Heavens to Betsy (14 page)

I return to the church more confused than when I left it. Angelique is waiting to pounce the moment I walk through the office door. She clutches a fistful of pink phone-message slips in her fire-engine-red acrylic talons.

“The Judge called, and he wants to vet your sermon before you preach it Sunday.”

“Great. My own personal critique service. What else?”

“Mrs. Tompkins wants you to make a run to Kroger for salad dressings before the next ladies auxiliary meeting.”

“I wasn’t aware I was her personal shopper as well as her minister. Next?”

“Um, some lawyer. I didn’t quite catch his name. He says the Longworths are suing the church over their wedding.”

“Suing the church? For what? The wedding was perfect.”

“Mrs. Longworth is upset there was a lady minister in all the wedding pictures. Says it ruined the whole thing. She wants money for her pain and suffering.”

Just one.

I stop and turn. Knowing Angeliques penchant for drama, I’m sure she’s saved the best for last.

“Yes?”

“Mavis Carter’s son called. She passed away.”

“God finally gave in and took her, huh?”

Okay, I know that sounds harsh, but if you’d known Mavis, you wouldn’t blame me. Her favorite pastime was causing misery and suffering. Mostly for the ministerial staff at church.

“Her son says the funeral is Saturday at 11:00 a.m.”

Smack in the middle of my date with David.

“Who’s doing the service?”

“He didn’t say. It’s at some little country church. Here’s the info.”

I take the slip of paper from Angelique and stuff it into my purse, and what’s left of the Pasta YaYa in my stomach turns to lead. That’s one of the realities of ministry. All your best-laid plans count for nothing when duty calls. Normally I’m philosophical about it. Doctors have it worse. But the closer I get to leaving the ministry, the more I resent its demands.

“Okay. I’ll adjust my schedule.” Don’t I always?

Having dropped all the proverbial shoes, Angelique evaporates back to her desk and her nail file. She’s supposed to be practicing her keyboarding skills, but I’m not sure she’s even figured out how to turn on the computer yet. On the other hand, parishioners love her because she always has time to chat with them.

I head straight for my office and close the door firmly behind me. It’s a risk, that closed door. The parishioners of Church of the
Shepherd seem to take it personally if their ministers aren’t constantly available. I find this compulsory open-door policy ironic. When exactly am I supposed to have time for prayer and contemplation, not to mention sermon preparation?

Fortunately, my voice mail doesn’t contain any more heavy breathing. Just the usual stuff. A salesman from a video company who wants me to buy a series of tapes on dealing with divorce. His take on it is that if the woman would just submit to the man as it says in the Bible, the divorce rate would drop dramatically. I hit the pound key and delete him without further ado.

E-mail is the same old, same old. A few quick notes from friends across the country. Some spam for a service where you can download prefab sermons. And something from David.

My heart picks up its pace.

I double-click, and the message opens. It would be nice if it was a declaration of undying love, but it’s a joke he’s forwarded to me.

How true.

I click Reply and type in the painful words that delay our bowling date until Saturday afternoon. And, like Scarlett O’Hara, I invoke God as my witness—once I’m out of the church, I will never again let my professional life interfere with my personal life.

The funeral director, easily identifiable in his dark suit, waits at the entrance and swings the door open for me as I approach.

“Reverend Blessing?”

Uh-oh. I guess my reputation has preceded me. Matt Carter has resented me since I objected to his attempts to get his mother to sign a new will while she was still under the influence of anesthesia.

“Yes, I’m Betsy Blessing.”

His furrowed brow relaxes. “I’m Fred Brown. We were worried you weren’t going to make it.”

A shiver starts at the base of my spine and works its way heavenward. Either this man is the most hospitable funeral-home director in the history of mortuary science, or I’ve been had.

He chuckles. “Well, we can’t exactly start without you, now can we?”

I will not allow my knees to give way beneath me. My fingers curl around the strap of my purse.

This is what’s known in the business as The Irate Relatives Revenge. And here I thought I’d learned all the tricks. Matt Carter made a practice of ignoring the calling cards I left when his mom was out of it and then telling her the “lady preacher” never bothered to visit. As I mentioned, he did his best to change his mother’s will when he found out the church was among the beneficiaries. But hoodwinking the preacher at the funeral service is a new low. How many people would be willing to ruin their mother’s memorial service to get payback on the preacher?

I swallow, blink twice, and smile. “So sorry. There was a wreck on Charlotte Pike.” I have nothing with me. No notes. No Bible. Just a head full of Scripture and a depressing familiarity with funeral liturgy. Fortunately, in our denomination, when it comes to funerals, we make it up as we go along. But we usually make it up the night before instead of on the spot.

