Each Shining Hour (12 page)

Fools Who Came to Scoff

I
slept late Sunday morning—that is, if eight thirty can be considered late. I was in dreamland with only my hand exposed from under the covers, extending slightly off the bed. It was found by a big sloppy tongue and a very cold nose, not the sort of stuff that dreams are made of.

I took Rhett downstairs and let him outside while I made coffee. At nine o'clock, the first of the downtown church bells began to ring, the age-old call to Sunday worship. Since my arrival in town, I had not participated in the business of Sunday morning. I had wanted to keep my distance, not to engage in the larger life here. To their credit, despite how their faith permeated their lives in both word and deed, the people of Watervalley had not pressed me on this matter. Early on, polite invitations had been offered, but then the subject had been left alone. It spoke of a respect and perhaps a deeper understanding of what they believed. Their faith had patience.

This Sunday morning something stirred in me. I could honestly say it was a blend of motivations. I knew Christine would be
in the choir, but that alone was not the draw. I had known of her presence there for months. There was something of the devout in the mix, as well as a desire to connect with others in my small world. It seemed the time had come.

I went upstairs, cleaned up, shaved, and dressed. My clothes could use pressing, but it wasn't a major concern. In Watervalley, you were considered a fashion aficionado if you didn't wear white socks with your Sunday suit. In time, the eleven o'clock hour approached and I grabbed my wool overcoat and drove over to Church Street.

Made from cut limestone, First Presbyterian of Watervalley was an impressive hundred-year-old building with Greek columns and elaborate stained-glass windows. Broad steps led up to the narthex, a stately room of deep-toned wood paneling and marble floor that solemnly brought you into an awareness of a subdued and sanctified presence. The sanctuary beyond was no less imposing.

After being handed a service bulletin, I shuffled into a full house save for an open area on the rear right pew. I landed just as the church bell rang for the eleventh time. Before I sat, however, my attention was held captive by a small well-worn brass plate on the end of the pew. It read
DONATED
BY
OSCAR
FOX
, 1943
. This struck me as rather odd given his notorious reputation. I knew that in the past John Harris had gone to church here. When I got a chance, I would ask him about it.

I had no sooner sat down than I recognized Will Fox and his mother, Louise, seated at the far end of the same pew. I smiled and nodded.

Will offered a slight wave and Louise returned a faint smile and I was again reminded of their desperate financial situation. She sat with her tattered coat beside her, staring forward with a
shattered humility, doing her best to cling, at least in some outward way, to a lost standard of personal dignity. It seemed in that moment that, if for no other reason, the hound of heaven had drawn me to church that morning to convince me I must try to do something for them. What this was, I had no idea.

Nor did I have long to think about it.

I was abruptly shoved by someone wanting me to scoot over to make room. It was John Harris. As seemed to be his nature, he had arrived in a nasty way. Once again he wore his dark suit and coat, and looked polished and downright handsome.

As I moved over, he leaned toward me. “Don't say a damn word, sawbones. I'm here. So just shut up.”

I looked down, repressing a roguish grin. When I glanced sideways toward John, he was doing the same. Even in church, it seemed we shared an effortless camaraderie. Admittedly, we were akin to two mischievous schoolboys full of mirthful exuberance. We knew where we were and were fully respectful of the moment, but we were not beyond being slightly irreverent.

The service began with Reverend Joe Dawson welcoming everyone and reviewing the morning's announcements. Even though he had held the position for well over a year, he was still considered the new pastor. His predecessor had presided for thirty-three years. Standing in his black robe with an easy smile and great energy, Joe didn't fit the mold of the stoic Presbyterian minister. He read through the printed announcements and then grinned broadly.

“I do need to bring everyone's attention to a minor typographical error in our bulletin this morning. Please note that our hymn of worship is actually ‘There Is a Balm in Gilead' and not ‘There Is a Bomb in Gilead.'” This brought a ripple of laughter from the congregation.

