The Mitford Bedside Companion

by Jan Karon

  “Yes!”

  “Finally, I began reading in the Gospel of John, which was the best of all places to begin. As I moved through the chapters, I was intrigued, also, by what you’d written in the margins. What had Christ done for you? What difference had He made in your life, in the part of your life that no one sees, that maybe doesn’t show from the pulpit?

  “I tried to find your heart in what you’d written privately, perhaps to see whether you would slip, somehow, and expose it all as a sham.”

  “Did you hope to find it all a sham?”

  George sat on the deep stone sill of the bell tower window. “Yes, sir, I did. It would have saved me the trouble of surrendering anything to God. Wretch that I was, I was clinging to my wretchedness.”

  “Don’t we all, at some time or other?” He’d felt the sordidness of clinging to his own wretchedness these past weeks, seemingly unable to surrender anything.

  “I read all the Gospels, but kept going back to John, where I studied what Jesus had to say with deep concentration. I began memorizing verses, thinking this was nothing more than a way to pass the time. Then a verse in the fifteenth chapter began to…” George hesitated.

  “Began to…?”

  “Torment me, in a way. ‘If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you.’ I realized that I had no idea what to ask God for. I especially had no belief that God, if He were real, would be interested in entertaining whatever request I might cobble together.”

  A light breeze traveled through the tower.

  “It was a kind of intellectual nightmare, a wrestling match between logic and longing, if you will. I wanted to ask Him for something, but couldn’t believe He was really open to being asked.

  “Then one day Pete Jamison walked in downstairs and I heard someone yell, ‘Are you up there?’”

  George looked at Father Tim, grinning. The two men burst into laughter as if sharing a family joke.

  In This Mountain, Ch. 15 (John 15:7)

  GEORGE WITHDREW A small paper bag from his jacket pocket and removed a wooden cross.

  “You made this?”

  “Yes, sir. Harley had a few sticks of cherry wood lying around. Cherry is hard as granite, but I managed to whittle it into shape and then rubbed it with wax.”

  Morning light streamed onto the polished cross. A piece of twine was looped through a hole at the top.

  “See this nail, Father?” George pointed to a rusted nail between two of the tower windows.

  “Ah!” He’d never seen it before, but then he hadn’t often dawdled around up here….

  “I used to study that nail as if it were a great philosophical conundrum. Why was it there? What purpose could it possibly serve? Who had put it there, taking the trouble to fix it so neatly in the mortar between the stones? I never forgot this nail.”

  George looped the twine around the nail, tied the cross to it, then stood back. “In this mountain,” he said, “the hand of the Lord rested on me….”

  The wooden cross hung against the stone wall between the windows. On either side, the view of the high, green hills rolled away to summer clouds in a dome of blue sky.

  George turned and placed his hands on the shoulders of his friend. “In this mountain, may the hand of the Lord rest always upon you, my brother. You remember the last thing you said to me when I left here eight years ago?”

  “I do.”

  “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”

  Father Tim smiled. “You did come again with rejoicing.”

  “And so will you, Father, so will you.”

  Before leaving, they noted with pleasure that the cross appeared to have hung there a very long time.

  In This Mountain, Ch. 15 (Psalm 126:5–6)

  HE LEFT THE hospital determined to make Bill Watson laugh. Uncle Billy was being stubborn as a mule simply because he was Mitford’s certified Joke King. But he’d find a good one somehow, somewhere, just wait.

  In the meantime, he had to race to the airport and pick up his wife….

  “Good morning, Father!” said Nurse Herman.

  “Herman, this is the day the Lord has made…”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “…let us rejoice and be glad in it!”

  “Proverbs?”

  “Psalm One hundred and eighteen!”

  Nurse Herman was pleased to see that Father Tim had definitely recovered his health and good spirits.

  In This Mountain, Ch. 21 (Psalm 118:24)

  FATHER TIM OPENED the fifteenth door of their Advent calendar, and read aloud a brief exegesis of verses from Luke’s second chapter.

  “‘And Joseph went up from Nazareth to Bethlehem, to be enrolled with Mary, who was with child.’”

  Cynthia thumbed the pages of her Bible to a map of the region that extended south from the Sea of Galilee. “From Galilee in the north to Judea in the south seems a long way, Timothy.”

  “Maybe ninety to a hundred miles. On a donkey, that’s roughly a week’s travel. It could have taken longer, of course, because of the pregnancy.”

  “I wonder what they ate.”

  “Whatever it was, they probably bought it from camel trains, they couldn’t have carried many supplies.”

  “Isn’t a lot of this terrain open desert?”

  “It is.”

  “What would the weather have been like?”

  “Cold. Very cold,” he said. “Some say too cold for the shepherds around Bethlehem to be in the fields. They would have had their flocks under cover by October or November.”

  “So the birth may have occurred earlier, before they left the fields?”

  “Very likely. However, the tradition of a late December nativity is eighteen centuries old, and I’m not messing with that.”

