Heavens to Betsy (20 page)

The group usually numbers forty or so. We come from all different denominations. We’re white, African American, Hispanic, Asian. A handful of us are women. About seven or eight of us are associate ministers.

David’s there. He’s huddled with the second-string group of senior pastors. Their steeples aren’t quite as big as the first-string pastors’; neither are their congregations. At this meeting, size
does
matter.

Most of the associates are women. They’re standing off by themselves.
The whole thing reminds me of a junior-high dance. I head for the girls, cup of coffee in hand, with a feeling of relief. There’s a delicious feeling of understanding among women in ministry that sustains us through our darkest hours.

But as I approach, I notice a thread of tension in the air. Barely perceptible, but it’s still there.

“Hello, Betsy.” Frieda Groos is the Christian-education associate from the Reformed church. Her smile is about as welcoming as the dogs that attacked David in divinity school.

“Hi.” I’m suddenly nervous. Surreptitiously, I run my tongue over my teeth to check for anything unsightly wedged there. A quick glance at my shoes shows I’m not trailing toilet paper from the ladies’ room. No run in my hose. I’m pretty sure my blouse is buttoned properly, but I’m not going to look now. I wonder what this is about. Probably the makeover. That seems to be causing me problems everywhere else.

“So, you’re the new senior minister at Shepherd.” Frieda says it like I’ve contracted a highly communicable and particularly distasteful disease.

“Interim only. And under duress.”

So that’s it. They think I’ve betrayed them. I look around the circle, past Frieda, to Nan from the Presbyterian church. She won’t meet my gaze. Kelly, the Lutheran, smiles awkwardly. Kevin, the lone male who’s a new associate at the Missionary Baptist Church, shifts from one foot to the other. The women’s foreheads are virtually flat from bumping up against the stained-glass ceiling. Kevin’s only doing his time until he gets offered a senior job. For men, being an associate pastor is a launching point. For women, it’s pretty much the end of the line.

“Who’s speaking today?” With my luck, it will be a scintillating lecture on how to properly transliterate the Hebrew alphabet. The last interesting program we had was when LaRonda did a slide show on the school her church is building in South Africa.

“It’s Fred Farnsworth today,” Frieda says with grim resignation. “He’s going to tell us how to plan for adequate parking.”

I see LaRonda across the room. God bless her, she’s standing in the middle of all the Big Daddy Rabbit preachers, and she’s holding her own, though I do notice the laugh lines around her smile seem to come more from stress than amusement. Her church is as big as any of theirs, if not bigger, and her four-inch heels put her on par when it comes to personal height, but she still has to work twice as hard. I envy her ability to mark her territory and occupy it in the midst of the jungle, but I’m beginning to see signs of the toll it’s taking on her.

The president of the association bangs the gavel on the podium up front, which relieves me of trying to justify my current predicament to my fellow associates. We move toward the rows of chairs and settle in the back row. Usually we continue our junior-high behavior by passing notes and rolling our eyes if the speaker says something particularly inane. Hey, everybody has to be bad sometimes.

Fred Farnsworth is on a roll, detailing the relative merits of parallel versus angled parking, when my cell phone rings. It’s the call I’ve been dreading.

“This is Vanderbilt Hospital. May I speak to Betsy Blessing?”

“I’ll be right there.”

After a week and a half, I’m on a first-name basis with the ICU nurses. Julie stops me when I come through the double doors into the unit.

“She doesn’t look good, Betsy. Just be prepared.”

I myself have said that line to families when I’ve been with them and their loved one in the last hours. Somehow it sounds far more patronizing when you’re on the receiving end of it.

Velva seems to have shriveled overnight, as if her spirits been extracted from her body. When I step across the threshold into her room, I can’t sense her presence anymore. It’s clear that whatever it is that animates us—call it a soul, a spirit, what have you—isn’t inside her anymore. There’s an absence that speaks volumes.

“Can I have a few minutes?”

Julie pats my back. “Sure. Let us know when you’re ready. We’ve contacted her niece in New Jersey. She said she trusted you to do the right thing.”

And there is a right thing to be done here. Velva had ninety-four wonderful, grace-filled years. She made her wishes clear. I take her
hand, and the tears start to fall. Not for her, but, selfishly, for me. What will I do without her?

I lean down and kiss her cheek, as papery as always. “See ya soon,” I whisper in her ear, and maybe I’m imagining it, but I feel the slightest pressure from her fingers in mine. The heavy rasping of the respirator punctuates the quiet.

