Life Goes On (17 page)

“I guess maybe I oughta thank you for your help.”

“That would be nice.”

“Uh, well, thanks, Sam.”

“You're welcome, Dale.”

His stomach rumbled. “Wanna go to lunch?” he asked.

“Are you buying?”

He reached in his pocket for his wallet, opened it, then frowned. “As long as you don't order dessert.”

“It's a deal, then.”

“And if you want, you can stick around a little longer.”

“Thank you, Dale. But what about the superintendent's nephew?”

“Sam, would you believe it if I told you there are some folks who claim to be Christian who don't act like Christians at all?”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “It's true.” He appeared to regret having to shatter my illusions.

“And the superintendent's nephew was one of them?”

“You could say that,” Dale said solemnly.

“I would never have guessed it.”

Dale leaned toward me. “Drank like a fish,” he whispered.

“What a shame.”

“And you can bet his uncle's gonna hear about it,” Dale assured me.

“Perhaps you shouldn't mention it. After all, he is young and just starting out. Why don't we pray for him instead.”

“I thought about mailin' him a salvation sucker.”

“That's very kind, Dale. I'm sure he'd appreciate that.”

Lunch at the Coffee Cup was a hamburger and onion rings, dripping with grease, just the way I liked them. I didn't even feel guilty. It had been a hard month, and I'd earned it.

T
he annual Palm Sunday pageant, sponsored by the Harmony Ministerial Association, was actually held the Saturday before. It had been our church's turn to supply a Jesus. After the Fourth of July calamity, my son Levi refused such a visible public role, so Billy Grant was promoted from one of the multitudes rejoicing and praising God to the Messiah himself, which appeared to do wonders for his self-esteem.

It is a coveted role in our town, one that has launched many an illustrious career. Frank Gladden, the 1965 Jesus, went on to become the Midwest sales leader of Knapp Shoes, earning him and his wife an all-expense-paid trip to Pittsburgh and a crystal replica of the famous Knapp work shoe, complete with a steel toe for safety. It sits in his front window, illuminated by a spotlight, and is just one of the many tourist attractions our town has to offer.

The 1974 Jesus, Margaret Flynn, who was appointed to that lofty post in order to quell a feminine uprising in our town, now teaches at a liberal college in California where the students worship redwood
trees and wouldn't know the Triune God if He kicked them in the shins, according to her sister, Dorothy, who put Margaret's name on the prayer list at the Baptist church in 1985, where it's remained ever since.

Billy Grant did an admirable job, managing to look both lordly and kindly at the same time. His ferret rode with him, peeking out from underneath his robe, sniffing the air and surveying the crowd, which grows smaller every year.

The Palm Sunday pageant used to be one of our town's larger events. The faithful would watch from the sidewalk, then troop off to Kivett's Five and Dime to buy their Easter baskets, green grass, and jelly beans. Then the fathers would take their sons to Morrison's Menswear to buy their Easter suits, while the women walked two doors down to Mrs. Mingle's dress shop for their Easter finery.

Now Morrison's and Mingle's are closed and the Christians drive over to the Wal-Mart in Cartersburg and eat at the Burger King. Boys don't wear suits anymore. The old people still dress up and seem dismayed that the younger people take Palm Sunday and Easter so casually.

The day before Palm Sunday, Harvey Muldock's daughter Susan drove out from the city with her husband, Bruce, and their four children to stay the weekend. They spend Palm Sunday with Harvey and Eunice, and have Easter at Bruce's parents in Amo, the next town over.

Their oldest child is sixteen. He's been hanging out with an anarchist group. He believes organized religion is a plot by the ruling class to keep the masses complacent. His mother made him dress up
and go to church with them anyway. When he arrived at the meetinghouse, he went to the rest room, took off his dress shirt, put on a black T-shirt, and then walked down front to the second row, where his parents were seated. Though I couldn't read his T-shirt from my chair behind the pulpit, I knew it had to be scandalous. Wives were elbowing their dozing husbands while parents covered their children's eyes. There were audible gasps as he walked toward the front.

When he entered the pew to sit, he turned and I caught a glimpse of his shirt. The words
If a Man Has a Good Car, He Doesn't Need to Be Saved
were printed on the back in crisp white letters. Fern was seated two rows behind him, glaring. Opal Majors wore a dazed expression. Dolores Hinshaw had placed her arm around Dale's shoulder and appeared to be restraining him.

I knew before the day was over I would be blamed for not having the ushers strip-search the teenagers to prevent such calamities, but even that prospect could not dull my joy. I've always loved Palm Sunday. Not even a budding anarchist could spoil it. Besides, I believe young people should rebel. It is the natural order of things, God's way of making their eventual departure from home less painful. Otherwise, we would be brokenhearted. This way, we're relieved to see them go.

“Nice shirt,” I told him after church. “If I gave you the money, could you get one for me?” He sagged with disappointment. No young anarchist worth his salt wants the approval of the oppressive ruling class. I do the same thing whenever my son Levi listens to rap music. “Great song, son. Could you turn it up so I can sing along?”

That pretty well ruins it for him.

After church, we went to my parents' house for Sunday dinner. We tried to get out of it, but my mother was insistent. For years, she's served ham loaf for Sunday dinner, thinking my father liked it. He'd made the mistake of complimenting it, early in their marriage, in an effort to appease her after a marital spat. She's been making it ever since.

