Heavens to Betsy (9 page)

At Church of the Shepherd, though, where we’re staff heavy and cash poor, lots of members never lift a finger. That makes Mrs. Tompkins’s passive-aggressive command for coffee all the more irritating. I’m tired of feeling like a hired hand who’s supposed to be grateful for a bed in the bunkhouse.

And as the Bunn-O-Matic spits out the last few drops of brown goop, it occurs to me that when I take the coffee and cookies into the boardroom, I don’t have to leave. As the new interim senior minister, I could simply sit down and stay.

Do I want to fight that battle? A scene from my previous church flashes through my mind—the chair of the board and the chair of the elders sitting down in front of me after the service one Sunday.

“It’s for the best,” they said.

It hurt so much I was sure I must be bleeding. Their message was clear. I wasn’t good enough.

No, I wasn’t male enough. Or was it the same thing?

I might have thrown in the ministerial towel right then if, when we stood up to leave my office, I hadn’t noticed the chair of the board go beet red. His fly was unzipped.

They were human. Wrong, but still human. And Jesus would have loved them anyway. Just as he kept on loving the disciples, clueless wonders that they were. I hate that part about being a minister. That compassion you feel for parishioners even when you’d like to run them over with your car.

So now, armed with a thermal carafe of coffee and a tray of stale cookies, I gird my loins—emotionally, not literally, because the taupe pantyhose have taken care of that—and march toward the boardroom. I open the door, and the first thing I hear is The Judge saying, “We have her over a barrel after the way she was run out of her last church. You know we’d never have hired her in the first place if it hadn’t been for the regional office insisting.”

The tray of cookies rattles in my hand. “Coffee, anyone?” My smile tastes like the paste it must be stuck on with.

Kind Marjorie has the grace to blush. Ed coughs and shuffles some papers. Gus won’t meet my gaze. Edna looks as if she’s just feasted on canary. Meow.

My knees wobble so hard I’m sure they’re going to start knocking together. To cover the surge of adrenaline flashing through my body, I scurry to the cabinet at the end of the room and retrieve some Styrofoam cups. Church of the Shepherd may be edging toward
political correctness by hiring a woman minister, but they’ve not made much progress on the environmental front.

Cup by cup I move around the table pouring coffee. The committee doesn’t say much. At least they’re able to pass the cookie tray by themselves. Refined carbohydrates are a great motivator in the mainline church.

When I’m done, I pour myself a cup and pull my chair up to the table. Apparently The Judge’s faux pas is big enough that no one’s going to ask me to leave again. Shame is another great motivator in your average congregation.

“I’ll oversee the custodial staff,” Gus, the chair of the property committee, offers into the silence.

“Isn’t that Dr. Black’s responsibility?” My voice sounds unnaturally loud, but I’m afraid I won’t be heard from down here halfway under the table. “I can see to that.”

The Judge splutters a protest, but Ed waves him off. “That’s great. I’m sure you can manage to see the building is kept clean.”

“Thank you.” I beam at him.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Tompkins adds. “After all, housekeeping is a woman’s province, isn’t it?”

I have two choices here. I can challenge her or ignore her. Since my hands are shaking in my lap, I choose the latter. Because what I really want out of this meeting is not a fight, but every ounce of authority I can extract from these people to see me through the next six months.

A preemptive strike might be more effective than a defensive challenge. “I’ll also oversee the administrative assistant. And I can supervise the interns from the divinity school. The stewardship committee
can meet next week as planned. I’ll make sure the bookkeeper has the end-of-the-month statement done. And, Gus,” I turn to the property chair, “if you’ll follow up on the estimates for the new carpet in the sanctuary, we can make a decision before the end of the month. Also, we’re hosting the Middle Tennessee Ministers’ Conference in a few weeks, so we’ll need to ask the ladies auxiliary to bring baked goods for the coffee break. Mrs. Tompkins?” I smile with all the sweetness of battery acid. “Can you arrange that with the ladies?”

I’ll give her “a woman’s province.”

All of them look bamboozled. Well, good. They’ll collect their wits soon enough and pile some more obstacles in my path. But for this moment, I’m in the driver’s seat.

