Heavens to Betsy (8 page)

“Betsy? It’s Ed.”

“Hi, Ed. What can I do for you?”

“We need to talk.”

That’s odd, because I haven’t hinted to anyone about my plans to leave the ministry. And Tricia’s “Holy to Hottie” piece hasn’t aired yet. After last night’s fiasco, I banished the leather, hair gel, and heavy cosmetics to the back of my closet. At church this morning I was my usual average Jane.

Our conversation doesn’t take long. Turns out that any notions I had of a dramatic exit next August have been upstaged. Dr. Black has just announced his immediate retirement, and Ed’s calling to tell me I’ve been appointed interim senior minister.

“It won’t be any more money, of course, and you’ll still need to see that all your Christian education programs keep running. But we have faith in you, Betsy. We know you can do it.”

Faith? A slow flush creeps up my neck and heats my cheeks. This isn’t about faith. It’s about being too cheap to pay a real interim minister.

“Look, Ed, I’m flattered—”

“’Course you are. Most churches wouldn’t trust a woman with this kind of thing. But we’re progressive at Church of the Shepherd.”

“Thought we’d better have an emergency meeting of the personnel committee tonight to iron out the details.”

I sigh. The church steamroller is fully engaged and running in high gear. “What time?” I’ll have to go and figure out how to head all this nonsense off at the pass.

There’s a moment of silence, and not the prayerful kind. “Um, well, Betsy, you don’t need to be there.”

“Doesn’t the senior minister serve on the personnel committee?”

“Well, yes, but you don’t need to worry about that. We’ll take care of everything.”

I’m quite sure they will. Just like my last church took care of everything, including running me out of town. “But I wouldn’t want to shirk my duties before they’ve even started, Ed. What time did you say the meeting was?”

“Um, seven. In the boardroom.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

For a second time I toss the phone down next to the pizza coupon. I will not answer it again today; I don’t care who calls.

So much for a pleasant Sunday afternoon. I’m avoiding my best friend, torturing myself with imagining exactly how Paris Hilton-like David’s date is, and I have only a few hours to prepare for escaping the personnel-committee steamroller.

I see now why God said we shouldn’t work on the Sabbath. That would leave us at least one day a week when we couldn’t ruin our lives.

I’m late for the meeting, thanks to a last-minute panic over pantyhose. I ran my last pair of taupe—a color that would appall the sales assistant at Oh Là Là!—which necessitated a mad dash to CVS. By the time I arrive at church, looking smartly professional and completely un-madeover in my aforementioned navy suit and crisp white blouse, the personnel committee has assembled. Hunched over the conference table, they remind me of a row of buzzards on a dying tree branch.

They’ve also occupied all the chairs, leaving me with no place to perch.

“We’ve already started,” Ed informs me as I wrangle a straight-backed chair from the reception area through the doorway. I sink into it and gasp when the pointed corner of the conference table catches me squarely in the midsection.

“As I was saying—” Edna Tompkins casts me her customary look of disdain while completely ignoring her twin brother. She gets away with this behavior because it’s an open secret that she’s the largest
contributor to the church’s budget, even though that information is technically kept in confidence. Even from the pastors.

Edna looks around the table like Queen Elizabeth addressing her household staff. “I feel it is a mistake to ask Reverend Blessing to take on the role of senior pastor.”

Like one of Pavlov’s conditioned dogs, I feel my stomach sink and beads of sweat break out along my forehead at the prospect of conflict. I arrived prepared to inform the committee I have no interest in becoming the interim senior minister. But this time, despite the sweat and the sinking stomach, Mrs. Tompkins’s clear disdain for my ministry raises my hackles. Maybe it’s my frustration with my feelings for David. Maybe it’s the chemicals from the makeover. Or maybe I’ve just finally had enough of these kinds of meetings.

“In what way, Mrs. Tompkins, would that be a mistake?”

The other committee members shoot me a nervous glance. They know that the financial consequences of standing up to Edna could be fatal.

“Now, dear, I’m only looking out for your best interests. You’re far too young and inexperienced. Besides, taking on these responsibilities would leave you with no time for what little social life you do have.” She pauses. “Oh dear, I mean—”

“Thank you, Edna, but this decision has nothing to do with Betsy’s social life.” Thin, balding Ed looks around the table too, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as if he’s checking temperature gauges at fifteen paces. He’s the only one who would dare contradict his sister. “The bottom line is that Dr. Black’s contract gives him the right to retire on short notice. It also requires us to pay his salary through the end of the year.”

Gus Winston, the chair of the stewardship committee, clears his throat behind the restriction of his bow tie. “We don’t have the reserves to pay three ministers for that length of time. Our debt load on the new activity center is too high.” He’s referring to the addition we built in a last-ditch effort to attract some members not eligible for AARE It’s now shuttered and silent, and it isn’t even paid for.

