Chapter 11
The first thing Ian noticed when he walked into the sanctuary at St. Conan’s the next morning was that everyone was looking at him differently. Ladies were batting their eyes and fluttering their eyelashes and one even winked at him. What had changed, he wasn’t quite sure, but it was almost like they were looking at him – for the first time – as not just a pastor, but a man.
Was his zipper down? Did he have a cowlick in his hair? He knew it wasn’t lipstick on his collar or spinach in his teeth because he hadn’t had any in years. Sad to say.
No one had said anything about the baptismal font being gone and he didn’t intend to mention it unless they asked. It was sometimes stored in the rear of the kirk to make more room for the children or the choir when they rose to sing. Or perhaps they thought it was temporarily gone for refurbishing or cleaning. Whatever the case, its absence didn’t appear to be alarming anyone and that was fine with him. It certainly didn’t account for the strange behavior of the people gathered around him.
He was saying hello to Shirley Wilson when one of the men punched him in the arm and grinned devilishly. What was up with that?
He looked around as he walked toward the pulpit, mystified to say the least. And then he saw Margaret Ainsworth. There was something about her... the way she stopped talking the second he started to approach her, the slightly apologetic look in her eyes as he grew nearer, the silent look she gave to the people she’d been speaking to...
“Hello, Margaret.”
“Why Pastor Ian,” she said, glancing at the others as if to say, Watch me – I’ll show you how it’s done. “We’ve just been talking and wondering if you have plans for Easter dinner next week.”
Where was this going? In all the years he’d been at St. Conan’s, he’d never been invited to Easter dinner before.
“Haven’t you always said that it’s too far to drive the distance to your mother’s house by the time you finish services?” Edith Downey asked.
“Well, yes, but there’s the church breakfast. I’ve never gone hungry.” The ladies of the church always served breakfast between the sunrise service and regular worship. The platter of leftovers they sent home with him was enough to feed him for several days.
“It must be lonely for you, Pastor, alone at the manse, day after day, week after week, month after-”
“I’m quite used to the solitude, actually, and I’m never far from people, living right next to the church, now am I?” To be honest, he was always so exhausted after the rigors of the Holy Week schedule that he relished the time alone.
“Being around all of us, and people in general, is no substitute for having someone special in your life though, is it now?”
A trap. “I suppose not. But-”
“But you’re in your thirties now, aren’t you? Certainly you want children one day, don’t you? A family of your own?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then, time’s a wastin’.”
“We just thought you’d like to meet more young people your own age,” another of the ladies said. “Instead of spending so much time with us older ladies.”
It seemed ironic to him that if more members of the younger generation came to church with any regularity, he’d know plenty of them by now. When he’d first come to St. Conan’s, he’d hoped having a young pastor would draw in young people, but it hadn’t happened, at least not yet.
“The Bible study I’ve got scheduled for next month is geared towards young couples. I’ve even arranged for child care during the study. I hope-”
“But it’s singles you need to be meeting, Pastor Ian. Your social life is not going to be enhanced by studying the Scriptures with a bunch of couples.”
“Really, ladies – I appreciate your concern, but my social life is in God’s hands along with the rest of my daily comings and goings, and I’m happy to leave it there.”
Margaret smiled smugly. “But dear, you said it yourself in last week’s sermon – God helps those who help themselves.”
He didn’t recall ever saying that phrase in any sermon he had ever given, but whatever.
A friend of Margaret’s said, “Won’t Chelsea and Emily be at your family’s Easter celebration, Margaret?”
“Why, yes. They will be. I hadn’t thought of that. And how perfect, since Pastor Ian already knows them.”
“So there would be plenty to talk about,” Edith chimed in shamelessly.
“And he’d feel right at home.”
“But-”
“And I’m sure Chelsea would appreciate the company since Greg’s not coming,” Edith said.
So that was what this was all about. He should have seen it coming.
“Ladies, I know you’re concerned about Chelsea-” He was just about to set the record straight when the bells started ringing and the acolytes started up the isle. He was supposed to be in the rear of the church, ready to process with the palm branches.
He looked from one hopeful face to the next, at a loss as to how to get them to understand the utter preposterousness of their scheme. Did they really think that a minister could go from counseling a betrothed couple to stealing the bride for himself? If he even wanted to, which of course, he didn’t. It was ridiculous. And now, flushed and distracted and discombobulated, they wanted him to preach a sermon?
He had a mind to quickly change the Scripture lesson to I Peter 4:15 – But let none of you suffer as a murderer. Or a thief, or an evildoer, or as a busybody in other men’s matters.
Of course, there were some who would say that was exactly what he was doing each and every time Emily and Benjamin or Chelsea and Greg walked into his office for counseling.
He sighed and turned to follow the acolyte the remaining few steps to the front of the kirk, praying for divine wisdom once again.
Thistle Down Page 11