The Pastor's Wife Wears Biker Boots (10 page)

“Uh, sorry.” I shook my head and held up my hand. “I’ll wear an eel on my jacket, I’ll go to motorcycle classes with you guys, and I’ll even participate in a bike naming ceremony—but I’m not going to tattoo one of those ugly slimy things on my body.”

Reba threw back her head and laughed so loud people at the ordering counter turned to look at her. She slapped her leg
.

“What
’s so funny?” I
wasn’t amused.

“You. You were sure I was gonna drag you into the tattoo parlor and make you get a tattoo.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” I said.

“Now wouldn’t that chap the church ladies’ hides!” She laughed.

I didn’t. I rolled my eyes. “That’d go swell with preacher’s wife clothes.”

“Sure would,” Reba said. “God made eels.”

“God made belly buttons, too, but I don’t go around showing mine off in church.” I chewed on my straw.

“So which eel do you want on the patch?”

Reba picked up one of them and flicked it with her finger. “Put a jacket on that one, and she’ll be perfect.”

“Purple helmet?” I asked.

“Sure. And make the bike silver and the letters in black.”

“Everybody OK with that?” I looked around the table as everyone nodded.

“OK.” I took the picture from Reba and stacked it on top of the others. “Opal, are you still going to sew the patches on our jackets for us?”

“Yup. But you’re going to have to show me where they all go,” she said.

I nodded. “You got it. When you want to do this?”

Reba stood and picked up her helmet. “Order the patches, and we’ll get together after they come in. Until then, let’s ride.”

****

Two weeks later, we met at the parsonage with our jackets, vests, and patches.

Reba told us how to place them and what they meant.

“OK, on the front, you park the U.S. flag on the upper left hand part. And don’t ever attach any patch or pin above the flag.”

“Oh. Speaking of pins…” I pulled out a little stash of lapel pins with angels riding a motorcycle and gave each of the girls one.

“Awwww.” Lily held hers up to admire it. “That’s so sweet!”

Reba snorted a little, but she pinned it on her jacket. “Thanks,” she mumbled. She pulled out POW and MIA patches. “Here,” she said. “If you want you can sew these on the lower left side.”

We all agreed we’d wear them.

“I feel like I’m in Girl Scouts again,” I giggled. “I had all the badges.”

“These aren’t badges. They’re patches,” Reba growled.

“I know that.”

“Now, since we have our eel patches on the back…” Reba pointed at all of us. “Never wear them in the presence of another club or gang uninvited.”

“Why’s that?” Opal looked up from arranging her patches and wrinkled her brow at Reba. “It’s a free country.”

“It’s a free country, yeah, but if you’re on their turf it’s rude.”

I thought she was being ridiculous. “I highly doubt we’ll be on any other gang’s turf, Reba. Most of their turfs are bars and taverns.”

“You never know.” Reba looked me in the eye. “Funny things happen on the road. Whatever you do, never touch someone else’s patch, vest, jacket, or their bike. That’ll get you beat up, depending on the club.”

“Sounds a bit melodramatic to me.”

“It’s not. Especially if the patch has three pieces.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Those are outlaw clubs. Our patch is one piece. That means we’re just a nice little law-abiding riding club. There’s a difference between a hard-core motorcycle outlaw gang and a riding club.”

I let out a whistle. “I never knew there was such a culture to this.”

“Well, there is. And you need to heed the rules.”

We finished pinning our patches in place so Opal could sew them on.

Timmy’s chanting with the theme song of
Cops
drifted downstairs.

“I don’t know what I’d do without that TV program,” I said.

Reba grew restless because she already had her patches placed on her vest. She reached over to help with mine. “We need to plan our trip. I think it’s time to ride the Cherohala Skyway in the Smokies.”

The phone rang in the kitchen. I made my way around the maze of chairs in the dining room and finally answered on the third ring.

“Hello, this is Kirstie.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh no.” My stomach lurched. I bent over and held on to my middle. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I could only whisper in reply to the horrific news. “Yes, I’m sure our ladies will want to help…of course…of course. Just let us know. Please give the family our condolences. Yes, Pastor Elliot. Good-bye.”
I reached for a chair and sat down.
I couldn’t see. My face felt hot, and the floor moved.