Ed nods. “That’s why Betsy’s the perfect solution. She can fill both chairs. In the meantime, we’ll start a search committee. We can have a new senior pastor in place by next January.”

I snort with laughter, and their vulture-like heads swing my way. “Um, sorry, it’s just that a search process normally takes at least a year. Sometimes eighteen months. Isn’t it a little … um … ambitious to think a new minister would be in place by January?”

Ed frowns at me. “That’s really up to us, Betsy. We just need you to hold the fort through the end of the year. It’s not that much to ask, really, considering what we’ve done for you.”

What they’ve done for me? He’s got to be kidding, but there’s not a hint of humor in any line on Ed’s face. This is the church that put me up in a Motel 6 when I came to interview, refused to pay my moving expenses unless I rented a U-Haul and carted all my stuff myself, and makes me pay the church hostess for any leftovers I take home from fellowship dinners.

“I don’t think—”

I never get a chance to finish the sentence. Judge Blount clears his throat in preparation for rendering a decision. As the chair of the
elders, he represents the spiritual leaders of the church. On cue, the others swivel their heads toward him and wait in respectful silence.

“We don’t need a real senior minister for this interim. Just someone to preach and make hospital visits. Betsy can do that, which leaves our bottom line intact.”

I wouldn’t be surprised to see steam coming out of my ears. If these people valued me any less, they’d have me typing up the Sunday-morning worship bulletins and sticking address labels on the weekly newsletter.

“I’m not sure—”

Marjorie Cline, who’s sitting next to me, sets her knitting down on the table and reaches over to pat my hand with her gnarled fingers. “I’m sure our Betsy will be delighted to do what we ask. She knows we couldn’t get along without her.” Marjorie says it so sweetly, with such trust, that I can’t do anything but stammer.

“That’s settled, then,” Ed says. He nods at me. “Betsy, we’ll have to ask you to excuse yourself so we can talk about starting the search process. Thanks for coming.”

Just like that. In less than ten minutes, they’ve decided my fate, and all I’ve managed to do is splutter out a few half-formed sentences of protest.

I try to form the word
no
, but my lips won’t move. Not because I don’t want the job and I’m afraid, but because suddenly I
do
want the job. And I’m very afraid.

I love preaching. I love visiting people in the hospital. It’s why I took a small country church in the first place. And why it devastated me to leave in disgrace. I despise the routine tasks of Christian education—finding Sunday-school teachers, reviewing curriculum, running to Wal-Mart for markers and tape. But to dangle something like
the senior-minister position in front of me—even temporarily—when I’m headed to law school is just not fair. Why put this temptation in front of me when I’ve already acknowledged I’m inadequate for the demands of the ministry?

The Judge steeples his fingers under his chin. “Perhaps you’d best begin work on next Sunday’s sermon, Miss Blessing.” He always calls me “miss,” even though he knows my correct title is “reverend.”

“Perhaps I should.” I stand up, and my spine finally locks into place. Maybe I’m not a victim here. Maybe these people have just handed me my golden opportunity to prove myself. I’ll give them the best senior minister they ever had. I might not be in it for the long haul, but at least I can leave for law school in a blaze of glory.

On the other hand, it could be one last chance to make a fool of myself in every possible way.

“If I can assist in the search process, let me know.” With as much dignity and professionalism as I can muster, I turn toward the door.

“Oh, Betsy,” Mrs. Tompkins calls as I leave, “would you be a dear and brew us some coffee before you go?”

I slowly turn. I know what I should say. I should point out they’d never ask Dr. Black to make coffee. I should rail against patriarchal practices that treat women as capable of little more than fixing refreshments. But I don’t want to lose my golden opportunity before I climb into the pulpit next Sunday. I’m going to preach the steeple off this church.

“Regular or decaf?” I choke out, and Mrs. Tompkins glows with triumph.

“Decaf, please, dear. And perhaps some of those little cookies left from coffee fellowship.”

Hello, my name is Betsy, and I’ll be your server this evening.

Somehow I make it out of that room and to the church kitchen. And while the coffee brews, I try to figure out how my life got so complicated so quickly.

You see, in the ministry there’s a fine line between leader and servant. The minute you stand up for yourself, a parishioner is quick to remind you that Jesus washed the disciples’ feet. But nowhere in the scripture does it say the disciples asked him for a pedicure while he was down there.

While the coffee slowly drips, I replay how I struggled for five years in my previous church to find the right balance. In a small congregation with fewer than one hundred people in worship and a tight budget, everyone pitched in wherever there was a need. So I didn’t mind when I wound up cooking the fellowship meal or running the vacuum in the sanctuary after a wedding late on a Saturday night.