Almost Friends (13 page)

F
riday morning dawned clear. Outside Sam and Barbara’s bedroom window, the sun struck the red maple, turning it to fire. He blinked awake and rolled over to hold her, but her side of the bed was empty. He could hear her bustling about downstairs as she got the boys ready for school. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, blinked his eyes to clear the cobwebs, and donned his robe and slippers.

Barbara was standing at the counter mixing pancake batter, Levi was setting the table, and Addison was curled up in the chair beside the woodstove in their kitchen, entertaining the breakfast crowd by reading aloud from a
Calvin and Hobbes
cartoon book.

After a leisurely breakfast, Sam took a shower and dressed. Then he and Barbara walked the boys to school.

“You think many folks will come to the meeting tonight?” Barbara asked on their way home.

“It’ll be packed,” Sam predicted. “Fern and Dale have been working hard to fill the place with sympathizers.”

“I can’t believe this is happening in a Friends meeting,” Barbara said, shaking her head.

“It’s annoying,” Sam said, “but not surprising. Some of those folks not only don’t know what it means to be Quaker, they don’t care to know. We ought to change our sign to read
Harmony Almost Friends Meeting.
”

Barbara chuckled. “That would be closer to the truth.” She turned toward him. “Have you decided whether you’re going to speak tonight?”

“Yep. Haven’t figured out what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say something.”

“That’s my Sam,” she said, squeezing his hand.

The day sped past. After a light supper, Sam and Barbara and the boys left for the meeting at six-thirty. Church being free and the football game costing four dollars, people looking for excitement at a bargain were filling the meetinghouse. Longtime members, displaced from their customary pews by Baptists and Catholics, were flitting about in a tizzy. Fern Hampton arrived to find Ned Kivett and the extended Kivett clan residing in her pew and had cleared it within thirty seconds, knocking them aside like bowling pins.

Krista entered the meeting room at five before seven. The chatter subsided as people grew aware of her presence. She walked by herself to a pew up front. Sam and his family rose from their seats and went to sit with her.

With Miriam Hodge absent, the task of leading the meeting had fallen to Asa Peacock, a nice man in Sam’s opinion, though a life spent wading through manure seemed poor
preparation for the niceties of ecclesial dialogue. At seven o’clock, Asa stood and made his way to the front of the meeting room to stand at the pulpit. Normally reticent, he became talkative when nervous.

“Well, I guess with Miriam gone to take care of her sister, it falls to me to get things started. We’re here because Fern and Dale think Krista is, uh, well, how should I say this, uh, not quite right in the sex department. And she won’t say one way or the other, even though it sure would make our jobs easier if she did. Now there are some folks who think she’s not fit to be a pastor, but other folks who like her, so we’re just gonna settle this nice and fair and take a vote.”

Sam raised his hand.

“Yeah, Sam. What’s on your mind?”

“Asa, I know you’re in charge and I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but Quakers don’t vote.”

Asa blushed. “Oh, that’s right. Sorry about that, folks. Well then, I guess we’ll just talk things over and see what we come up with. Who wants to go first?”

Shirley Finchum grasped the pew in front of her and hauled herself upward. “I say we get rid of her. She’s been here long enough, and so has Sam,” she said, her appreciation for Sam’s lawn-care assistance apparently fading.

“That girl’s been nothing but trouble since she got here,” Fern said, lunging to her feet, scattering Kivetts in her wake. “She’s split the Friendly Women right down the middle. We got along fine until she came.”

Sam leaned over to Krista. “Try not to take it personally,” he said. “I’m sure they don’t mean it.”

“Firing’s too good for her,” Dale Hinshaw screeched. “We need to cast her out of the church altogether.”

“I, for one, appreciate Krista and her ministry,” Judy Iverson said. “As for her sexual orientation, I don’t think that’s any of our business.”

“Judy’s right,” Deena Morrison said. “We’ve not asked anyone else what we’re asking her.”

“I liked the tea she made at the Chicken Noodle Dinner,” Harvey Muldock said. “I’ve been telling Eunice for years they needed to sweeten it up.”

“The tea was good,” Asa agreed.

“We all got along in this church just fine until she got here,” Stanley Farlow said. “Now we’re fightin’ with one another. I’m just glad my mother isn’t alive to see this.”

“I knew he’d work his mother into this somehow,” Barbara whispered to Sam.

Sam sat quietly, contemplating Stanley Farlow’s mother, who, had she been alive, would have called for Krista’s public flogging.

“I suppose we ought to ask Krista if she wants to speak,” Asa Peacock said.

Silence fell across the meeting room. People turned toward Krista, expectantly. After a few moments, she rose and turned to face the congregation.

“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to be a pastor. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Of course, when you’re Roman Catholic
and female, that’s pretty hard to do,” she said, smiling. “So I became a teacher instead. But still my dream was to be a minister, to have a church like this one where I could help people and serve God. Then the way opened for me to come and be with you, and I was so happy.”

She paused, as if weighing whether to continue, then spoke again. “Every generation of the church has its struggle. Our parents had to decide whether to include people of color. Today, the church is locked in a debate about whether homosexuals can belong. Your preoccupation with my sexuality leads to nothing good. If I tell you I’m straight, you’ll let me stay, though some of you would still wonder about me and treat me poorly. If I tell you I’m homosexual, I would not be welcome. No matter how I answer your question, one thing remains unchanged—gay people are not welcome here.”

All across the meeting room, people hung their heads, embarrassed. Dale Hinshaw looked about, panicked, seeming to sense the tide was shifting in Krista’s favor. “Matthew 18 is clear. She’s refusing to cooperate. She needs to be to us as a tax collector and a Gentile.”

