Authors: Lynne Hinton
Pie Town (23 page)
I
t sure is something,” Trina said as she stood with George across the road from the new church. “You did it. You got this town to build Holy Family.” She shook her head. “I never thought I’d see it.”
George turned to Trina in surprise. “What? I thought you believed in this idea. You were the one who told me to go for it.”
Trina grinned. “I believed in it and I wanted you to succeed. I just never thought you’d get everybody together and do it.” She rubbed her full belly and blew out a breath. The walk around the new church had exhausted her.
“It is a miracle.” George looked again across the road and remembered how he had tried when he returned to town to convince the community to build a new church. He knew the grief over losing Alex had affected everyone, and he knew there was a pall that hung over the town and everybody in it. And even though he understood the loss and the slow, hard way it settled on Pie Town, he thought he could get at least some of the people interested in the church.
He talked about it until he was blue in the face, held meetings at the school, at the diner, out in the park. He talked and talked and talked about the importance of a church, how Pie Town needed a place of sanctuary. He visited people in their homes, visited them at work, doing everything he knew how to do to raise money and interest until finally he was just about to give up.
He looked up at the sky, thankful for the arrival of spring, thankful for all that happened in the previous months in Pie Town.
“She came to you again, didn’t she? That was your miracle.” Oris was standing behind them, leaning against his car. He had driven Trina over to see the church since she had been on bed rest for most of the previous month when the finishing work had been completed. “I knew it was her. I told you she was still here.”
“Yes, you did, Oris,” George responded. “But I don’t think it was her this time. It didn’t sound like her. The voice sounded different.”
“Who came to see you?” Trina asked, not having heard the stories about Alice. “And what did she tell you that made everybody listen?”
George thought about that morning he had awakened early and decided to take a hike. It was the morning after his last called town meeting, the one that only Oris had attended. He was discouraged and burdened and he left the parsonage and headed east and south, finally making his way to Alegros Mountain, the highest peak near Pie Town. He hiked all the way to the top and stood, looking over Catron County, over Mangas Creek and the San Agustin Plains. He peered out across the vastness of the earth, the mountains and the valleys, the land of high desert, dry washes, and hard, scrubby pines. And as he saw the miles and miles stretched and stretching around him, he finally began to see how small his little church actually would be and began to consider how insignificant his work, his call, his place was.
He stood looking out all around him realizing what was becoming his failure, his unfulfilled dream, and asked the question out loud, “What shall I do?” He waited and after hearing nothing, he called out again, “You sent me back, called me back, but nobody listens to me. I don’t know what else to say to these people.”
And in the silence of the morning, just as he was turning to walk down the mountain with no answer, no direction, he saw a hawk circle above his head, its wings outstretched, floating on the early morning breeze, alone and sailing, and he heard the voice speak to him, quietly and easily, like the voice of a child. “There is nothing more to say, only that to do.”
And with the words fresh upon his heart, that was what he did. He quit talking and starting building. He started building a ministry and he started building a church. He pulled his face out of notes or books or even scripture when he preached and he spoke only from the heart and only what he held to be true. He visited the townspeople and sat with them, sometimes for hours, talking only about ball games and lighter subjects, without mention of building projects. He smiled more easily, even laughing from time to time, and it had even been reported that he had been seen weeping openly on more than one occasion.
He comforted Malene and Roger, not by trying to push them away from their grief and sorrow by making them think about a new church. Rather, he would just show up, go with them to the grocery store, or take Malene to the beauty salon. He’d help Roger with some of the calls made to the sheriff by families in need or crisis, and assist Malene at the nursing home. Father George even found Angel and arranged a meeting for her with Roger and Malene, riding with them over to her new home in Colorado.
He became present and available to Trina, driving her to the clinic for her appointments, organizing the women in the church to help her buy some clothes, getting her the necessary medical attention when she started having trouble, making sure she was staying in bed, getting her books about having a healthy delivery, and even speaking to Frank Twinhorse on her behalf, not that she needed it, to get her a job at the garage after the baby was born, working as an apprentice and waiting for Raymond to come home since they had been writing letters to each other every day since his deployment.
Over the weeks, Father George and Frank actually became friends, Frank taking the priest to the most sacred place in the county, over to Salt Lake, where the Indians, the Zuni, Hopi, Apache, and Navajo, had been making pilgrimages for centuries and telling him stories of the Navajo way, the story of creation, of Spiderwoman, and how the earth and its inhabitants are all intricately related. The priest had even asked Frank to find a shaman to bless the ground before he laid the foundation, a kind of permission asked of and granted from the people who first lived and farmed the land. And it was after that blessing that George started to build.