Joe continued, “This was my mistake. I texted it in to our church secretary and did not pay proper attention to the auto-spell feature. You would think I would have learned my lesson from my last church, where one Sunday the closing hymn was ‘Just as I Am, Without One Flea.'”

More laughter ensued and with a grand smile, Joe implored us to stand and begin the service with the opening hymn. To my surprise, John had a rich baritone voice and only occasionally glanced at the printed words. He knew them by heart. I, on the other hand, struggled along. Singing had never been a long suit and I fumbled through miserably. When we finished, John leaned over and whispered, “The sheriff should record you singing and have it played to the state inmates. I can't imagine a crueler punishment.”

He leaned back and folded his arms, quite pleased with himself.

With my chin low I turned slightly. “I hope you get very sick, and soon.”

The service continued.

The familiar progression of responsive reading, asking forgiveness, receiving assurance, and singing centuries-old hymns followed. Curiously, I found the service amazingly comforting. Unlike other churches I had known, First Presbyterian of Watervalley had felt no compunction to reinvent itself. Here there was a high regard for traditional, liturgically informed worship. The church had not lost its ecclesiastical soul.

Faith in Watervalley was part of the common vernacular, far more than an occasional “Lord willing” thrown into the conversation. It seemed that God was automatically considered present in the room, participating in the conversation. I couldn't say that I always thought to operate under this mind-set, but I embraced it
as genuine in those around me and had seen the transcendent goodness it fostered in their actions. Their lives were the outworking of their theology.

Joe Dawson proceeded to deliver his message. It was authentic and compelling.

His was not a sanitized gospel, watered down to accommodate behavior that inconveniently conflicted with scriptural absolutes. This was a gospel meant to be unapologetically accepted for what it was, not one in constant need of mending in order to incorporate the latest cultural trend. And yet the appeal was not premised on guilt and shame, but rather on being open to considering a gentle plea to a different worldview.

During the sermon John seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts. Occasionally he would gaze at the ceiling with a collected stoicism. In time he began to survey the room, methodically and somberly pondering one individual and then the next. No doubt, he had a history with all of them. As John looked around at these people of Watervalley, at these souls in his small world, something in his countenance suggested that he still held a deep sympathy and affection for them. It hinted that his contempt toward them was changing, if only by inches.

The sermon drew to a close, leaving only the offering and closing hymn. While the organ played, several men and women discreetly moved the collection plates along the rows. John and I both made contributions and I couldn't help but hear the distinct clink of coins when the plate passed by Louise Fox. The sound stirred in me the voices of faith and charity. I didn't think poorly of prayer, but her situation called for deliverance on a more earthly level. Then an idea struck me. A good idea, but it would have to wait.

Suddenly, like all of those around me, I became an unintended listener to a loud conversation.

“How much you got there? Looks like a pretty good take today.”

It was one of the ushers, Clyde Perkins, a rumpled little fellow in his early eighties who had probably performed this duty for decades. He wore hearing aids and was utterly incapable of talking in anything below a mild yell. He and another usher were standing at the back, waiting for the anthem to end.

“Nobody uses their offering envelopes anymore. I don't know why we print the darn things,” Clyde said.

Grins erupted among those around me. There was an exchange of knowing glances, looks of tolerant amusement. Clyde's counterpart, a fellow in his thirties, held up a low hand to him, offering some quick nods and placing a nervous finger before his lips. It didn't help.

“Eh, what's that?”

Clyde's voice echoed down the long expanse of the church. In response, Lilith Warren, the church organist, began to play louder, no doubt in an effort to drown him out.

“Organ's awful loud, ain't it? How much longer do you think she's gonna play? I'm getting tired of standing here.”

By now many were holding fisted hands over their lips, endeavoring not to laugh out loud. But one person did. It was the pastor, Joe Dawson.