“What is it?” Opal
rushed to my side, needle and thread forgotten.

“It’s the Schwartz family. Their son…Kevin…he was killed in Afghanistan early this morning.”
I could barely choke out the words. I looked up at Lily. “He was in my Sunday school class when he was younger.
”

14

What do you say to a mother who has lost her only son? I had no words. The young soldier had attended my Sunday school class before his mother married a man from Fort Wayne. Before her marriage, Julie Schwartz and I were good friends and spent countless Saturdays shopping together. She had a gentle and intuitive way with Timmy, and I missed her
as a friend and a babysitter. We hadn’t stopped being friends, but she was forty-five minutes away, busy with her new family and church activities, and our paths didn’t cross much.

When I stepped into the funeral home for visitation, she fell into my arms. “You’ve got to help me, Kirstie.” She clung to me and her body shook with grief. I stroked her hair and let her cry.

“I will. I’ll help you.”
How could I possibly do anything to ease this kind of pain? She held me tighter and cried harder.

“I can’t do this alone.”

“You’re not alone. You have Michael and…”

“He’s not a mom. He has no clue. I carried that baby for nine months, nursed him, taught him his first words, only to send him to the military and his death. Why did I let him go? Why? I’ll never forgive myself.”

She melted into me for a long time but finally pulled away.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Those awful protesters are going to be here tomorrow.”

“What protesters?”

“You know—war protesters. They call themselves The Agents of God. They aren’t agents of anything but hate. I heard they’re going to show up at the funeral. How can they be so cruel? He’s my baby.” She hid her face in my shoulder again.

I prayed for God
to give me the right words.

“We won’t let that happen.” I gently pushed her away from me with my hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “Too many people love you and your son to let that happen. We’ll pray they won’t come. I’ll be praying for you, Julie. I promise.” I held her again, but I felt impatient and empty of words.
I
was supposed to be an agent of God right now, not those hate mongers. I should be able to give her more hope, but my words seemed terribly insignificant. I needed to let Aaron and the Lady Eels know what was happening. I’d talk to Reba. She’d know what to do.

Arriving home after my visit with Julie, my head throbbed and my blood pressure boiled thinking about those protesters.

Patrick and Daniel were at a friend’s house for lunch.

After I made Timmy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the almond flour bread I’d made earlier that day, I called Reba.

“Reba, you’re not going to believe this.”

“What? Don’t tell me. You’ve gone and dyed your hair pink.”

“No. Not that. There are going to be protesters at Kevin’s funeral. Those horrible Agents of God people.”

There was silence on Reba’s end. I heard her light a cig. “We’ll just see about that. Don’t you worry, Kirstie. I’ll take care of everything.” Without saying good-bye, she hung up. A
bout an hour later, she called. She was pumped. “Those protesters don’t stand a chance.”

“I knew I could count on you, Reba. How’d you do it?”

“Are you ready for this? The Patriot Guard are coming. I already talked to Julie, and she said she wanted them to come.
Kevin loved motorcycles. Even if he didn’t, they’d come. They love our soldier boys.”

“The who? Not one of those gun-toting militia groups, I hope.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. They’re bikers who ride to funerals and shield families from being able to see the protestors. They do this all the time to honor fallen servicemen and women.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Well, you have now. You and the girls are riding with them, too. We’re going to do this for Kevin.”

What would my husband think? I’d be protesting protestors. Worse—what would the congregation think? I could hear Bernice now. But what they thought didn’t matter this time. This was about Kevin. Not me.

“Oh, Reba, they would do that? They don’t even know him.
”

“They’re Americans who appreciate their freedom, Kirstie. They’re happy to help in order to thank the family for their sacrifice. I gotta go. I have a lot of phone calls to make to let all the chapters know.”

I hung up. No turning back now. Was I ready to be on the evening news, smack dab in the middle of a melee between the local pastor’s wife and the leader of the Agents of God? I could see the headlines now: “Pastor’s Wife Crucifies Agent of God.”

I sighed. If Kevin could give his life for our country, I could stand up to a few ignorant hate mongers.

