeakable state, waiting for his wings?
“Lord,” he prayed aloud, “I’d like to have this position if it be Your will.”
He would brush his teeth and call John.
But the position was filled.
“And in the nick of time!” said the hospital administrator.
What could he say? His prayer had been answered.
“We just discovered that the foundation of the entire building needs to be underpinned. When this old place was built in 1901, they just started laying brick on grade. What with the runoff from the mountain behind us, the brick is deteriorating and the foundation’s bowed, which explains the cracks in the interior plaster.”
“Not good.”
“When I saw the estimate, I nearly ran down the hall and jumped in a bed.”
“What are we talking about here?” asked Father Tim.
“Close to three-quarters of a million.”
“You’ve got a good man coming in?”
“A good woman. I was going to call and tell you the news in a day or two. She’s perfect for the job, Tim, absolutely perfect, she’s the one we’ve been praying for.”
When he hung up, he felt glad for John, and for the hospital he’d supported for more than twenty years. Yet he couldn’t help but remember that John had once called him the absolutely perfect person for the job….
He sat in the wing chair, sensing again that God had something for him, some wisdom that would flash upon his heart like lightning and illumine the dark. He read in the Psalms, then felt inclined toward the Gospel of John. Every truth was there, what more could a man possibly wish for or want? But he wasn’t finding the yet-unknown truth meant profoundly for him, the truth he’d recognize instantly when at last it was revealed.
He placed the book on the table and closed his eyes and prayed the prayer that never failed. Whether or not he found the longed-for wisdom, whether or not he redeemed his joy, this prayer would cover him in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in celebration, in success and, yes, even in utter failure.
His wife was in Boston; tomorrow, the contingent would debark for Chicago, then head for points west, including Los Angeles. The other authors had arrived safely, they’d just finished dinner, and Miniver Tarleton was everything Cynthia had hoped the legendary, eighty-something author/illustrator/role model might be. His wife was clearly exuberant, and he wouldn’t begrudge her a moment of this sojourn.
He couldn’t, however, resist tossing in a nagging fear, if only to hear her denounce it. “I hope,” he said, “you won’t fall too hard for all this big-city glamour.”
“Timothy! I could never live in a city, big or small! You know that, darling.”
“I know that,” he said, soothed.
“In fact, I think we should take Hal and Marge up on their farm-sitting offer next year.”
“Would you really like that?”
“I’d love it!”
“Speaking of next year, Dooley says he wants to spend the summer with us.”
“Perfect!” she said. “At Meadowgate, we could all be together in a place he loves.”
“You could write a book about Violet going to the country.”
“I already wrote that book, dearest. Ages ago! Besides, I’m not going to write any book at all next year!”
Whenever his wife said she wasn’t going to write a book, that was when a book started pouring forth.
“I’ll be a farm wife, instead. Go barefoot, pick meadow flowers, gather eggs, churn butter…” She paused, thinking. “Drive a tractor!”
“Cynthia, Cynthia…”
“Life is short, Timothy!”
“Driving a tractor could make it shorter still,” he said, being the family worrywart.
“What does Dooley want to do about Sammy?”
“He’s thinking about it.”
“He’ll make the right decision.”
“Yes,” he said. “Pauline doesn’t want to make a move ’til Dooley settles it in his own heart. Poo and Jessie don’t know yet.”
“I’m praying, dearest, and I believe all will be well and very well. Now off to bed with both of us. Check your sugar, watch your diet, get some rest, mind Puny, and don’t forget your eye doctor’s appointment.”