Three Cans of Soup (11 page)

Every Sunday, Bill would put on his blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie, pick up his Bible and his notes and climb into his 1964 Dodge Dart. He actually enjoyed the three-hour trip to the church. He looked forward every Sunday to leading worship and then being hosted by one of the families. The little church had actually shown some growth. The most recent addition was a peanut farmer and his family: Peter, Suzie Q and their three children, Joey, Charlotte, and little Angie. It had been years since the little church had had children running around. Soon another family joined the little church; the Tucks were from the small sub-division that was growing up outside of Murray. No one had paid any attention to it because it was considered a subdivision of Denton. Bill, however, had taken one Saturday afternoon to walk the newly-paved streets and leave a brochure about the church. The effort had paid off with the Tucks and their two children.

Sam and some others had even gotten together and fixed the hole in the floor. One Sunday, they proudly showed off a concrete walkway that ran from the church down to the main road. Bill could not believe it. Now he would no longer have to slosh through the mud to get to the church entrance.

Perhaps everything was too good. It seemed to be like that. It all came to an end one November day. Bill had been taking a class on practical ministry. He decided that the worship service needed something to lift it up. So during the week, he designed a bulletin. Prior to that, Bill was just handed a list of the songs by Emily that she would be playing. Bill noted that the list was very, very short. The worship service followed the same pattern every Sunday. So on this Sunday, Bill produced a bulletin. He had inserted a “call to worship” that they would read together. He listed two scriptures to be read and included some new hymns out of the church hymnbook. He avoided any hymn with “blood” or “washed” in it. He was proud of his first effort to master the mimeograph machine that the seminary secretary had graciously allowed him to use.

It was cloudy and there was a little chill in the air as Bill pulled up to the church that November Sunday. Sam greeted him and Bill asked him if he would hand everyone a bulletin.

“A bulletin,” Sam exclaimed. “How nice!”

Looking at it, Sam quickly showed it to his wife, Juanita who said, “Real nice!” Juanita was too gracious to mention to Bill the misspellings and other errors. She had been an executive secretary at one time, before she and Sam had settled in Murray. That was the way of Sam and Juanita. They saw their role as encouraging and training young men and women for the ministry. Over the years they had done a great job.

It was Emily who harrumphed when handed the bulletin. She took one look at it and set it aside. “We don’t need a bulletin here at all,” she said, loud enough for others to hear. “And I don’t know these hymns. Young man, I gave you a list of the hymns I would play and there is not one of them on this list. I WILL NOT PLAY THESE!”

Bill could sense the tension rising. Sam came over to see what the problem was. He listened for a moment and then took Bill aside.

“I really understand your point. I get tired of singing the same old hymns again and again. But Emily has been playing the piano for a long time and even though she can be a real toot sometimes, she is a nice person. We sort of just put up with her. She is a self-taught piano player and gets real nervous about playing something she has not practiced and practiced. But you are the pastor; tell me what you want to do and I will back you up.”

Bill thought for a moment. Other members were arriving and wondering what the corner conversation was all about. They could see Emily perched on the piano bench, arms folded, glaring in the direction of Sam and Bill. Some strained to hear the conversation, but Sam was good and was speaking just loud enough for Bill to hear and no one else. Bill thought and thought. He had learned about compromise, and faith taught about forgiveness and grace. Yet, he was not wrong in wanting the congregation to sing new songs or to have a bulletin.

Then he answered, “I think we could work out a compromise. If you can get Emily to agree to us having a bulletin, I can agree to pick hymns she knows, from her list.”

Sam smiled. “You’re learning. You are going to be a fine minister, Bill,” Sam’s eyes twinkled as he spoke. “I think we can talk her into that.” Sam walked over to Emily, still perched on her piano seat, leaned close to her and began talking in a low tone. Bill could see that she did not like some of what she was hearing, but then a triumphant smile broke across her face and she looked in Bill’s direction. Without a moment hesitation she began to bang out an opening hymn, turned and announced to the congregation that they were beginning with “Washed in the Blood”, hymn number 210. With that the service began. Bill figured he had come out of his first church scrap pretty soundly.