I nod to Julie through the window that faces the nurses station, and the medical personnel assemble to do what must be a routine but sad task. Their brisk movements are efficient, impersonal. They remind me of women in Bible times who prepared the bodies for burial.

“Into your hands, O Lord…” My words falter at first and then pick up strength. “We commit our sister Velva. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. In sure and certain hope of the resurrection in our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

Without the tube, she strains for each breath. It goes on for several torturous minutes. And then, with one last exhale, her body comes to a stop.

Julie hands me a tissue, and I wipe my nose and eyes.

“She’s gone,” I say, as if everyone in the room couldn’t tell.

Julie puts her arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “Yes, but she’s okay. And you will be too. Do you need some more time with her?”

I give the nurse a watery smile. “Yes, but not like you mean.”

Velva looks so fragile, her frail limbs covered by a hospital gown and a thin sheet.

“I’ll contact the funeral home.”

Velva has planned her service down to the smallest detail. We spent a lot of hours and many cups of tea picking hymns and scriptures.
She doesn’t want any flowers but zinnias. Or she
didn’t
want anything but zinnias. The awful reality of the past tense hits me. I hate that part of loss, that moment when you realize you have to change the very language you’ve always used to speak about the person you love.

Julie is tidying up the room. “Julie?”

“Yes?”

“Will they take her like that? In a hospital gown?”

“Probably.”

“She’d hate that. Could we put her nightgown and robe on her?”

Julie stops what she’s doing and looks at me. I see a trace of tears in her
eyes.
“Sure.”

It takes both of us to remove the hospital gown and replace it with Velva’s pink cotton nightgown and robe. Maybe this should feel icky or wrong, but it just feels like love. I pick up a comb and fluff her hair a little in the front. Just as Velva always did for Dottie at the nursing home.

Just like that, it’s over. No more stealthy hand-offs of contraband herbal supplements. No more birds outside the window or pots of strong tea. No more wisdom. No more courage.

I cry now because I can’t later. Later, I’ll have to be a professional. The service will be a comfort to all of us at Church of the Shepherd who adored her. I will put everything I have into her eulogy.

For now, I put what’s left into grieving for my own loss.

Even Edna Tompkins complimented me on the eulogy. The Judge shook my hand rather than slipping out the side door, so I must have done well. I hope I did Velva justice. That’s what you worry about when the funeral is for someone you loved so much. Did your personal feelings get in the way of your professional competence?

Later, after the graveside service, David and LaRonda take me to La Paz for shrimp enchiladas and a margarita. They’re both treating me as if I might shatter in the act of dipping tortilla chips into the salsa verde.

“We could go to the movies,” David offers after I’ve ordered my enchiladas. With a side of guacamole. The guacamole here is a sacrament.

“No, thanks. I’m not in the mood to see anyone get blown up.” I’m also not up to sitting in a darkened theater with David again. Not while he’s still Cali-fied.

“Why don’t you come home with me?” LaRonda asks. “We’ll deep-condition our hair and watch Meg Ryan movies.”

“Y’all are sweet, but I need to be alone for a while.”

The phone rings. I hiccup and sniffle, wipe my nose on my sleeve, and answer it. It could be a parishioner in worse shape than I’m in.

“Betz?” The familiar rumble of David’s voice is like Gilead’s balm.

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t tell me what time to pick you up on Saturday.”

The fund-raiser. I’d forgotten.

“Forget it. I’m not going.”

There’s a long silence, as if he’s thinking through what he’s going to say before he says it.

“I think you should go. I think you need to go. Life goes on, Betz.”

“I’m fine with life going on. It just needs to go on without me for a while.”

“No, it doesn’t. LaRonda will be at your house at four on Saturday to help you get ready.”

“David!” I don’t know whether to feel comforted or outraged at his high-handedness.

“Wear something cute.”

“You wouldn’t know the difference if I wore a potato sack.”

“Sure I would. You’d be the one who had
Idaho
written across your chest.”

“Okay, okay. Pick me up at seven.”

“I’m expecting a great dinner.”

“David, your idea of a great dinner is chili dogs.”

“Shall I make reservations at the bowling alley?”

I’m smiling when I didn’t think I could. Maybe love isn’t a complete loss after all.

“I’m only doing this because I want to see you in that tux.”