The Language of Sycamores (11 page)

When he spoke again, the words were choked with tears. “I looked at that bed and there was the boy who had played linebacker on the football team, who made good grades and earned a scholarship to college. Who never disappointed his parents a day in his life, a perfect son, a perfect grandson—everything we ever hoped for. And now the doctors were telling us he wasn’t going to be
perfect
anymore. If he recovered, he was going to have scars on his arms and legs from the burns.”
Brother Baker looked at Caleb, his eyes filled with love and remembered anguish. Around us, the room was silent except for the hush of breathing. “And I asked God
why
. Why would you take this young, good-looking, beautiful boy and leave him the rest of his life with scars?”

He paused, looking up toward the heavens and then down at the pulpit. “And you know, God doesn’t always answer our questions right away. Sometimes he leaves us to think and ponder, to find our way back on our own. Sometimes the answers are so ordinary, you could walk right by without even noticing.” He paused and reached behind the pulpit, pulling out something that clattered like metal on metal. Everyone leaned forward in their seats, and I realized I was stretching upward, trying to see. As we watched, Brother Baker lined up several old containers—a rusted tin bucket, a dented flowerpot, an old saucepan, a partially smashed coffee can, and a new child’s beach pail—in a row along the railing. The members of the congregation began to murmur, theorizing on the purpose of the unusual display.

Dell leaned close to me and whispered, “What’s he doing?”

A memory flashed through my mind, of me asking my grandmother the same question on some long-ago Sunday. “I don’t know,” I whispered, just as Grandma Rose had whispered to me. “Watch.”

Brother Baker waited, allowing the suspense to build before he took the pulpit again, one hand in his pocket, the other leaning casually on the podium as he gazed at the pots. “The other day, I was out in the back lot behind the church, back there near that hill where the kids play in the sand sometimes.” He chuckled, looking at all the rapt faces in the audience. “It’s a funny thing about kids—you can make them all the clean sandboxes in the world, and they’ll still prefer an old hill of real, one hundred percent dirt.”

The congregation chuckled in response, the tension easing as Brother Baker went on. “It’s been kind of a dry spring so far, so we haven’t had to do much mowing out in the back lot, but we finally had some rain a few weeks ago, praise the Lord. So I went out to mow, and I saw all of these old buckets, pots, and pans the kids had left sitting around near their dirt pile. And you know, as I looked around, I
noticed something. The perfect ones had caught rainwater and held it until it became stagnant and black. All the grass around them was dead. The containers that were dented or cracked or had holes had probably caught rainwater as well, but they had poured the water out through the holes. There was no stagnant water in them, and all the grass around them was growing.”

Brother Baker paused, moving his gaze slowly from the buckets to the congregation, holding the parishioners riveted. “It is the same with people. It’s those little nicks and dents and imperfections of spirit that allow us to flow out into a thirsty world. It’s our scars that allow us to relate to the scars of others, our suffering that connects us to others who suffer.” Holding out his arms, he turned his hands over slowly, studying them, then looking again at his grandson. “I don’t know why God put scars on my beautiful grandson, but I do know that when he becomes a doctor, when he reaches out to those who are wounded and hurting, they’re going to realize he’s been there. He’s going to understand his patients in a way that many doctors never will, and just by virtue of those scars on his arms, he’s going show them that life goes on. He’s going to be able to flow out into other people in a way that would have been impossible if God had left his life perfect.”

Leaving the pulpit, Brother Baker walked to the railing and picked up the new plastic bucket and the dented coffee can. “Consider for yourselves which life you’d rather have, which vessel you’d rather be. Perfect?” He tipped the plastic bucket toward the audience so that we could see the inside, which was blackened with the mold and algae left by stagnant water. “Or imperfect?” Tipping the coffee can toward the audience, he displayed the inside, washed clean by the rainwater passing through. His gaze slowly swept the congregation, stopping when it came to me. I felt myself move forward in my seat, forgetting there was anyone else in the room. “Ready to hold in everything that comes your way, or ready to pour out and be refilled with each new rain? Closed to the world . . . or open to the possibilities . . .”

I’m ready,
I thought.
I’m ready.
I realized there were tears streaming down my face.

Chapter 11

B
y the time the service was over, I was emotionally exhausted. I had cried during the sermon, wiped my tears, then cried again during the closing hymns. No doubt, James thought I was having a breakdown. I was glad I was at the end of the pew with Dell and James was sitting between me and everyone else, so the rest of them couldn’t see.

Dabbing at my mascara, I tried to get myself in order as Brother Baker made the closing announcements. “Have a wonderful day with your families. You young parents, get the kids out and enjoy the beautiful weather. I have it on good authority that the swimming hole down at Boggie Bend is warm enough for taking a dip, and the perch are biting on the river, just below the old bridge. Church council will meet tonight at five o’clock, prior to the evening service. The mission women would like donations of scrap material to make lap quilts for the nursing home, and don’t forget, starting next week, we’ll be hosting the summer day camp, so we’ll need some strong men and older boys to stay after service tonight and move furniture.