Finally Lilith finished the anthem and began the processional music calling for the ushers to come forward. Clyde straightened his back as best he could and headed down the aisle, clearly wanting to lend sacrosanct dignity to his duties. The ushers placed their plates on the altar table and retreated to their seats.

When the organ stopped, Joe prayed. “Lord, we thank you for these tithes and offerings. May they be used wisely and prudently in the service of your kingdom.” He paused for a long moment. Then, his voice tinged with humor, he added, “We also thank you,
Lord, because I believe Brother Clyde is right, it does look like a pretty good take. It is in your name we pray. Amen.”

Joe looked up at the congregation, his face full to bursting with laughter. He wanted to speak, but couldn't keep himself from chuckling.

“Well . . .”

It was likely unintentional, but it seemed the perfect comic timing. The crowd erupted and Joe continued to snicker till his face turned red. Eventually he held up his hand and gave the closing benediction. The service had been inspiring on several levels. I had to admire the Watervalley Presbyterians. They might be God's frozen chosen, but they sure knew how to laugh at themselves.

The service concluded and Lilith played a lively piece as everyone began to leave. John and I spontaneously shook hands, grinning wryly at each other.

“Doctor, it's been a pleasure.”

“That it has, Professor. That it has. We should try it again sometime.”

John nodded with a slight shrug. “Sure, nothing wrong with a little pew aerobics from time to time. Come up later and we'll discuss it over a Scotch.”

“Ah, that's the spirit.”

John grinned and began to move among the crowd toward the narthex. He was immediately accosted with a slew of handshakes. I couldn't help but notice the engaging presence of the public John. He had the gracious capacity to look directly into the eyes of those who greeted him, energizing them, invoking a genuine feeling of connection. People flocked to him.

But I could also tell that John preferred to make a hasty retreat. I knew him well enough to discern the nuanced look in his eyes and the tightening of his lips that telegraphed his eagerness to
depart back to his hilltop sanctuary. It seemed that coming to church, making this small step back into the life of Watervalley, had been an experiment for him. One, I suspected, he would not repeat anytime soon.

I turned to speak to Louise Fox, but she and Will had already gone. I moved to the outside aisle and worked against the crowd to make my way toward the choir and Christine. Apparently, she had been of a similar mind. When we met midway she was still in her choir robe.

“I hope you two behaved yourselves back there.”

“Only barely.”

“I figured as much.” She turned her back toward me. “Here. Unzip me.”

“May I just say that in my daydreams I've heard you speak those very words many times, but never in church or involving a choir robe?”

“You are so bad.”

She let the robe drop from her shoulders and fall to her knees before she stepped out of it. As she stood in her blouse and skirt, I was once again reminded of the first day we'd met months ago at her school.

“I had a great time yesterday,” I said. “Did I tell you that last night?”

“Yes, but you can tell me again.”

“Okay. It was incredible.”

“Which part?”

I considered for a second. “Why is it that the best moment that comes to mind seems inappropriate to discuss in church?”

Christine rolled her eyes in reproach. Yet all the while she smiled that wonderful, delightful, taunting smile that so automatically charmed me.

“Hey, why don't you come out to Sunday lunch? Mom would love to see you.”

“Anyone besides your mom in that category?”

“Well, Princess Bess was asking about you. Apparently you made a real impression.”

“Okay, last chance, Miss Chambers. I'm going to repeat the question. Is there anyone else who would love to see me?”

Christine's lips formed a small pout. Then she reached up with both hands to straighten my tie. She had an incredible, powerful talent for showing affection through small attentions.

“Well, maybe there are a few others who are wanting to see you,” she teased.

“Hmmm, not good enough. I think some real groveling is called for here.”

“Bradford, show up or shut up.”

“Perfect. Sounded like groveling to me. I'm in.” Then a simple reality hit me. “Oh, hold it. Crap. No, I'm not.”

Christine's shoulders slumped. “Why not?”

“We're getting a new nurse at the clinic. I'm supposed to meet her at one o'clock.”