  “Still, if they were traveling in December, nighttime temperatures would have been freezing.” His wife pondered this, shaking her head. “Just think! All that misery over taxes!”

  “Somethings,” he said, “never change.”

  Shepherds Abiding, Ch. 6 (Luke 2:4–5)

  HIS FEELINGS WERE stirred by the clear and shining voice of his wife as she read from the first Epistle to the believers at Corinth.

  “‘I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, That the Lord Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread; and when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me. For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do shew the Lord’s death till he come.’”

  He pulled the candlestick closer and read aloud from the Gospels of Luke and John in the old prayer book.

  “‘…Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots….

  “‘Now before the feast of the passover, when Jesus knew that his hour was come that he should depart out of this world unto the Father, having loved his own which were in the world, he loved them unto the end. And supper being ended…’”

  He thought he heard a knock somewhere but couldn’t be certain. “Did you hear something?”

  It came again, louder this time, at the back door. “Willie!” he said, leaving the table. “It must be important.”

  He switched on the light and opened the door, but saw no one. “Willie? Is that you?”

  A tall, thin figure stepped into the porch light.

  “It’s m-me. S-S-Sammy.”

  Light from Heaven, Ch. 8 (I Corinthians 11:23–26)

  AGNES SIPPED HER tea. “The fifty-first psalm. Do you know it well, Father?”

  “Well, indeed. During a dark hour in my own life, I learned to recite it fr
om memory.”

  “Could we say it now?”

  Together, they spoke the words of the psalmist.

  “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving kindness;

  In your great compassion, blot out my offenses.

  Wash me through and through from my wickedness

  And cleanse me from my sin.

  For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.

  Against you only have I sinned….”

  Above the gorge, the clouds began to lift; a shaft of sunlight shone upon the ridge.

  “For behold, you look for truth deep within me,

  And will make me understand wisdom secretly.

  Purge me from my sin, and I shall be pure;

  Wash me, and I shall be clean indeed.

  Make me hear of joy and gladness,

  That the body you have broken may rejoice.

  Hide your face from my sins

  And blot out my iniquities.

  Create in me a clean heart, O God.

  And renew a right spirit within me….”

  Light from Heaven, Ch. 11 (Psalm 51)

  Popular Questions from Gentle Readers

  No matter where I travel, I can count on my readers asking certain questions.

  One of the most popular is Are you Cynthia?

  I’ve been known to give a glib reply, but truth be told, I am a lot like Father Tim’s former neighbor. After all, she’s artistic. She’s certainly had to work for a living. And getting her hair color right is very important.

  Now here’s where we differ. I would never, ever color my own hair. And why she does this is beyond me. She also has the patience of Job, which I lack. She makes fish stew, which I’ve never done and never, ever will do. And—this is important—she has better legs.

  Actually, I also have traits in common with Dooley and Miss Sadie and Miss Rose and Uncle Billy and Hope Winchester and Lew Boyd…you get the idea. And, I genuinely love each of my characters, who are both family and friends to me.

  Here’s a good one:

  Is Mitford real?

  Darn right it is.

  If it’s so real, you may ask, where is it?

  It’s everywhere.

  And here are ten surefire ways to find it.

  Bake a pie (or cookies or banana bread), and take it to someone.

  Give somebody a hug. (Don’t be afraid to do this.)

  Express appreciation to someone in your family. Express appreciation to someone outside your family.

  Remember to savor the seemingly minor, everyday incidents of simple decency and good humor.

  Pray for someone you don’t like. Come on, you can do it.

  Ask God to open your eyes to someone’s unspoken need.

  Brag on your kids. To them.

  Stroll somewhere. Don’t hurry, take your time. I give you permission.

  Forgive someone. And here’s the hard part: let them know it.

  Equally important: ask someone to forgive you.

  Volunteer. Start simply, perhaps by visiting an assisted care unit. Pretend it’s Hope House in Mitford, where absolutely everyone there will be thrilled to see you. Pat a hand, kiss a cheek, share a smile, give a compliment. Too shy to do this alone? Take a friend. The opportunities for volunteerism are as endless as God’s blessings in your life and mine. Find time to give back, and you will find Mitford as real as the beating of your heart.

  Where do you get your characters?

  As I’ve said elsewhere in this companion, my characters get me.

  They show up in the story and demand to be reckoned with, and, with God’s help, I take it from there. Some of the most difficult characters in the series were Buck Leeper (anger, alcoholism, profanity, a bitter spirit), Morris Love (rage, a physiological handicap, loneliness, the complex responsibility of musical genius), and Edith Mallory (disdainful of God, manipulative, controlling, self-absorbed, vindictive).

  I find that the same rule applies, however, to both difficult and easy characters. One must give them free will, just as God gives it to us. Indeed, one must let the characters go and work out their own salvation.

  What is your writing schedule?

  I don’t have one. Indeed, I was on schedule in the advertising realm for so many years that I abhor most schedules altogether.