“The volunteer instructors will be arriving on Monday morning to spend two weeks helping kids prepare a musical theater performance, which will be presented Saturday after next. If you missed the program last year, be sure to come this time. Eighty-seven kids from all over the county have been accepted, so it should be a full house. I think they’re
doing an adaptation of
The Lion King
this year, to be presented at the end of camp, on Memorial weekend. If you’ve never worked with the Jumpkids team, I urge you to come down and volunteer.

“That’s all I have for today. Come help this evening if you can. If you can’t, please keep our Jumpkids program in prayer these next two weeks.”

Jumpkids . . .
the word wound into my thoughts. Where had I heard that before? The college kid on the plane, Keiler . . . something . . . Bradford . . . Keiler Bradford. Jumpkids was the summer program he was working with in Kansas City. He had mentioned something about coming to Hindsville last year to put on a performance. Was he one of the counselors coming this year?

Thinking back to the plane ride, I remembered the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about Jumpkids, the way he was almost bubbling over with exuberance. That luster of a true believer was an awesome thing to witness. I could only imagine what it would be like to see him in action, when he was actually working with kids.

You won’t be here to find out, Karen,
I reminded myself.
You’re going home today.
The realization came with an inexplicable disappointment, and I found myself calculating the passage of days. If I returned a little early for Memorial Day weekend, I could be back in time to see the last of Jumpkids camp. Maybe catch a small dose of Keiler’s zest for a life unplanned, spend some time with Kate and the kids, commune with nature, pick blackberries, work with Dell on the piano . . .

Dell . . .

I hit on an idea. “Excuse me a minute,” I whispered to James and slid out to catch Brother Baker before he was surrounded by the usual crowd of old after-church hand shakers.

“Brother Baker,” I said, as he was picking up the pots from the railing.

He paused, seeming surprised that I’d left the security of the family pew. “Karen.” He extended a hand, toppling the old coffee can off the railing. “So good to see you here this morning.”

I caught the coffee can as it landed in the altar flowers. “It was good to be here.” Turning the coffee can over, I watched bits of light shine through the holes in the bottom. “It was a good message.”

Brother Baker smiled that warm, benevolent, slightly reproachful smile I remembered from my childhood. “It’s a good thing to remember, isn’t it? We don’t have to be perfect vessels—just useful ones.” He finished stacking the containers, motioning to the one in my hands. “Want to keep that one?” The twinkle in his eye told me he knew what I was thinking. He knew I was looking at that battered container with the light shining through the holes and considering my own life.

I laughed softly and handed him the coffee can. “No, thanks, but I did want to ask you about something.”

“What’s that?” He put the can on the stack. “How can I help?”

How can I help?
It seemed like an odd thing to say, considering that I hadn’t asked him for anything. Could he tell just by looking that I needed help? Was it that obvious? For a split second I had the urge to pour out the corners of my soul right there at the altar as people filed out of church. How would it feel to unburden myself of it all and be free?

I shook my head, trying to get my bearings. “Actually, I was wondering about the Jumpkids program.”

Brother Baker set down his pots and clasped his hands together, seeming pleased. “Are you going to be here through the week? We still need more help, and as I recall, you were quite the musician.” His bushy gray eyebrows rose hopefully at the chance to get me into church for an entire week. Brother Baker hated it when one of the flock strayed. These days, he was probably pretty happy with Kate, but I was still living the big, bad, secular city life.
Ignoring the spirit,
he would have said.

“I wish I could.” Surprisingly enough, that was true. Helping kids develop a summer musical sounded fun, something like a return to my college days in the university theater. Unfortunately, then as now, practical matters got in the way. “I have to fly back to Boston today, but I was wondering, is registration still open for the Jumpkids day camp? Can kids still sign up?”

Brother Baker frowned, now thoroughly confused. “Well, I don’t exactly know. The applications had to be turned in several months ago. The kids were selected on the basis of financial need, recommendations from teachers and social workers, and a two-page essay about why they
wanted to attend the camp. It was quite a long process.” He must have noticed the disappointment on my face, because he stopped and said, “Why?”

“I was thinking of Dell,” I replied. Why in the world, if there was a program like this available in Hindsville, hadn’t someone made sure she got in? “I’ve been teaching her some piano the last few days, and she is very, very talented. I’ve never seen anyone pick it up the way that she did, and she has a beautiful singing voice, as well. She’s very interested in learning more.”

Sighing, he set down the stack of buckets. “I’ll be honest with you, Karen,” he said quietly, checking that Dell was out of earshot. “I thought about her when it was time to do the applications. I even sent one home with her, but nothing ever came of it. Generally, she isn’t willing to put herself in new situations. I consider it a small gift of grace that, before your grandmother passed, she got Dell to attend church on Sunday mornings. We have tried to involve her in other activities, but for the most part she is reluctant, or her grandmother is reluctant, or both. Her grandmother is something of a recluse and very suspicious of any and all interventions.”

I shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. I’d already gotten the speech from Kate, and it wasn’t the answer I wanted. Music wasn’t just another activity for Dell, not just something to do or something new to learn. It was a passion she was born with and it was awakening in her like a sleeping tiger. “What if I can talk her into it?”

“There’s still the matter of the application, and—”

“What if I can get the application approved?” How in the world was I going to do that? Just because I’d talked to one Jumpkids intern on a two-hour plane ride didn’t mean I could get Dell a free pass.

“. . . and permission of a parent or guardian,” he finished. “It isn’t like church activities, where we can let her participate and take our chances, knowing that we don’t have any signed permission slip for her. The Jumpkids program has an official form that has to be filled out and signed by a guardian. Dell’s grandmother doesn’t allow anyone into the house. Typically, she’s reluctant to sign any forms regarding Dell, because they’ve been investigated by social services numerous times over
the years. In her mind, any interest in Dell is a plot to remove her from the home.”

I scratched my head, trying to think. Maybe Brother Baker was right. Maybe I was asking for the impossible. Maybe it would be better for Dell and everyone else if I just tried to find someone who could give her piano lessons.

But at the same time, something inside me was screaming,
No. For once in your life, do the right thing instead of what everyone else thinks you should do.
“Well, let me at least give it a try,” I said finally. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Brother Baker shook his head with a rueful smile. “Spoken like a true descendant of Rose Vongortler.”

In the past, that comparison would have bothered me, but now it seemed like a vote of confidence. Grandma Rose knew how to manipulate things into the shape she wanted them to have. “You don’t happen to have any of the application forms around, do you?” Ex-actly how was I going to get an application filled out and signed by Dell’s grandmother? I was supposed to be heading for the airport after lunch.

“I think I have some in the office. How about if I bring one by the café in a few minutes?” He glanced toward the pews, which were empty except for my family, standing a polite distance away, watching me with curious expressions. I could only imagine the questions they were going to ask. They probably thought I’d gotten the Holy Ghost.

“That sounds good,” I said. “If I can get her in, could you arrange a ride back and forth for her, at least some of the time? I know Kate would do it, but she’s so busy with the kids.”

“I think I can take care of that. We’ll be transporting some students in the church vans. We can put her on the list.”

“O.K. I’m going to do my best, and I’ll let you know,” I said, trying not to wonder what I’d gotten myself into. From the piano vestibule, the theme from
Gilligan’s Island
tinkled into the silent air. Brother Baker turned in surprise, shaking his head and smiling as he watched Dell patiently trying to instruct Joshua.

“I think she’s one of your holy buckets,” I whispered.

Dropping his sermon notes into the old paint can, he winked at me just before he exited the altar. “I think she’s not the only one.”

I knew he meant me, and as I watched him walk away dangling the paint can with the light shining through the holes, I couldn’t help feeling good. How long had it been since I’d taken the time to do something completely unselfish?

When I turned around, the rest of the family was waiting in the aisle. Kate and Ben eyed me quizzically as I joined them, and we started toward the door. James leaned close, muttering, “What in the world was that all about?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you later, all right?”

He studied me a moment longer, then shrugged and said, “All right.”

Ben rounded up Dell and Joshua, and together we headed for the café across the square. My thoughts were spinning as we walked, plotting ways to get Dell into the Jumpkids day camp. If I did get her in, how would I convince her to give it a try? Brother Baker was right that the idea of being surrounded by kids and counselors would be terrifying to her. But if she knew there would be a chance to learn more music, she would try to overcome her shyness, wouldn’t she?

I watched her in her wrinkled dress and red flip-flops as we walked around the square. She moved like a shadow, head down, shoulders slumped forward, dark hair hanging over her face. She’d taken out the ponytail holder sometime during church, as if not having the curtain of hair made her uncomfortable. She moved so as not to be seen, as if she wasn’t worthy of being noticed, and she knew it. She had no idea how special she was.

Please, God, let this work out.
The voice in my head surprised me. A prayer, for the first time in years.
She needs this to work out, and so do I. Please.

The café entryway was crowded with “those Methodists,” as Grandma Rose would have called them, who were known for finishing up Sunday service a half hour early and getting to the café ahead of everyone else. Kate, Ben, and the kids sat on the bench out front to wait for a table. I suggested to Dell that she and I walk over to the
gazebo and back. The first part of my plan, I had decided, was to convince her to try camp, if I could get her in.

“So I was thinking about something,” I said when we were out of earshot. “I had an idea to get you some free music lessons for the next few weeks.”

“Really?” she asked, lighting up, then narrowing her dark eyes suspiciously. “Well . . . umm . . . how? Are you gonna stay longer?”