by Jan Karon
Someone chuckled. He could have some fun with that, but time was of the essence; a big snow was predicted for tonight.
“Well, Lord, I said, please give me what we do need to know. And He did.
“As many of you are aware, this pulpit was built and beautifully hand carved by one of our own—Clarence Merton. The church was not open when he did it; in fact, there was no earthly assurance that it would ever be open again.
“Yet Clarence chose to make this pulpit, anyway.
“Why would he do that? He did it to the glory of God.”
“And then, a vandal broke in, and he took out his knife and began to do his own carving, right on this magnificent pulpit.”
Someone gasped.
“For those of you who haven’t seen that particular carving, it’s right here.” He leaned to his left and made a gesture toward the oak side-panel.
“I consider it to constitute the most profound sermon that could be preached from this or any other pulpit.
“‘JC,’ it reads, ‘loves CM.’
“When Agnes and Clarence saw what had been done, they might have wept. But what did they do? They gave thanks.
“They might have felt it a sacrilege. But what did they do? They considered it a word from God.
“JC, Jesus Christ…loves CM, Clarence Merton.”
A relieved murmur sounded among the congregants.
“The thrilling thing about this inscription is that it’s filled with truth, not just for Clarence Merton, but for every one of us on this hallowed eve of His birth.
“In everything God has told us in His Word, He makes one thing very clear:
“He loves us.
“Not merely as a faceless world population, but one by one.
“J.C., Jesus Christ, loves you, Miss Martha. He loves you, Miss Mary. He loves you, Jubal.
“And you and you and you—individually, and by name. ‘My sheep hear my voice,’ He says, ‘and I call them by name.’
“On this eve of His birth, some of you may still be asking the age-old question, Why was I born?
“In the book of Revelation, we’re told that He made all things—that would include us!—for Himself Why would He do that? For His pleasure, Scripture says.
“There’s your answer. You were made by Him…and for Him, for His good pleasure.
“Selah! Think upon that.
“And why was He born?
“He came that we might have life. New life, in Him. What does this gift of new life in Him mean? In the weeks to come, we’ll talk about what it means, and how it has the power to refine and strengthen and transform us, and deliver us out of darkness into light.
“Right now, Clarence has a gift for every one in this room. And a wonderful gift it is.” He nodded to his crucifer. “Would you come forward, Clarence?”
Clarence came forward, carrying a large, flat, polished board.
He held it aloft for all to see.
“Oak,” said the vicar. “White oak, the queen of the forest.
“This is a place for us to carve our own inscription, like the one on the pulpit. The board will be here every Sunday until Easter, and whoever wishes to do it will get help from Clarence, if needed. You don’t even have to bring your own knife, we have one. When that’s done, we’ll hang the board on the wall over there, where years later, others can see it, and be reminded that He loves them, too.”
He gazed a moment at the faces before him, at those whom God had given into his hand. Shine, Preacher! In thy place…
“For God so loved the world,” he said, “that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever…”
Many of the congregants joined their voices with his as they spoke the verse from the Gospel of John.
“…believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
“For this hour,” he said, “that’s all we need to know.”
Light from Heaven, Ch. 21
How Mitford Got Out There
Once upon a time, the manuscript of the first Mitford novel was slowly (very slowly) making its rounds to publishers.
The agent who represented me then, and whose name I can no longer remember, managed to get eleven responses from editors during the year and a half she handled it.
“Not for our list.”
“Not for our list.”
“Too preachy.”
“Not for our list.”
You get the idea.
(As an aside, I must tell you that I’ve since met several of those editors, all of whom devoutly wish they’d bought At Home in Mitford. Smile.)
I decided to sell the darned thing myself, and shipped it off to a publishing firm in the UK, who’d done a picture book I liked.
“Not for our list,” they said. “But maybe for the list of our sister company in the U.S.”
The U.S. side liked it, bought it, and published it. But they failed to distribute or promote it. (New authors, take note.)
Foiled again.