“Oris’s angel,” George finally answered Trina. “Her name is Alice and she was the one who got me back here and the one who helped me find you.” He stuck a toothpick in his mouth.
Trina looked at the priest. “I didn’t think you believed in angels,” she recalled.
“I didn’t believe in a lot of things,” he responded. “What can I say? I’m a different man.” He winked at Trina. “I got boots.”
“Still . . .” Oris said. “It took more than an angel to build this church. It was a lot of folks to get this thing done.” He grinned at George. “No disrespect, Father, but you are useless with a hammer.”
George laughed. “Well, thank God Bernie came around when he did. I was about ready to quit that day he finally got out of his truck and walked across the street and helped me stake out the foundation.”
Oris nodded. “That was a good couple of weeks after he had been watching you. He’d come up to the diner and give us a report every day at lunch about your progress.” Oris changed his voice to sound like Bernie’s. “ ‘That stupid priest is hammering the stakes in backward,’ he’d say. ‘He’s tying the strings loose and at the wrong ends.’ ” Oris laughed. “And then, we’d all finish eating and drive out here and watch you make a fool out of yourself.”
“Yeah, I was meaning to thank you for your support during that time.” George reached behind him and gave Oris a punch on the shoulder.
“Well, we eventually all pitched in,” he responded, rubbing his arm. “Sooner or later everybody did their part.” The old man smiled.
The three of them stood looking at the new church, recalling the efforts of everyone in town, the way they came, a few at first, more later. They thought about all the work that had been done by the people of Pie Town that winter, the men who laid the foundation and hoisted the frame, the women who nailed in the beams and mixed the stucco, the children who carried tools and picked up trash. They knew that the rebuilding of Holy Family Church became important to all of the citizens of Pie Town. It became the endeavor that brought them together, sealed them in their commitment and their refusal to see the construction fail. It became their place, their church, their sanctuary, and day after day, night after night, shifts came and went, until by the time of completion, the finishing of every wall and floorboard and altar railing, every person, even those uninterested in the outcome, had, in one way or another, without being preached to or harassed, without explanation of what was supposed to happen or request for assistance or membership, participated in its success.
“It sure is something,” Trina said again, rubbing her belly and shaking her head.
“It certainly is,” Oris noted. “We have ourselves a church.”
“More than that,” George added. “We have ourselves a home.”
W
hen the time came it wasn’t clear which service would be the first held in the new building. Just like everything else regarding the facility, the design, the furniture, the fixtures, the colors, this decision was made by consensus. A meeting was held and all voices were heard.
Some thought the church should have its own special gathering, held only in honor of the completion of the building, a dedication event, complete with high-ranking priests and dignitaries from the state. Others thought the first event should be a Sunday Mass, the perfect demonstration of the building’s purpose.
Once these ideas were shared, along with a few others, and it seemed like everyone was starting to take sides, it was Trina, the newest resident of Pie Town, the apprentice to Frank at the garage and girlfriend of his son, befriended by Katie White and doted on by Fred and Bea, who made the one suggestion that stopped the bickering and caused everyone to agree that her idea was the right way to start up Holy Family Church again.
Roger and Malene were to be remarried, and Alexandria Georgia, daughter of Trina, goddaughter of the Benavidez couple, would be baptized. It would be a service of beginnings, a service of promises and hope, and a celebration of love.
There would be no invitations extended to those known by titles or elected duty. The diocese was informed but not expected. The newspapers were given a public announcement, but nobody in Pie Town wanted to see anybody other than those who had actually participated in the church’s creation and completion. In fact, the only famous person in attendance was the owner of a restaurant in Santa Fe, Cowgirl BBQ, who was asked to be the guest judge of the town’s first annual pie contest, a main attraction event to be held at the festival following the service.
When the day came, all of the townspeople, arriving in procession, forming a line of hope and community, agreed that it was a perfect day for a wedding and baptism. Clear sky, warm air, the smell of lavender lightly drifting with the breeze, the desert ground coming alive with blooming willows, black-eyed Susans, and full golden bushes of Chiamisa, family and friends reciting prayers, laughing and eating and dancing and embracing the goodness, the bounty of life, it was all that was needed for a day of celebration and blessedness.
Father George was in particularly good spirits, donning a floral shirt and white linen pants, his boots replaced by a pair of teal hiking sandals. He made sure the windows were open during the service and spoke of the land upon which they stood, the land of dreams of homesteaders, and the generosity of the indigenous people, those who arrived there first. He spoke a prayer in Navajo, read scripture in Spanish, and quoted a poem by Emily Dickinson.