She served me two great slabs, which I managed to choke down with copious amounts of iced tea. I dropped my fork, which sent her scurrying back to the kitchen for a replacement. I used the opportunity to slip their dog a large chunk of ham loaf. He gobbled it down before realizing what it was, then scratched at the back door to be let out so he could eat grass and vomit the noxious lump of ham loaf back up.

I took off the next day, then spent much of the next week writing my Easter sermon, visiting the shut-ins, and arguing with my son Levi about being in the Easter play at church. He is a tall child and the only costume that fit him was the hollyhock.

“It's pink. I don't want to be a pink flower. The other kids will make fun of me.”

“At least you're one of the bigger flowers,” I pointed out. “When I was your age, they made me be the daffodil. The roses beat me up every year.”

“How come we have to do this stupid play anyway?”

“Because we've always done it.”

That wasn't the real reason. The real reason was that if we stopped doing this play, Dale would write a new one, probably something involving a live crucifixion.

The week flew by. The community Good Friday service was held at the Catholic church, which only served Communion to its own kind, while we Protestants looked on feeling like second cousins in the household of faith. When I was a child, Father Keffler was the priest and offered Communion to anyone who came forward. I thought at first it was because he was broad-minded, though I later learned he was far-sighted and wouldn't have recognized his own mother from two feet away. Now they have a new priest with 20/20 vision, so our town's ecumenism has been nipped in the bud.

I spent Saturday morning working with the Friendly Women, readying the meetinghouse for Easter. I found myself alone with Fern, helping arrange the memorial lilies around the platform. The other women were downstairs, baking cookies and cleaning the kitchen.

“I hate Easter,” she said, placing a lily next to the pulpit.

I sensed she wasn't waiting for a response, so I remained silent.

She picked up another lily and placed it on the organ.

“Every year, it's the same thing,” she said, her back turned to me. “A lily for my father, one for my mother, one for my sister, and me sitting in the pew all by myself with all my family gone. Just me, staring at all these stupid lilies.”

“Not all your family's gone,” I said. “You still have your church family.”

“It's not the same.”

I suspected she was right, so I didn't disagree.

“My ankles are killing me. I have to sit down.”

I looked at her ankles. They were swelling out over the tops of her shoes, like sausages crammed in too small a casing.

“Don't ever get old, Sam. Everyone you love is dead, and your ankles hurt.”

“Thanks for the tip, Fern. I'll try not to age.”

The corners of her mouth twitched in something resembling a smile.

It's funny how the curtain parts and you glimpse a dimension of someone you didn't know existed. I occasionally dream of extra rooms in my home, rooms I didn't know existed. I hadn't understood the dream until now.

I've known Fern since 1966, when she was my first-grade teacher. It was an inauspicious start to my education. By the second week, I'd concluded Fern was a grouch and never bothered to change my opinion. But sitting in the meetinghouse with her, I realized there were other dimensions to her life I'd overlooked, other rooms I hadn't noticed—her loneliness, her sorrow, her disappointment with life.

I sat beside her on the first pew. “I know having a church family isn't the same as having your parents and sister back. But you are important to us, Fern. I know you and I have had our disagreements, but it doesn't mean I don't care about you.”

Her chin trembled. A tear leaked from her left eye and caught in the folds of her cheek.

“Even after I tried to get you fired?”

“Yes, Fern, even after that.”

She sniffed. I handed her my handkerchief. “I don't know why I do things like that.”

“We all do things we later regret. We're human. We make mistakes.” I paused. “What are you doing for Easter, Fern?”

“I thought I'd drive down to the interstate and get a fish sandwich at the McDonald's.”

“By yourself?”

“I've done it before. It's okay.”

“We're having Easter dinner at my parents' house. Why don't you come eat with us? I'm sure Mom and Dad would love to have you.”

“You mean it?”

“I certainly do, Fern.”

“After all I've done to you?”

“Fern, that was yesterday. Today's another day. Let's move on.”

She leaned over into me. “Thank you, Sam.”

We sat there for some time, Fern and I, not saying anything. Fern smelled like my grandmother. I closed my eyes. My mind rewound to my childhood. I was sitting with my grandmother on their swing underneath their maple tree, while my grandfather mowed the yard. I could hear the snickety-clip of the lawn mower and see the clipped remnants of grass swarming softly like gnats around the mower.

But life goes on.

I lifted my arm around Fern and squeezed her to me. “We'll eat tomorrow around two, but you can come early if you want.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

I rose to my feet and walked out, glancing back when I reached the doorway. Fern was still seated, looking at the lilies, dabbing at her eyes with my handkerchief, dwelling in rooms I'd never known existed.

In addition to writing, Philip Gulley also enjoys the ministry of speaking. If you would like more information, please contact:

If you would like to correspond directly with Philip Gulley, please send mail to:

PHILIP GULLEY
is a Quaker minister, writer, husband, and father. He is the bestselling author of
Front Porch Tales
and the acclaimed Harmony series, as well as
If Grace Is True
and
If God Is Love,
coauthored with James Mulholland. He and his wife, Joan, live in Indiana with their sons, Spencer and Sam.

Visit the author online at
www.philipgulleybooks.com.

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