The taped organ music is wailing “The Old Rugged Cross” as the funeral director, relieved to have lassoed a pastor for the service, leads me up the aisle of the church to the thronelike chair behind the podium. It’s ironic they give the best chair to the one person who will be standing for almost the entire service. For the moment, though, I’m grateful for the next three minutes I’ll have in that chair to collect myself and plan Mavis Carters funeral.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. My insides rumble ominously, not liking the sudden onset of adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“Friends, we are gathered here in the sight of God, to celebrate the life of Mavis Jewel Carter…”

So far, so good. I can reel off the introductory remarks by heart. Or at least by mouth, even if my heart’s not in it. Which it isn’t; not today. Resentment, frustration, irritation—did you know sometimes that’s what ministers are feeling when they’re standing up in front of you preaching about the love of God? Fortunately for those of us of the clerical persuasion, God can use us anyway—even when we’re as recalcitrant as a six-year-old being forced to swallow medicine.

The Scripture readings flow as easily as the introduction. The “in my father’s house are many rooms” part of John 14. A bit from Revelation about no more crying and God wiping away every tear, not that anyone here is shedding a tear for Mavis, the old harridan. Even Mrs. Tompkins and The Judge aren’t that good at playacting.

“Even as we come together to mourn,” I say, “we also gather to celebrate the gift of life that comes from God—”

And then, as I’m mouthing the words, something twists in my midsection. The twist that happens from time to time when I’m doing my thing in the pulpit. One moment I’m a competent-if-uninspired preacher, and then—grace happens. The truth of the words I’m saying resonates through me, and suddenly my voice is not my own. Is this
how all those Old Testament prophets felt? Maybe that’s why they compared their calls to having a burning coal pressed to their lips.

The prayer flows so easily I’m practically singing it. This is why I chose ministry in the first place, this experience of leading and yet being led. “Use these moments of remembrance, O God, to open our hearts to you. Amen.”

I look out at the dozen mourners to see if they can tell the difference. Do they know the minister is having a “moment”? Hard to tell. Mavis’s son is scowling. Guess he hasn’t caught on to the spiritual depth I’ve tapped into. One older woman with bluish hair and Coke-bottle glasses is blowing her nose, but that’s not unusual in Middle Tennessee, where allergy season lasts from January to December. Mrs. Tompkins never changes her expression, and The Judge is using the end of his penknife to clean under his fingernails.

The eulogy presents a bigger challenge. My mother raised me to believe that if you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. That dictum doesn’t apply when you’re delivering the eulogy of a woman who didn’t like anyone and who wasn’t liked by anyone in return.

“Mavis Carter was faithful to her church…” Okay, that’ll work. She was faithful to tormenting her fellow parishioners. But that one statement’s not going to be enough. I rack my brain for some memory, however fleeting, of Mavis engaging in any act of compassion or genuine feeling.

For several long moments, the chapel is dead silent. No pun intended.

And I realize I can’t talk for the next ten minutes about Mavis. Not without exposing her, me, and Church of the Shepherd. So
instead of a eulogy, I say what I know to be true. I talk about the gift God gives to us when we find a community of faith. How much it means to be part of one, even under the worst of circumstances. How we struggle. How we fail. How we shine. In the midst of my eloquent delivery, I realize this is my chance to address Mrs. Tompkins and The Judge when they have no chance for rebuttal. So I say everything I’ve always wanted to say about church life. How we mistake showing up for being faithful. How power in church should be used to build one another up, not tear one another down. And how our life together in churches ought to be measured by a standard of love, not a standard of condemnation.

At the end, I say a brief prayer and sit back down on the preacher throne.

The funeral director looks shell-shocked. Matt Carter has steam coming out of his ears, but, then, when doesn’t he? The Judge has put away his penknife, and Mrs. Tompkins is pursing her lips as if she’s sucking the world’s sourest lemon.

And I realize that in dying, Mavis Carter may have finally contributed to the betterment of her church.

Preaching a funeral service on no notice turns out to be far easier than meeting David that afternoon. Normally after I do a funeral, I receive an honorarium from the family. It’s not usually a large amount, but in a low-paying profession like the ministry, it’s always a blessing. I give ten percent to the church, and then I use the rest to splurge on fun things like rent and groceries. Today, to no one’s surprise, I receive
no honorarium. In fact, Matt Carter refuses to speak to me after the service.