He asked Roger and Malene to speak from their hearts of their love, and everyone cheered when they said they had never really stopped loving each other and this was more a reunion than a wedding. And everyone wept when they called out the name of their beloved, dearly departed Alex, who had brought them back together and brought them back to love. They made their promises to each other to love and respect, to honor and cherish, and then they made their promises to Trina and her baby girl, naming their dreams for a child so full of hope, who had come at a time of such great need for them and the others. They vowed their love to each other and to the God who had walked with them through the dark valley, holding their hands and pulling them back to each other. And after they had said all that they wanted to say, Father George placed rings on their fingers and pronounced them husband and wife.
Then he called the people to the front of the church and filled a baptism font with cool water collected from spring rains by all those gathered and brought to the service in pitchers, plastic cups, and glass jars. He said a prayer over the water, thanking God for that gift of life in which they found refreshment, and he baptized little Alexandria Georgia in the name of love and with the hopes and prayers of the whole town. With the sacrament completed, he walked down the aisle, holding the baby in his arms, while grandmothers and children, old men and teenagers, reached out to touch her fingers and tenderly lay their hands upon her head. He brought her back to Trina and then stood, raised his hands, and blessed them all.
“Let us go forth, people of God. Let us go forth in joy, in the delight of spring and the bounty of love. Let us go forth and be good to the earth and to one another. Let us bless this union with prayer and encouragement. Let us bless this child with protection and community. Let us bless this place with our honesty and our eagerness to reach out. And let us bless this town with our willingness to welcome all.
“For, like all towns, we are a gathering of weak and strong, male and female, young and old, frail and robust. We are different, choosing to pray in many voices to a God with many names, choosing to sing many songs, dance many dances, and yet we are the same. We try and we fail and sometimes we succeed, and we cheer those around us doing the same. We mourn. We dance. We love. We are Holy Family Church, so let us go forth rejoicing, for in this place and with one another, we will find all that we need to be able to love generously and completely.”
And taking a branch of lavender and dipping it in the same water he had used to baptize Alexandria, he sprinkled drops upon the heads of all who were gathered and then, with great authority and vigor, exclaimed, “Now, let us eat!”
The party, the First Annual Pie Town Festival of Holy Family, held under tents in front of the church, went on for hours and late into the evening, when the old ones drifted off and the young ones fell asleep on blankets near the feet of their mothers. A band played salsa and cowboy ballads. Oris spoke of his love for his daughter and toasted his newly declared but long-ago received son. He even danced a slow song with Fedora Snow, whispering something in the old woman’s ear that made her blush and kick him in the shin.
There was green chile stew and tortillas, cornbread, fresh tamales and tostadas, natillas and flan, and much to everyone’s surprise, lots of pies, including the unanimously declared winner of the pie contest, Francine’s Banana Cream Pie. One bite and Bernie King was reconsidering his original notion not to become involved with her while Fred and Bea suddenly realized they could actually rethink their dessert menu at the diner.
“It seems as if,” they said after declaring Francine the winner, “Pie Town will finally and once again serve pie!” And they presented her with the blue ribbon and immediately discussed a promotion and raise with their new dessert chef.
Just as things were winding down, Trina left Alexandria with Danny and Christine, who was proudly flashing an engagement ring of her own. The young mother took a few flowers from the centerpiece from the bride and groom’s table and walked to the back of the church to see where a special plaque in Alex’s memory had been placed. It was a small designated area behind the sanctuary, a little space where spring bulbs were planted and a small marker stood naming the boy and recalling his faith. It was a perfect square of memory. She stood alone and then dropped to her knees. “I wish you could have met Alexandria,” she said as she placed the flowers in front of the plaque. “You would have liked her.” She stayed kneeling as she was. “She’s a funny girl.” Trina glanced down. “Your mom came by to see me,” she added. “Not long after you died. Not long after I got back.” She smiled. “I like her. She seems to be getting herself together.” She sighed and pulled her knees out from under her and sat down. She looked up at the sky. “You did good, Alex Benavidez. This town, me, George, Alexandria, Roger, Malene, your mom . . .” Trina paused. “You did good.” Just as she spoke these words, she reached down to remove a small rock close to her feet and felt two feathers drop right beside where she sat. She picked them up, holding them both in her hands.
She stayed where she was for a minute, smiling. She then got up and walked over to Father George, who was dancing the rumba with Millie Watson. Sticking a feather behind her ear, Trina took the other and placed it in his front pocket. He reached for it and seeing it, seeing what it was, knowing where it came from and what it meant, surprised everyone, including himself, when he threw back his head, held the feather next to his heart, and laughed right out loud.