Have I made the congregants of Church of the Shepherd sound more like a coven of devil worshipers than a group of faithful Christians? That’s the problem with an inside view. You’re likely to focus on the flaws and miss the good. And there’s plenty of good here. Elderly ladies like Marjorie hug my neck at every possible turn. Little notes of encouragement show up in my staff mailbox in the office on a fairly regular basis. Folks are willing to spend their Friday nights hosting a group of homeless men overnight in the church basement during cold weather. Love and grace live here, too, at Church of the Shepherd, but like all human institutions, it has its share of greed, pride, and power-mongering.

Now, for the next six months, it’s my institution to serve and to lead. For good or for ill. If nothing else, perhaps this sudden turn of
events will take my mind off David. And that telltale moment when his hand moved across my thigh.

I’m going to have to call him, of course, and let him know what’s happened. If I don’t call, he’ll know my denial about being upset with him is as false as my new hair color.

The complications just keep on coming!

By Monday morning I’ve discovered that as the new interim senior minister, I’m going to be too busy to take my regular day off. Because when you’re trying to be all things to all people, you can’t afford to lose a whole day on frivolities like grocery shopping and having a personal life.

By Monday morning I’ve also worked up the nerve to call David again.

“Yo, Blessing. What’s up?” David sounds reassuringly nonchalant, which means my nervous dialing of his number at the church didn’t transmit itself through the phone lines.

Remember to breathe. In and out. In and out.

“You’ll never guess.”

“Aliens have invaded?”

“No.”

“They found WMD in Iraq?”

“You were closer with the alien thing.”

“Spill.”

“Dr. Black resigned yesterday. Effective immediately.”

“No kidding? So what sucker are they getting for an interim pastor?”

“Betz?”

“Well, they’re getting me, actually.”

The pause gestates, gives birth, and cuddles its offspring.

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much are they paying you?”

I swallow. “The same.”

David sighs. “Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?”

“When they tattooed
welcome
on your forehead?”

Tears prick my
eyes.
“I’m not a doormat. C’mon, David, I need some support here.”

“No, what you need is an intervention. What were you thinking?”

I feel the blood rushing to my head. One long deep breath to center my energy, and I let him have it.

“I’ll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that for once I’d like to have the privileges you take for granted every day. I’d like to be the one in the pulpit. I’d like to be the one who gets called when someone important dies, instead of doing the funerals for the hangers-on.” My throat tightens, and I have to swallow hard. “For once I’d like a starring role instead of being a bit player.”

“Whoa.” I could picture David making a staying motion with his hand. “Down girl.”

“Don’t ‘down girl’ me! I’m not a dog. And I don’t need to be judged. I need advice. Can you do that for me? Can you be helpful instead of judgmental?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He was quiet for a moment. “Why don’t we meet for lunch?”

“At 12th and Porter?” To appease me, he suggests one of our favorite haunts.

“Noon?”

“Yeah. And Betz?”

“What?”

“Just because I said I’d help doesn’t mean I think this is a good idea.”

“I know. Bye.”

LaRonda’s response is less tempered than David’s, once she’s finished castigating me for losing my nerve about asking him out.

“You are the biggest fool in Christendom.”

I laugh. “Are you sure you want to award that honor so hastily? There’s a lot of competition out there.”

“You know they’re using you, right?”

“Yep.”

“You know they’ll never consider you for the permanent position?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You deserve better.”

“Yeah, but what if this is the best I’m going to get?”

And that’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it? This may be my only chance. This belittling offer to lie down so the congregation can wipe their feet on me. This rare chance to do the thing I have the gift of doing.

LaRonda makes an irritated noise, somewhere between a growl and a groan. “We need to strategize.”

“I’m meeting David at 12th and Porter. Want to join us?”

LaRonda’s nobody’s fool. “Did you call me for advice or because you wanted a third party at lunch?”

“You have to face him, Betsy, without help from me or anyone else.”

“Please, Ronnie.”

“Nope. You’re a big girl. Go deal with it.”

Some friend. There are two things girls should always do together. One is going to the restroom. The second is providing backup for awkward lunch dates.

So I’m having lunch with David, alone, and I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. Except that it probably won’t be even a reasonable facsimile of the truth.