Light From Heaven (28 page)

Father Tim pushed open the door to the room where the Owens’ daughter Annie had lived until she finished college. Her years in the foreign service had kept her away from home for long periods, but soon, she’d be moving to Asheville, a fact that thrilled not only the Owens, but himself, as well.

Barnabas bounded in and stood by the bed, wagging his tail.

“Sammy! Good morning! Time to get up, son.”

“What’s g-goin’ on?”

“A blessed Easter to you! We’re off to church in an hour or so, breakfast on the table in twenty minutes.”

“Church?” Sammy sat up in bed, wearing one of Dooley’s left-behind sweatshirts. “I ain’t goin’ t’ no ch-church.”

“We talked about it last night.”

“Y-yeah, but I didn’t s-s-say I’d g-go.”

“House rule. We go to church as a family.”

“That rule wadn’t on th’ l-list you give me b’fore.”

“I’m sorry. I took that rule for granted and failed to mention it. Please get up now and have some breakfast.”

“Quit
breathin’
on me!” he heard Sammy say to Barnabas, who caught up with his master on the stairs.

He realized again that he’d never enjoyed making anybody do anything. But enjoyment wasn’t necessarily what it was all about when a lost boy comes under your roof. It had often been tough sledding with Dooley, and it could be tough sledding again.

Lord,
he prayed,
thank you for being on the sled . . .

They were early, yet four vehicles were already parked in the lot.

As he blew through the door with Barnabas at his heels, he checked his mental list. Pew bulletins on the top shelf by the bell rope. Juice and cups and a tin of cookies on the bottom shelf. Bread and wine in the sacristy; his white vestments hanging behind the door. Lilies in front of the altar, the snowy fair linen laid on, floors swept clean, windows shining . . .

Yesterday’s housekeeping detail with Sammy and Cynthia and Lloyd and the Mertons had been one of the highlights of his priesthood.

Buzzed with excitement, he marshaled his troops.

“Miss Martha, do you sing?”

“Real loud!” announced Mary.

“Good! That’s what we need this morning. Open up those pipes, ladies.

“Kavanagh, I’m depending on you, as well.”

“You know perfectly well I was given an eye, not an ear!”

“No excuses! Lloyd, do you sing?”

“Tenor. But can’t read music t’ save my life.”

“Not a problem, we’re using the old hymns. And there’s a visitor! Welcome to Holy Trinity! Happy Easter! Do you sing?”

“It’ll set y’r dog t’ barkin’,” declared Sparkle Foster.

“Set him to barking, then. We’re here to celebrate!” He hurried toward the sacristy, calling over his shoulder: “Christ being raised from the dead dieth no more!”

Cynthia smiled at the early comers. “My husband is always like this at Easter,” she said.

His wife, a gift from God.

Sammy Barlowe, a gift from God.

His eyes roved the pews.

Agnes Merton, Clarence Merton, gifts from God . . .

Robert Prichard . . . yes, a gift from God . . .

Every saint has a past, the sixteenth-century
poet had said,
and every sinner has a future.
And all because of what He did for love.

“Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us: therefore let us keep the feast. Not with old leaven neither with the leaven of malice and wickedness; but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth . . .”

“As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end . . .”

The old words seemed somehow reborn, as his spirit stepped forth to embrace his new parish.

They gathered in the churchyard, close by the stone wall.

How many souls had gathered at this wall in the life of Holy Trinity, and looked out to clear skies and dark alike? One thing the vicar knew for certain, there wouldn’t be many Easter morns as glorious as this.

A soft, impressionist light bathed every ridge; the still-bare trees, seemingly grim and resolute only days ago, appeared relieved and hopeful; for the first time, he noticed buds on the rhododendron.

Barnabas sprawled atop the wall, eyeing all comers.

“‘At’s’ th’ biggest dern dog I ever seen in m’ life,” said Rooter. “Is ’e a bitin’ dog?”

“Not so far,” said Father Tim.

“I don‘ want t‘ be eat up by no dog.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem; he had breakfast before we left.”

He stood with Cynthia and Agnes by the wall, dispensing cartons of eggs. Sissie Gleason was first in line, holding fast to Granny’s hand.

Sissie looked up at Father Tim. “Was God here t’day?”

“He was!” said the vicar. “And is.”

Sissie raised one foot in the air. “I wanted ’im t’ see m’ new shoes.”

“Ain’t them th’ prettiest little yeller shoes you ever laid eyes on?” asked Granny.

“They are!” Cynthia agreed. “I’d love a pair exactly like them.”

Sissie peered into the carton of eggs. “They ain’t colored,” she said. “They ain’t fit t’ hide.”

“Take them home and boil them hard,” said Cynthia, “then color them with your Magic Markers and hide them to your heart’s content. Do you have Magic Markers?”

“What is Magi Markers?”

“I’ll bring you some next Sunday. Do you read?”

“Nope. I ain’t in school yet.”