  I find that living day to day is utterly demanding, and seldom affords time to simply sit and write. To carve out the time, one must be as brave as a Valkyrie, and as relentless. I’m completely amazed at how hard it is to be relentless. But that, in my experience, is the only way to write a book.

  What will you do after Mitford?

  Write another series, can you believe it?

  Indeed, writing a series is like having a baby on Sunday and waking up pregnant on Monday! And yet, it appears to be what I was designed to do.

  In the first of the Father Tim novels, coming in 2007, he’ll travel to his childhood home in Holly Springs, Mississippi, and discover a gift that could cost him dearly. The subsequent novels will take him on two other unforgettable trips—or are they journeys of the soul?

  What is livermush?

  You would be dumbfounded to know how often I’m asked this question. Livermush, a sort of poor man’s pate, is cooked pork liver mixed with often-secret spices and cornmeal, and shaped into a loaf. One slices this loaf and fries the slices in sizzling hot bacon grease until very crisp and golden. Make a sandwich, or serve as an accompaniment to eggs, grits, and biscuits.

  True livermush is as rare as hen’s teeth and is found only in North Carolina. Indeed, once it travels over the state line, it becomes scrapple—which is to livermush what the carpet bag was to the South.

  There you have it—answers to the five most popular Mitford questions.

  Ask and ye shall receive!

  The Common Good: Special Events

  Atown is a type of family.

  And the best way to keep a family—or a town—healthy and strong is for its members to come together, interact, and work toward common goals.

  Typically, politics ain’t the way. Too divisive.

  And while the cultural arts will involve some members, they usually fail to involve all.

  But give us an Independence Day parade down Main Street, and stand back. Those who aren’t in it will gather along the curb, gawking, whistling, hollering, waving—which is every bit as key as being in the darned thing.

  In truth, community events are the glue that holds history together, that holds a town together. An Independence Day parade, to continue with this helpful example, gives everyone a common memory, though individual memories of the same event will always differ wonderfully. What matters is that all of us are drawn as one into the invigorating chemistry of the common good, for always, always, we come forth a little better, a little bigger in spirit.

  I confess that Mitford town events are not easy to write. They involve lots of characters, which forces the author to do a considerable amount of “said Father Tim,” “said Dooley,” etc., so we can keep them all from running together into a gobbet of silly putty. When Percy and Velma were feted in Shepherds Abiding, on the last day of the Main Street Grill’s long history, everybody and his brother came pouring through the door, just as people had done for more than forty years.

  Each one had to be identified in some way, including the characters we’d never before laid eyes on (in a manner of speaking). Even the sounds of this landmark farewell party were important.

  * * *

  If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads, but what he rereads

  —François Mauriac

  * * *

  “Hand clapping, foot stomping. A spoon ringing against a coffee mug,” we read as Percy is called upon to make a speech.

  The camera of our sensibilities roves the small room of the Grill, picking up bits of conversation at this momentous Christmas Eve affair.

  “Whose hat is this?” inquired Avis Packard. “Somebody handed me this hat.
Is this your hat?”

  “You’re supposed to put somethin’ in it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Money. For th’ cherry blossoms.”

  “What cherry blossoms?”

  Mitford Muse editor J. C. Hogan blows into the cramped space with his Nikon, shutter clicking; Percy delivers his speech; Father Tim tries to commandeer Percy’s antiquated coffeemaker, but no cigar—the coffee leaks onto the counter, and ex-mayor Cunningham pushes in to take over; long-time widower Lew Boyd stuns the crowd by introducing his ’til-now secret wife; cake is cut; coffee is drunk; and Faye Tuttle announces a relative’s sad news to Esther Cunningham. “Multiple dystrophy,” says Faye, shaking her head.

  At the end of this mild pandemonium, I hope everyone feels they actually attended Percy and Velma’s party.

  This gathering, however, was small potatoes compared to the town shindig thrown by incumbent mayor Esther Cunningham and her wily opponent, Mack Stroupe. This event included a barbecue; a flyover involving several small planes; a skywriter who inscribed the town motto upon a perfectly blue and cloudless backdrop; a brass band; an exhibition of llamas; a petting zoo; Uncle Billy’s chair caning demo; dozens of people churning around on the lawn of the town museum, and heaven knows what else. It was the most fun I ever had in Mitford.

  Indeed, though several years have passed since I wrote that chapter in Out to Canaan, the memories of the event are as real to me as if I’d actually been there.

  Maybe at least one of the reasons everybody seems to know everybody in small communities is because of town events—and the shared history and pool of collective memory that they inevitably create.

  The common good.

  There’s plenty of it in Mitford.

  And it’s pretty powerful stuff, whether in fiction or in truth.

  Miss Sadie’s Announcement to the Vestry

  MISS SADIE SAT in a straight-back chair, in front of the fireplace in his study. She was wearing a cut velvet dress of emerald green, with a high neck, and a brooch hand-painted by her mother. That she made a striking figure was an understatement.