I tried to resume baking a Dutch apple pie for the funeral dinner but was more than a little distracted by the idea of becoming a political activist.

Timmy was yelling at the dog in the living room. “’Liath, no, bad boy, ’Liath. ’Liath, bad boy.”

I looked around the corner.
“What’s wrong, Timmy?”

“’Liath eat sammich. Bad ’Liath.”

I laughed. Goliath looked at me with his head tilted to the side, as innocent as a newborn buffalo.

Timmy folded his arms, planted a scowl on his face, and rocked back and forth.

I knelt in front of him and looked into his piercing blue eyes. The eyes of an angel. “Timmy, come help me with the pie, and I’ll make you a new sandwich.”

He clapped and ran to the kitchen.
“Pie! Pie! Timmy help. Timmy help Mommy?”

“Yes, Timmy, you can help. Wash your hands.”

He washed his hands and wiped them on his jeans.

I sighed. Well, he did it half right.

“Put the apples in the crust. Goliath, out!” I pointed to the door, and Goliath padded slowly to the edge of the kitchen door and plopped down.

“Out “’Liath,” Timmy echoed as he meticulously placed the apple slices into the bottom crust one at a time.

“More apples, Timmy.” I stirred the crumbly brown sugar mixture for the top.

“More apples, Timmy,” he mimicked and continued placing the slices one at a time.

“No, Timmy, like this.” I sprinkled a handful of apples into the crust and immediately realized my mistake.

Timmy yelped a high-pitched scream, flapped his hands, and spun in a circle.

Goliath stood and barked.

“Timmy, stop it. Stop!”

Timmy screamed louder and reached for the pie to knock it on the floor. I grabbed the pie, shoved it inside the microwave and pushed him away from me. “Stop it!” I shouted. “Time out, Timmy, time out.”

He banged his head against the kitchen cabinets. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I give up trying to interact with him? Lately, every activity ended like this. Sometimes, it wasn’t worth the chaos. I never should have asked him to help. He was fine watching
Cops
. I could have avoided this entire mess if I’d simply left him alone in front of the TV.
But something inside of me was convinced that if I kept interacting with him, he would get better.

Timmy grabbed the brown sugar mixture I had mixed in my favorite bowl and threw it to the floor.
Aunt Mary’s antique bowl splintered and the brown sugar topping went everywhere.

“Aaron!” I yelled. I thought he was upstairs in his study but remembered he’d gone to the church to prepare for the funeral. The Schwartz family had asked him to
write the eulogy.

I took Timmy by the wrists, led him to the living room, and plopped him on the couch where he pounded his head with his fists and screamed. I turned up
Cops
and stomped to his room for the weighted blanket. My hands shook with frustration as I placed the heavy comforter around his shoulders and left him alone. I was far too tired and angry to sit with him through this one. Let him sit there and pummel himself to exhaustion this time. Frustration, guilt, anger—it was all there roiling around in my stomach and rising up to form a thick lump in my throat.

“How much am I supposed to endure, Lord? When are the lessons enough? Day after day, hour after eternal hour, and minute by minute, I can’t plan on anything. Everything’s a fight. Even making a pie. Nothing’s ever easy. If he isn’t screaming, he’s taking something apart or getting into things like paint or power tools, or he’s putting holes in the walls, or drinking mouthwash or aftershave…” I brushed angry tears off my cheeks and started cleaning the mess in the kitchen. I was livid. I always needed to be on high alert. I could never just “be.”

Timmy required vigilant awareness. Simply being awake with him in the room made every nerve in my body stand at attention.

“Isn’t life hard enough, Lord, without autism? Why me? Why Timmy? Why didn’t You help me today when I tried to help others with this pie? I don’t get it.”

I wondered what life would be like to have a regular day. What was it like to get a full night’s sleep or a cup of coffee in the morning without being disturbed? I couldn’t fathom it. And I needed it. So did my other boys.

“Lord, he takes up so much of my time and attention. What if I’m not connecting with the other two boys enough? His constant interruptions annoy Patrick, and I can’t blame him. They annoy me, too. But I love them all equally, Father, and I can’t toss one of them aside merely because he’s different. Who’s to say what’s normal anyway? No one loves my boys the way I love them. No one.”