After the service, Emily, followed by her husband Buddy, gave Bill a nice handshake. “Nice sermon,” Emily said with a smile that had a hint of the devil.

“Thanks,” Bill said, also with a smile. One of the last people through the line was Mabel Simons. Mabel was one of the many widows in the church. She always wore a beautiful hat and was dressed in a forties style.

“What a nice sermon, Reverend Thompson.”

“Thank you, Mabel.”

“Oh, you are to join me for dinner. My house is down one block at 231 Maple. That is, if you don’t have other plans?”

One of the traditions was that someone took the preacher out for the noon dinner. Actually, Bill counted on an invitation, as it was one of the best meals he would have all week. Mabel had yet to invite him. He was not sure how it worked, but he only got one invitation on a Sunday. He suspected they worked it out among themselves during the week. The Sunday before, Bill had been invited to the Benton’s peanut farm for Sunday dinner. They lived on several acres of land in which Pete struggled to make ends meet from his peanut crop. The farmhouse was in great need of paint. The previous Sunday had been hot, not unusual for Texas, so they had eaten out on the screened-in porch. Susie Q, Pete’s wife, had once been a honky-tonk piano player in various bars before she and Pete had met. She had long blonde hair that was tied up into a ponytail. She was rough around the edges, but had an inner sweetness that shone through. The family did not have much, but always put on a good dinner for the preacher when he came. You just had to sometimes brush the bugs out of the ice tea, served in jars, before sipping. Bill always stayed late when invited to the Benton’s. Suzie Q would bang out some numbers on their old piano and they would all sing. Pete would be churning homemade ice cream and the evening would end with ice cream and more ice tea.

Mabel lived in a two-story wood frame house built in the 1930s. Her yard was beautifully kept and even in the changing season still looked neat and tidy. Her front porch had an old swing with a flower-pattern seat. Her house was always meticulously clean and organized. Mabel’s husband had died four years before of a heart attack. Around the house were pictures of her husband, Don. The two of them had had no children, but there were many photos of the two of them scattered around the room.

Bill was invited in and handed an album of photos of Mabel’s family and of her time with Don. As he thumbed through the neatly kept pages, Mabel excused herself to finish up dinner.

“I hope you like okra,” she said from the kitchen.

“Sure do,” Bill yelled back, and then thought that he had really not acquired a taste for what seemed to be the vegetable of the state. He did like fried okra but the boiled kind was hard for him to swallow. It felt too slimy and he had the feeling that he was eating something that people shouldn’t be eating. The fried, however, was quite delicious.

“I am frying the okra if you don’t mind,” the voice from the kitchen said.

Bill breathed a silent prayer and said, “I love fried okra!” With that, he turned back to the photo album. Apparently, Mabel’s parents had been born in North Texas on the family farm. Her grandfather, who had come to Texas from Missouri after the Civil War, had started the farm. The story went that her grandfather had grown tired of the guerilla warfare that was fracturing Missouri and so left the northern city of Maryville for Texas. He settled around the Denton area but missed Missouri a lot. So after the war he decided to move the family back to Missouri. He took a trip back north to scope out land leaving the family to begin to get things ready. Somewhere around the Missouri border he met a family going south, wagon loaded. They stopped to talk and Mabel’s grandfather asked the family if the feuding and fighting was any better since the war was over. “Nope,” they replied, “if anything it is worse with that fella Jessie James and all!” Right then Mabel’s grandfather turned his horse around and never gave Missouri another thought. Bill loved history and the picture album was like taking a trip back into the past.

Soon Mabel called Bill to dinner. Sitting down, she asked him to return thanks and then they both dug in. Mabel had fixed quite a meal. There before them were roast beef, fried okra, and corn on the cob, bread, and mashed potatoes. Bill filled his plate several times.

“Now, you must leave room for my famous chocolate cake,” Mabel said with a big smile on her face.

“Chocolate cake! Wonderful! I always have room for chocolate cake.”

“Well, I am not one to brag,” Mabel said with a smile on her face, “but I believe God gives everyone certain gifts. You, for instance, are a great preacher!”