“I’ll bring you a book,” said Cynthia. “It has lots of pictures. Kiss your mother for us.”

Father Tim squatted to Sissie’s level. “Thank you for coming, Sissie. Tell your Uncle Donny he’d sure be welcome to join us. And tell your mother she’s in our prayers.”

“Sparkle Foster,” said the fortyish woman, shaking Cynthia’s hand. “I do hair in th’ valley, pleased to meet you. An’ this is my husband, Wayne.”

“Sparkle! Wayne! A blessed Easter to you!”

“Same to y’all.This is sure a different kind of church for us. I was raised Holiness,Wayne was raised Baptist.”

“I was raised
t’ shout,
” said Wayne, setting the record straight, “but
fell away
to th’ Baptists.”

Cynthia handed off a carton to the redhaired Sparkle, who appeared touched by the gesture. “Why, thank you, how nice. Other than it bein’ Easter, is there a special meanin’ to givin’ eggs away at church?”

“There is, actually! Our hens lay faster than we can use up the proceeds! Where did you get your wonderful name?”

Sparkle laughed. “My granmaw got it out of th’ funny papers.”

“Very creative of your granmaw! We’re happy to have you and hope you’ll come again.”

“I don’t know if we can keep up with th’ way y’ all do things.”

Wayne nodded, clearly in agreement.

“We need to have some lessons on the prayer book,” said the vicar. “Would be good for everybody. What about a covered dish next Sunday? Followed by a discussion on how we do things?” In his new parish, there would be no slacking; it was fish or cut bait.

“Great idea!” boomed Martha McKinney, moving up in line. “I’ll bring my German chocolate cake.”

“She’ll bring her German choc’late cake,” said Mary, clearly thrilled by the prospect.

“Miss Martha, Miss Mary, He is risen!”

“He is risen, indeed!” they recited in unison.

Martha received their dozen with obvious gratitude. “We used to be covered up with eggs, everybody and his brother kept chickens! But today, there’s hardly a soul who’ll keep a chicken.”

“They run out in th’ road,” said Mary. “That’s why.”

Father Tim indicated the open doors and the crowd milling about in the churchyard. “Well, ladies, what do you think?”

Tears brimmed in Martha’s eyes. “It’s the best thing that’s happened on this ridge in more years than I can count. I was so excited, I was up half th’ night!”

“We was
both
up half th’ night!” said Mary.

“A blessed Easter to you!” He hugged Miss Mary, while Cynthia hugged Miss Martha. Teamwork!

“Lloyd!” The vicar clasped the hand of the other cradle Episcopalian in their midst. “He is risen!”

“He is risen, indeed!” said Lloyd, who received his dozen with a big grin. “Come summer, I’ll keep you an’ Miz Kavanagh in corn. I grow Silver Queen.”

“Our sworn favorite! I meant to ask you yesterday what you do with your time now that you’ve moved home.”

“I was in th’ contractin’ bi‘ness a good many years, workin’ as a brick mason. I’m what you call semiretired, but I still lay a little brick now an’ again.”

“Look how the Lord works! I’m just getting estimates on a chimney that blew down in the wind. Quite a mess. Care to give us a price? We’re in th’ valley, Dr. Owen’s place.”

“Glad to. Happy to! I know right where you’re at.”

“Tuesday morning, first thing?”

“You can count on it.”

“A blessed Easter to you, Granny. Fresh from the nest.”

“Rooter’ll have th’ whole bunch et up b’fore you can say jackrabbit.”

Rooter took the eggs. “We wouldn’t mind gittin’ some more when you’uns have ’em,” said Rooter.

“What d’you say?” prompted Granny.

“Thank you’uns.”

“You’re welcome,” said the vicar, giving Rooter a clap on the shoulder.

Rooter made a face. “I ain’t never heerd none of them songs you’un’s sing.”

Father Tim heard Agnes chuckle.

“Come again next Sunday,” he said, “and we’ll have some more songs you never heard! But guess what?”

“What?”

“You and Granny keep coming, and one day, you’ll start recognizing the words and the tunes, and next thing you know . . .”

Rooter grinned. “I might keep a-comin’, but I won’t be a-singin’, I c’n tell y’ that.” He turned to Agnes. “I’d like t’ say somethin’ to Clarence. Can you show me some of them hand words y’all do?”

“What would you like to say?”

“How you doin’, man
?”

“Step over here and I’ll show you,” said Agnes.

“And by the way,” said Father Tim, “I’d like to see Clarence’s work, myself. When it’s convenient.”

“Consider it done!” said Agnes, borrowing his line.

“Robert . . . for you. A blessed Easter!”

Robert took the carton without speaking, his head lowered. When he looked up, Father Tim felt his very soul pierced. In Robert Prichard’s eyes was a look of utter desolation.

Father Tim spontaneously embraced him. “He is risen!” he whispered, hoarse with feeling.