Then one day, a dear friend named Mary Richardson introduced my first book to one of America’s favorite booksellers, Nancy Olsen of Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh, North Carolina, and Nancy put me in touch with a real agent.
Liz Darhansoff is the genuine coin in the literary-agent realm. She’s tough. She’s quick. She’s hardworking. And—she likes writers from the South.
In true Valkyrie fashion, Liz began at once making calls on behalf of the greatly misunderstood Mitford.
She had tea one afternoon with a young associate editor at Viking Penguin. The editor’s name was Carolyn Carlson.
Carolyn, one of four daughters of a Lutheran minister, “got” Mitford immediately. She had grown up there and gone to church there and knew all the people in this fictional small town in the mountains of North Carolina. Bingo! Something her mother would like to read. Something, in truth, Carolyn liked reading herself.
It just so happens that Carolyn had been sending her mother books from the company’s free shelf. Though her mother, Marjorie, is an ardent reader, Marjorie didn’t seem especially thrilled with Carolyn’s selections.
“Carolyn dear,” she said, “don’t you ever publish any nice books?”
That’s sort of how it all happened.
And why you now have nice books with no cussin’, no murder, and no mayhem, to share with your children, your parents, and your friends.
How revolutionary!
To Mary Richardson, Nancy Olsen, Liz Darhansoff, Carolyn Carlson, and Carolyn’s mother, Marjorie:
Thank you.
A Cheerful Heart: Uncle Billy’s Jokes
…the cheerful heart has a continual feast.
—Proverbs 15:15, New International Version
For years, Uncle Billy Watson was one of my favorite—and most esteemed—Mitford characters.
Though he lived with the schizophrenic and exceedingly difficult Rose Watson for more than five decades, he maintained a cheerful spirit and positive outlook that made people glad to see him coming.
He was also a man of honor.
When Father Tim asked Uncle Billy how he’d managed to live with Miss Rose all these years, the old man replied:
“Well, Preacher, I took a vow.”
His truest mission, however, was to be a bearer of jokes. In truth, the chief delight of his long life was to make people laugh, and you’ll find dozens of Uncle Billy jokes throughout the Mitford novels. Just as Esther Bolick was the Cake Queen, Uncle Billy was the unchallenged Joke King.
In the final Mitford novel, Light from Heaven, I knew that someone had to be called up higher. And it wasn’t going to be Father Tim. I really didn’t want to let Uncle Billy go any more than I wished to part with Miss Sadie, whom I had loved as if she were flesh and blood.
But Uncle Billy did go—on the same night Esther Bolick’s husband, Gene, died from the effects of an inoperable brain tumor.
The town was sad about this double loss. And though it was unspoken, the loss of Uncle Billy was felt more keenly. Th
e old man had been a fixture in Mitford for longer than most people could remember. They’d laughed at, and repeated, most of his jokes, and not a few had favorites they could pull out at church parties or ball games or Rotary meetings.
At Uncle Billy’s funeral, which Father Tim preached, something most unusual happened.
Soon afterward, this phenomenon spread through Mitford like a brush fire. Here’s a scene.
He scooted to Dora Pugh’s hardware, jingling the bell above the door.
“I been lookin’ for you in th’ obituaries!” said Dora.
“Don’t look there yet!”
“Have you heard about Coot Hendrick’s new job?”
“Coot’s working?” As far as he knew, Coot hadn’t struck a lick at a snake in at least two decades.
“Has a hundred and seventy people under him.”
“What?”
“Weed-eats th’ town graveyard.”
He laughed. “Ah, Dora, you’re a sly one.’
“I hear Bill Sprouse up at First Baptist cut his chin pretty bad while shavin’, said he had his mind on his sermon.”
“I’ll be darned. Sorry to hear it.”
“They say he should’ve kep’ his mind on his chin and cut ’is sermon.”
“You got me twice in a row!”
Next, he zooms by Lew Boyd’s Exxon for a fill-up.
“You hear th’ one about th’ police pullin’ th’ woman f’r speedin’?” asked Lew.
“Haven’t heard it.” It was an epidemic!
