The Pastor's Wife Wears Biker Boots (11 page)

I do. I love them more than you.

I slid down the wall and sat on the floor and cried.

“I’m sorry, Lord. I know You do. And here I am complaining about my son, who is here with me, making a mess when Julie would give anything to be making one with her son. Please forgive me. And please, Lord, comfort Julie right now.”

15

On the day of Kevin’s funeral, the Lady Eels met in the church parking lot.

Julie wanted the services to be held at our church in the town where Kevin grew up. We waited to join up with the Patriot Guard as they rolled up past where the protesters already stood outside the church waving neon-colored signs and shouting. They had no idea how futile their protest would be today.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and grew louder. Just over the horizon, cresting a hill, I saw American flags waving vigorously on the backs of bikes. The girls and I rode out to join the Patriot Guard to protect the route from the mortuary to the church where Julie would sit and say good-bye to her only son.

Dozens of bikes rolled past us and parked side by side in front of the protesters who lined the streets all along the hill. Bikers held tall American flags at their sides and stood silent with straight backs to the protesters. Tattoos, leathers, and American pride mingled with the grief of losing a precious soldier. Chrome and resolve mixed with tears. There was a surreal atmosphere of sorrow and protection for the family who had sacrificed so much. No matter how loud the protestors yelled, the bikers stood with silent dignity, ignoring the uproar. We sent a clear message to anyone passing by that anything the protestors said was irrelevant and inappropriate.

The guard came from all walks of life. There were lawyers and mechanics, doctors and garbage men. Some were veterans of war, and others children of veterans. Patches with the words, “Hero down, kickstands up” heralded from several of the leather vests, as well as the Patriot Guard patch. I decided to add those to my jacket.

The Lady Eels joined the tail end of the guard. After we dismounted, a guard member handed us tall American flags, and we placed one hand over our hearts and held onto the precious banner with the other as the hearse made its way up the hill into the church parking lot.

When the Agents of God held their posters high, we raised our flags higher.

When the misguided protestors hurled insults, we remained still.

Self-restraint was difficult, but we ignored them and neutralized their hate with our silence.

Bikers blocked the angry protesters, protecting the family from insult
s written on neon-colored picket signs. Venom spewed from faces dark with anger and hate. Empty eyes were a reflection of black souls with stone-cold hearts.

“God dragged you into the Afghan war to punish and destroy you!”

“God hates America!”

We all stood stoically and in silence, with our eyes forward and chins set.

After the family filed into the church, Reba couldn’t contain herself. “If these protestors are Christians, I don’t want no part of ’em.”

I couldn’t blame her. The lack of compassion those people exhibited with vile insults and disrespectful fury toward the family made me want to lash out at them. But to do so, would only validate their ignorance. I learned long ago there was no reasoning with unreasonable people. “Just because they call themselves Christians, Reba, doesn’t make it true. Remember that, my friend.”

The protesters chanted. “America is doomed! God hates America!”

The irony of our silent, dignified protest rose up in my heart and threatened to spill tears from my eyes. This is what Kevin died for. He died for the right of the protesters, but he also died for the freedom to protest those protesting.

The Agents of God pushed against us. One of them stood right behind me shouting in my ear. I reached deep inside to find every gram of self-control I could to keep from screaming back at her. But then, I couldn’t help wondering, what drove a soul to such hate? What I really wanted to do was take her aside and share the love of Jesus. But could the love of Jesus be understood by someone with a heart so hard? At that moment, I was ashamed to say, I really didn’t know.

I felt a variety of conflicting emotions: fear and courage, anger and compassion, sorrow and pride. Questions rolled around in my mind as the sun bore down and sweat dripped from my brow.

What would happen if a physical riot broke out? Would I be harmed? Jailed? What would happen if we could be given the chance to show the love of Christ to these hateful people? Could they change? What if I gave the one screaming in my ear my best left hook…jail would be certain. Compassion? Would these people recognize it, or would they push unconditional love away? What caused so much pain inside of them that they needed to hurt others?

My emotions were a jumble, and I wondered if the other Lady Eels felt the same.

