(months ago, early summer)
His nose appearing to crinkle as if he smelled something foul—a trace of old incense, maybe, or stale candlewax—Joseph Bridges, longtime pastor of St. Matthias Lutheran Church, lifted his lanky, aging body from the seat behind the pulpit.
As he addressed the assembly that Sunday morning, he felt a swell of apprehension, yet understanding anticipation, from those young and old whom he’d tried to shepherd for 16 years. Did they, or any besides his family, know the relief he concealed as regret when he announced, well … an announcement from the somewhat matronly woman behind him, still seated but prepared to rise and approach?
When he murmured a prayer for the best, no one knew if it was directed to God or to her as she stepped forward.
“That I must leave you,” Sarah Maddage declared, carrying the same unusually stilted quality she’d clearly borne as she sat waiting, “does not gladden my heart.”
This struck an odd note. Although she suspected she was the mistress of double-speak, she had among these people her faithful, most of them of above-average intelligence. To be sure, though, everyone noticed how certain sycophants seemed recently to have taken vacations, been “down” with something or other, or, in the midst, become quiet as “churchmice.” However, in the minds of the sensitive and astute, it could readily be believed that, if there was in this para-Paraclete a heart to be made glad or which felt any fervor, it was one safety-pinned just under her robe, and she would be forthcoming for no one.
“Although he could not be here today,” still–Assistant Pastor Sarah Maddage continued, “my husband, whom some met when last he visited, sends his regards and his blessings for the person eventually to be appointed, or invited, to carry on in my place.”
This was just the kind of disinformation she knew could be pulled out for a 300-person assortment of attendees and members. It was therefore a somewhat confusing remark to the “some,” and after later conferring together, to many who in good faith assumed they’d just happened to have missed Mr. Maddage when he deigned to “darken the door” of the church, any church for that matter—who really knew?
But Pastor Maddage knew how to pull the “lamb’s” wool over one’s eyes.
“As for myself, I have felt the calling to minister on a somewhat smaller scale in the area.”
Administer.
“All the same, and until God is ready for me [here she offered a mild self-deprecating chuckle], I shall enjoy some time off, some travel too. It may turn out that I am led to a new spiritual home, but St. Matthias’s will always be my birthplace, if you will. And should you happen to see me at what many remember as the Silhouette Shoppe on Main Street, now Sarah’s Teas and Herbals, please don’t hesitate to say hello. Do stop by and have a cup on the house. I’d consider it a communion. But whether you can or cannot, please know that my prayers are with you all.”
Poor Pastor Bridges, seated again behind her, looked as if he might nod off, eyes fluttering shut. Was he aware the brief titter that passed through the congregation did not attend a beneficence or godspeed toward the speaker as much as result from the amused suspicion he might be dozing? The old codger was still sharp, after all—he surely knew that closing one’s eyes behind her final remarks played with the difference between reverence … and a faint wish for her to be done with it.
Two-thirds of the way down the right aisle of pews, Emma Truesdale sat with her brother Evan Jr. Two weeks ago Sister Maddage had buttonholed her over the meager refreshments in the fellowship hall after the service.
Removing her frock that Sunday evening, Mrs. Maddage told her husband “What was supposed to happen! Folding tables laid with some half-stale sheet cake and a steel carafe of what everyone politely called ‘coffee.’ Of course the hot water too, complete with Lipton shitbags. And off to the side, me at my small card table, set with a teapot and paper cups, and a handwritten sign that read Summer Herbal Blessings.”
He cocked his head for her to continue.
“I pour from the pot with deliberate calm, telling any parishioner who paused that this is ‘mugwort, cleansing, fortifying.’ Of course the taste is grassy and pungent, hard to place—and some politely sip or toss it in the wastebasket the moment I turn … but a chosen few linger, even curious.”
Mr. Maddage poured two scotches.
“But that fool! That … doddering—” And she reconsidered. “No. No, that wise old man. That unwon, worn-out bag of umbilicals…”
“Sarah?” admonished the husband. “Storytime.”
Then she began telling of that late morning as it happened.
“To predict is to own. To own is to end.”
Fab!