“She come flyin’ by ’im with ’er husband in th’ car, police caught up to ’er, said, ‘I’m writin’ you a ticket, did you know you’re doin’ ninety-two?’ She said, ‘Sure I know it, it says so on that sign yonder.’
“He says, ‘That’s a highway sign, for gosh sake. Husband’s settin’ there white as a sheet,’ po lice says, ‘What’s th’ matter with him?’
“She says, ‘We just come off of 116.’”
No doubt about it, Uncle Billy left a legacy. And though he’s gone to Glory, as Absalom Greer would have said, his spirit lives on in Mitford. In the last chapters of Light from Heaven, even the curmudgeonly J. C. Hogan and the no-nonsense Avis Packard are telling jokes.
I loved Uncle Billy, and shall miss his cheerful heart.
Requiescat in pace.
UNCLE BILLY’S JOKES
“SO ROSE SAID t’ me, she said, ‘Bill Watson, I’m goin’ t’ give you a piece of my mind,’ and I said, ‘Just a small helpin’, please.’” He grinned broadly at the rector.
“Yessir, I told Rose what you said about givin’ th’ house to th’ town, an’ them givin’ her a nice, modern place all fixed up in th’ back, and she said th’ only way she’d do it was if the statue was like Sherman or Grant or one of them, don’t you know. That’s when I said he ought t’ be settin’ down, and she like to th’owed a fit.”
Uncle Billy chuckled. “Preacher, I took Rose f’r better or worse, but I declare, she’s much worse than I took ’er for!”
At Home in Mitford, Ch. 22
“UNCLE BILLY !HOW are you?”
“No rest f’r th’ wicked, and th’ righteous don’t need none!” he said, cackling. “Jis’ thought I’d call up to chew th’ fat, and tell you things is goin’ good up here at th’ mansion.”
“I’m always glad to hear that,” said the rector, tucking the receiver under his chin and signing the letter he’d just typed.
“I don’t know what you think about preacher jokes….”
“What have you got? I could use a good laugh.”
“Well, sir, this preacher didn’t want to tell ’is wife he was speakin’ to th’ Rotary on th’ evils of adultery. She was mighty prim, don’t you know, so he told her he was goin’ to talk about boating.
“Well sir, a little later, ’is wife run into a Rotarian who said her husband had give a mighty fine speech.
“‘That’s amazin’,’ she said, ‘since he only done it twice. Th’ first time he th’owed up and th’ second time ’is hat blowed off.’”
A Light in the Window, Ch. 4
WHEN THE OLD man called the office, he felt instantly encouraged.
“Uncle Billy, how are you?”
“Pretty good, considerin’ I done fell off a twelve-foot ladder.”
“Good Lord! Is anything broken? Why, it’s a miracle you survived!”
“Well, sir, t’ tell th’ truth, I only fell off th’ bottom rung.”
“Aha.”
Uncle Billy sounded disappointed. “That’s m’ new joke, don’t you know.”
“I was supposed to laugh?”
“That’s th’ general thinkin’ behind a joke.”
A Light in the Window, Ch. 13
“HOW YOU ’UNS comin’?” Uncle Billy stuck his head in the hatch door and peered into the gloom.
“We need a joke!” said the rector. They had packed seventy-two boxes, all told, not a few of which were breakables that had already been broken.
“How about if I stand right here t’ tell it,” said Uncle Billy. “Arthur won’t let me come down steps, don’t you know.” Activity subsided as the old man reared back to deliver his contribution to moving day.
“Did you ’uns hear about th’ feller lookin’ for a good church?”
“No!” chorused his audience.
“Well sir, he searched around and found a little fellowship where th’ preacher and th’ congregation were readin’ out loud. They were sayin’, ‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.’
“Th’ feller dropped into th’ pew with a big sigh of relief. ‘Hallelujah,’ he said to hisself, ‘I’ve found my crowd at last.’”
The rector laughed heartily. “It’s about time you worked our bunch into your repertoire.”
“Hit us again, Uncle Billy,” said Mule.