An hour later, unmoved and silent, the Patriot Guard and Lady Eels remained stoic, still motionless beneath a glaring sun. Standing there in grief, anger, and sorrow in the searing heat was the longest hour I had ever spent, and yet, I felt strangely energized.

Reba and I went through three bottles of water each. I was glad she thought to bring the refreshing liquid along. I, as usual, hadn’t thought of it.

I could feel my nose baking in the glow of the sun. And this time, instead of worrying about freckles and peeling skin, I’d think of them as badges of honor. If Kevin could give his life for my freedom so I could stand here and speak what I believe, then I could wear a freckle or two.

Finally, the church emptied again, and the hearse inched its way down the hill to the cemetery several blocks from the church. The family could barely hear the protesters and certainly couldn’t see them
through the Patriot Guard blockade that wound its way from down and around two blocks and all along the street that ran in front of the graveyard, creating a uniquely American picture: freedom’s benefits and freedom’s price.

I held myself together pretty well, but when I saw them bear Kevin’s casket to where he would be buried, I lost it. I sobbed for Kevin, for Julie, and for the love of these bikers who didn’t even know the family, but cared enough to take time out of their lives to show them respect.
I wept for the lost souls of the Agents of God, and their deep-seated ignorance. I shed tears for all the parents of fallen soldiers everywhere. American, or not.

Reba placed her arm around me and let me cry. Another biker rubbed my back.

Snot dripped out of my nose and a few people stared, but I didn’t care. I cried because I was free to cry. I needed to weep for this young boy, his parents, and our community.

After the funeral, the Agents of God left, and once the Patriot Guard was convinced each of the repulsive protestors were gone, exhausted bikers mounted their bikes and left before anyone could thank them. I rode my bike home and though I was exhausted from standing in the sun for several hours, I felt a need to walk to Julie’s parents’ house and check on her.

The house was filled with mourners. Food sat everywhere—on the tables, the bureaus, the TV. Everyone knew everyone. It’s like that in a small town. When I walked in still wearing my leathers, a gentle stir of whispers and glances made my cheeks hot. People packed into the tiny house elbow to elbow, but when they saw me, they stepped back and made way for me. I wasn’t sure if it was because they were scared of me or respected what the bikers had done that day.

Nonetheless, the secret would be out soon enough: the pastor’s wife of the Christian church on the hill was a bona fide biker chick.

Julie spotted me and motioned for me to join her on the couch.

“Thanks, Kirstie.” Julie hugged me. “I never knew bikers could be so nice.”

I was relieved that she was pleased with the guard. “Me either. But I’m beginning to learn they are some of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. They really look out for one another.”

I spent several hours with Julie and helped some of the ladies clean up in the kitchen. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I got home. As I walked up the stairs to our room, I heard Aaron’s phone ring.

“Can’t this wait?” The fact that Aaron wanted to put the conversation off proved to me just how beat he was. “It’s been a long day. I see. Well, yes, I could. Tomorrow morning. Good night, Norman.”

I took off my Harley boots and wiggled my aching toes. “I bet I know what that’s about.”

“What?” Aaron pulled off his socks and threw them on the floor like always.

“Bernice and Norman saw me in the Patriot Guard today. I don’t think Bernice likes my activism very much.”

Aaron sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He started to say something but stopped. Which is better than I did.

“She needs a real life,” I said. “She needs a kid with autism. Then she wouldn’t sweat the small stuff.”

“Kirstie…”

“I know. I know. That’s not nice.” I pulled away from Aaron’s attempt to wrap me in his arms. I was still too angry. “But it’s true. Timmy has really shortened my list of things that bug me. If I can handle Timmy, I can handle just about anything.”

“Until it’s time to make a pie.” Aaron
leaned up on his elbow and looked at me.

“He’s getting so strong, Aaron.” Fear caused my voice
to tremble.

“I know.” Aaron laid his head on his pillow. “One day at a time, kiddo.”

I was too tired to worry about Bernice and her call for a meeting to discuss the wayward behavior of the rebel pastor’s wife. I let Aaron pull me toward him sideways, and I laid my head on the crook of his shoulder.