“Thanks,” Bill said turning a light shade of red.

“Well, my gift is baking. I have been baking for years and years. My husband Don always said, ‘Mable, what a treasure your cakes are.’ And then he would only eat a piece and insist that we share them with the neighbors. Since his death, God rest his soul, I have continued baking and I take the cakes around to the neighbors. Oh, they love the cakes.”

“Well, bring me a large piece,” Bill said.

Mabel brought in the most beautiful-looking chocolate cake Bill thought he had ever seen. Even the icing, which was made from scratch, had little swirls in the chocolate, making the cake a work of art. Mabel gave Bill a huge piece and eagerly waited as he took his first bite. Bill slowly bit into the cake and noticed a crunchy feeling as he chewed. In an instant Bill knew that this was probably the worst piece of chocolate cake he had ever allowed into his mouth. There were granules of pure sugar that crunched with every bite. His mouth full of cake, with some chocolate around the edges of his mouth, Bill smiled and gulped down the cake. He quickly grabbed for his glass of water and drank.

“Well what do you think?”

“It is the most interesting flavor I have tasted,” Bill said trying to think of a way to be diplomatic. Finally he thought to himself, “
Oh hell, I can always be forgiven later
” and said aloud, “Mabel you surely have a real gift. Thank you so very much. Aren’t you having a piece of cake?”

“Oh I seldom if ever eat sweets. Woman has to maintain her figure, you know, even at my age! No I just make the cakes for everyone else. My joy is just seeing the joy in their eyes.

Many times during the next few minutes Bill wished that he not taken such a huge piece. Little by little he worked at the piece of cake until finally getting the last one down. Pushing his chair back he exclaimed, “My, my, what a wonderful dinner. Mabel, I hate to eat and run but I need to get back to Fort Worth. Got a test tomorrow and I have to study hard.” Actually, Bill’s stomach was already beginning to rumble.

“Oh, sorry to hear that. But I understand, I surely do,” Mabel said masking some disappointment. “Well why don’t you take the rest of the cake along and you and your friends can have a midnight snack or whatever.”

With that, Bill said his goodbyes and left. As he loaded the cake into his car the thought of dumping it along the road occurred to him. As Bill was driving toward Fort Worth he decided what he would do with the cake. He would give the cake as a gift from him and David to Chris.

Later, Bill asked Sam about Mabel.

“Did she once have it and somehow lost it?” Bill had asked.

“No,” Sam said in his usually reflective way. “No she has never had it.”

“Well, she says she gives cakes to everyone in town.”

“Oh yes, she does. We all don’t want to hurt her feelings so we just throw them away a section at a time. That way if she drops by, well, she sees more of the cake gone each visit. Her husband Don was a real saint. He would bring me one of the cakes and tell me to take it to Denton and throw it out. He never wanted to hurt his wife’s feelings.”

Sam thought for a moment and then added, “No, you just don’t eat your cakes. Why one time our son came back in from football practice and saw this cake sitting on the counter. It was one of Mabel’s cakes. Well, Bobby ate the whole thing, right there,” Sam said and paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “We had to take him to the emergency room to have his stomach pumped.”

Bill could never figure out why Christmas was always important to him, but it was. Growing up, Christmastime provided some of the best memories. His whole family would go across Eugene to his uncle’s home for Christmas Eve. His uncle “Red”, named for his flaming red hair, and aunt had a larger home and often hosted family gatherings.

The family custom was to gather at his uncle’s home on Christmas Eve for an Italian feast. Although there were no direct ties to Italy, the family did have some indirect ties; besides, they all loved Italian food. Bill’s uncle “Red” had been a pastor in the 1940’s. Perhaps it was his uncle’s passion that had sparked the interest in ministry within Bill. Even though his uncle had left the ministry only after a few years so he could support his family, his uncle never had lost his passion for the church.

So on Christmas Eve the family would gather and sing carols and the children would dress up in bathrobes and act out the Christmas story, complete with a reluctant dog named Ling who was forced to be the one and only sheep. On the way home, late at night, Bill’s father Milt would always suddenly slow down the car.