“This feller, he went t’ th’ doctor and told ’im what all was wrong, so th’ doctor give ’im a big load of advice about how to git well. Th’ feller started to leave, don’t you know, when th’ doctor said, ‘Hold up. You ain’t paid me for my advice.’ ‘That’s right,’ th’ feller said, ‘because I ain’t goin’ t’ take it.’”
“I’ll print that one,” said J.C., scribbling in his pocket notebook.
A Light in the Window, Ch. 16
“YOU REMEMBER THAT dictionary I found in th’ Dumpster?” Uncle Billy asked him when they met on the street.
“I do.”
“I cain’t hardly enjoy readin’ it n’ more.”
“Is that right?”
“Yessir, it’s one thing here and another thing there—they’re always changin’ th’ subject, don’t you know.”
The rector rolled his eyes and chuckled.
“That’s m’ new joke, but it’s not m’ main joke. I’m workin’ out m’ main joke for spring. By th’ almanac, spring comes official on June twenty-one.”
“Well, then, you’ve got a little time,” he said. “Let me treat you to a cheeseburger.”
Uncle Billy grinned, his gold tooth gleaming. “I’d be beholden to you, Preacher. An’ I wouldn’t mind a bit if you’d tip in some fries.”
He put his arm around the old man’s shoulders as they walked toward the Grill. He’d be et for a tater if he didn’t love Bill Watson like blood kin.
These High, Green Hills, Ch. 8
WHEN HE LEFT the bakery, he looked up the street and saw Uncle Billy sitting in a dinette chair on the grounds of the town museum, watching traffic flow around the monument.
He walked up and joined him. “Uncle Billy! I’m half starved for a joke.”
“I cain’t git a new joke t’ save m’ life,” said the old man, looking forlorn.
“If you can’t get a joke, nobody can.”
“My jokes ain’t workin’ too good. I cain’t git Rose t’ laugh f’r nothin’.”
“Aha.”
“See, I test m’ jokes on Rose, that’s how I k
now what t’ tell an’ what t’ leave off.”
“Try one on me and see what happens.”
“Well, sir, two ladies was talkin’ about what they’d wear to th’ Legion Hall dance, don’t you know, an’ one said, ‘We’re supposed t’ wear somethin’ t’ match our husband’s hair, so I’ll wear black, what’ll you wear?’ an’ th’ other one sorta turned pale, don’t you know, an’ said, ‘I don’t reckon I’ll go.’”
“Aha,” said Father Tim.
“See, th’ feller married t’ that woman that won’t be goin’ was bald, don’t you know.”
The rector grinned.
“It don’t work too good, does it?” said Uncle Billy. “How about this ’un? Little Sonny’s mama hollered at ’im, said, ‘Sonny, did you fall down with y’r new pants on?’ An’ Sonny said, ‘Yes ’um, they won’t time t’ take ’em off.’”
The rector laughed heartily. “Not bad. Not half bad!”
“See, if I can hear a laugh or two, it gits me goin’.”
“About like preaching, if you ask me.”
Out to Canaan, Ch. 6
“WELL, SIR, A feller died who had lived a mighty sinful life, don’t you know. Th’ minute he got down t’ hell, he commenced t’ bossin’ around th’ imps an’ all, a-sayin’ do this, do that, and jump to it. Well, sir, he got so dominatin’ that th’ little devils reported ’im to th’ head devil who called th’ feller in, said, ‘How come you act like you own this place?’
“Feller said, ‘I do own it, my wife give it to me when I was livin’.’”
Out to Canaan, Ch. 19
UNCLE BILLY STOOD as straight as he was able, holding on to his cane and looking soberly at the little throng, who gave forth a murmur of coughing and throat-clearing.
“Wellsir!” he exclaimed, by way of introduction. “A farmer was haulin’ manure, don’t you know, an’ ’is truck broke down in front of a mental institution. One of th’ patients, he leaned over th’ fence, said, ‘What’re you goin’ t’ do with y’r manure?’
“Farmer said, ‘I’m goin’ t’ put it on m’ strawberries.’