We spoke no more. Lost in our own thoughts, we stared at the ceiling for a long time and fell asleep
in our funeral clothes.

16

The next morning Norman called the church board to a meeting, and Bernice came along.

I wanted to stay home and take care of Timmy and do a homeschool project with the other two boys, because, to be honest, I didn’t want to sit in a meeting where I was the main entree.

But Reba called and asked if Timmy could come into the store that morning, and Lily asked Patrick and Daniel to help her out on the farm, making my excuse for staying home null and void.

We all gathered around a table in the church fellowship hall. Elder Norman, his wife, Bernice, and Elders Pete and Watson sat on one side of the table across from Deacons Tim and Bartholomew. Deacons Jeff and Billy couldn’t come. My guess was they avoided coming. These two fine deacons wanted nothing to do with the kind of strife Bernice could create.

We had no coffee or brownies this time. I ached for caffeine but accidentally left my diet Mt. Dew sitting on the kitchen counter at home. Just as well. I was already shaking inside. Since moving to Eel Falls, board meetings meant only one thing to me: strife and difficulty. I didn’t enjoy them.

Once we were seated, Bernice didn’t waste any time getting down to business.

“It just isn’t appropriate or dignified.” She sniffed. Her lips twitched and her face and neck flushed. Under normal circumstances, I might have felt sorry for her. But I knew under that sweet little old lady façade lurked a strong-willed, bitter woman. She cleared her throat and slapped the table. “A pastor’s wife shouldn’t be running around with bikers. People are going to talk
.”

Aaron folded his arms and sat back in his chair. “And what will these imaginary people say, Bernice?”

“You know exactly what they’re going to say. They’re going to say she’s cheating on you, or doing drugs, or drinking, or something.” Bernice narrowed her eyes and her hands flew as she spoke. She harrumphed and nodded her head for emphasis.

Aaron chuckled. “All because she rides a motorcycle
?”

“Well, that Reba woman, you know, she’s a loose woman. She cusses up a blue streak. Everyone knows what kind of mouth she has. Smokin’ and drinkin’ and wearing those skimpy halter-tops that show off her belly button earring. You’d think Kirstie could find some Christian friends to hang around with.
”

I held back a guffaw when Bernice called Reba’s belly button ring an earring and used this distraction to keep my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to defend myself. I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Jesus handled things this way when He was tried by Pilate; I figured the same method would work for me, too.

Aaron sat straighter in his chair and leaned toward Bernice with his arms on the table. “Who Kirstie is friends with is really none of your business, Bernice.”

Whoa. I’d never heard Aaron speak with such authority before. I was proud of him
. Was he fed up with Bernice? Finally? Was he at the end of his rope with her at last? I hated to admit it, but I was sort of hopeful.

“Well, I never.” Bernice blew her nose into the hanky she kept in her sleeve and looked away from Aaron and at the other elders sitting at the table. “She didn’t ride a motorcycle when we hired Pastor Aaron. I never dreamed she would exhibit such behavior. It’s just not Christian.
”

“It’s not Christian to ride a motorcycle?” Elder Pete asked with laughter in his throat.

“Well, of course not. All those tattoos, and leather, and those piercings—it’s ungodly.”

Aaron looked at me and then over at Bernice. “Kirstie doesn’t have tattoos and piercings.”

“Uhm.” I pointed to my ears. “My ears.”

“Well, yes, your ears, but nowhere else. And I should know.” Aaron looked tired and drained, his face paled, but his eyes filled with fire. “Even if Kirstie did have all those things—piercings and tattoos—it’s none of your business.” Aaron looked around the table. “I’m feeling a little frustrated with myself for agreeing to this meeting.
This isn’t something to be discussed with a church board. We’re wasting time here.”

I wondered if my eyes would pop out and roll across the table into Bernice’s lap.

Aaron had more backbone than I thought. At least, I’d never seen him be bold like this before.

Elder Pete slapped his hands on his dungaree-clad thighs. “Is this the only business we have here today, Norman?”