Oscar Purdy plunged an index finger in his ear to adjust his hearing aid. “What’d he say about raising our taxes?” he asked his wife.

Fern Hampton stood again to speak. “Don’t let her distract you from the real matter. We’ve asked her a simple question on a matter of great consequence to the church. She’s refused to answer it. If we suspected her of stealing money from the
church and she didn’t answer our questions, we’d fire her. Why is this any different?”

“She’s got a point there,” Ned Kivett said to his wife.

The Quakers sat quietly, weighing Fern’s words.

Sam closed his eyes, recalling what Miss Rudy had told him that week at the library. “Honoring one’s commitments when life is difficult is the measure of one’s character.”

Years ago, Sam had sat in this very room and made a commitment to the Lord to be a minister worthy of that high calling, to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Dear God, give me the words to say, he prayed silently, then rose to his feet.

He surveyed the room, taking measure of who was there. Almost everyone who meant anything to him was present—his wife and sons, his parents, his friends, his flock.

“I’m glad you’re here tonight. This is an important day for our church. Because tonight we get to decide what kind of church we’re going to be. Not every congregation gets that chance. Most days in the church are business as usual, not at all that much hangs in the balance. But not today. Today we get to decide what kind of church we’re going to be.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

“Something here tonight doesn’t feel right to me. I can’t quite define it, I just know how it makes me feel: sad. Sad that somewhere along the line we missed the boat. Instead of figuring out how best to prepare Krista for ministry, we’ve met to judge her. We got suspicious and asked her a question we’ve
never asked anyone else in this church. We’ve asked Krista to tell us about her sex life and defended our right to know because she is a pastor. But in all my years of ministry, not one person has ever asked me about my sex life.”

Across the room, Dale Hinshaw frowned at the mention of sex.

“But since we’re all so curious to know about our pastors’ sex lives, I think we ought to start with mine. There’s something about me you don’t know. Something I kept secret for years. There was a certain Sausage Queen—I won’t name her name—whom I was infatuated with. I never told anyone and never acted on it, but I had thoughts about her, thoughts that weren’t appropriate.”

Barbara stared at him, an odd look on her face.

What he said next came as an utter surprise to him and everyone else in the meeting room. “So if we’re going to get rid of anyone around here, it should be me.”

He sat down, worried they’d follow his suggestion, but also feeling strangely free.

Shirley Finchum fanned herself vigorously, utterly appalled. “I agree. Let’s give him the heave-ho.”

“I bet he had the hots for Nora Nagle,” Ned Kivett said to Kyle Weathers.

“Can’t fault him there,” Kyle whispered back.

Across the meeting room, Judy Iverson rose to her feet. “Sam is right. Tonight we get to decide what kind of church we’re going to be. Are we going to be a church where people are accepted and loved and forgiven, or are we going to be a
church with no room in our pews for folks who’ve fallen short or are a little different?”

“Be ye perfect,” Dale Hinshaw piped up, “even as your Father in heaven is perfect.”

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,” Gloria Gardner said, fixing Dale with a glare.

Asa Peacock went to the pulpit. “Anybody else have something to say?”

“I think the Lord’s telling us to purify ourselves, and it needs to start with our leaders,” Fern Hampton said. “A church is only as good as its leadership.”

“Amen to that,” Dale said.

Frank snorted. “If the Lord’s telling us to do something, how come the rest of us aren’t hearing it?”

Asa studied the congregation in an effort to gauge their sentiments. “Seems like there’s only a few folks who want Krista and Sam to go. So as near as I can figure, we ought to keep them on. Do folks agree?”

“Agreed,” the congregation replied, except for Fern and her minions.

“I don’t agree,” Fern said. “I don’t agree one bit.”

“Well, I suppose you can bring it up at next month’s business meeting,” Asa said.

“She’ll be gone by then,” Fern whined, clearly distressed the church wasn’t doing all it could to make Krista’s life miserable.

Asa elected not to respond. He glanced at his watch. “Friends, if we hurry, we can catch the second half of the football game.”

The crowd dispersed quickly, except for Fern and Dale, who huddled with their few allies at the back of the meeting room, clearly distressed by this outburst of common sense and grace.

Krista turned to Sam. “Thank you, Sam. That was very kind of you. And brave. Not many pastors would have the courage to confess such a thing.”

Sam beamed, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Barbara tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, lover boy,” she said brusquely.

“See you, Sunday,” Sam said to Krista. “I’m looking forward to your message.”

“Thanks again, Sam. It was awfully kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said magnanimously. “Glad I could help.”

It was a quiet walk home. Barbara hurried the boys along to bed. She stood over them while they brushed their teeth, then hurriedly read them a story.

She came downstairs to find Sam reading in his easy chair.

“Now what’s this about you having the hots for a Sausage Queen?” she asked, a slight edge to her voice.

Sam, sensing for the first time he might be in trouble, grinned weakly. “Pretty clever, wasn’t it? I thought I’d show them that some matters were private, sex being one of them.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Not my fault,” Sam said. “Right before I stood up, I asked the Lord to give me the words to say and those were the words He gave me. You’ll have to take the matter up with Him.”

“Oh, brother.”

“Can’t have it both ways,” Sam said. “You got mad when I didn’t defend Krista. Now I speak and you’re angry.”

“I suppose I’ll get over it. I just wished you had exercised more discretion.”

She whacked him with a rolled-up newspaper. Fortunately, it was the
Herald
and not the
New York Times
Sunday edition, so it didn’t hurt.

“You really think about the Sausage Queens?”

“It was a long time ago,” Sam said. “And I’ve thought about you a lot more. And I never acted on it and never would.”

“You better never, mister, or you won’t be able to have a sex life. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Sam said.