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An Excerpt from Chapter One: DeathKatelyn shifted with her shoe the red beads she found in the dirt of the church basement. Then she bent down to examine them. The cord upon which the beads had been strung had long since disappeared, but she could tell it was a necklace or bracelet, and she continued to brush aside the loose dirt and remove the stones that had fallen in the area. Finally, there emerged something she never thought she would see in her entire life as a pastor: she had uncovered the long bone of the tiny arm that had once worn the bracelet. Unknowingly, she had been recovering artifacts from a grave high in the mountains of southern California.
The sun glinted on the small cross that stood (a little crookedly) atop the pinnacle of the small white chapel. A heritage plaque proclaimed the chapel to be First Church of Corinth, California. Katelyn Zyker had arrived at the church—her first pastorate—just as the sun was rising. It seemed to waken the village to another bright day in mid-September. She wanted to walk through the whole of the church property—bow to stern—before traffic outside made that idea impossible to carry out. A commanding figure, easily 5′ 10″ with a sturdy build, Katelyn relished her new position of grace and service. She realized that she was young and inexperienced, but she had so much to give. Her beautiful face with flashing green eyes and tight black curls in long tresses that cascaded down her back completed her stately look. She looked out the eastern windows behind the pulpit of the chapel—watching the September sun rise from behind the dense but newly bare trees. She realized once again that this church was like a ship, moored in a very small, triangular berth, at the entrance to the harbor of this tiny, mountain village. The church was built more than 80 years ago at the juncture of two main roads that led into the mountain community. Its property—just outside these windows—ended in a point only a few yards beyond their frames. Both the road up the mountain from the City and the road that ran through the village and round the lake had grown larger and busier, and the church property between them had shrunk, as had its influence on the village. It was now a quaint little chapel, no longer a signal of welcome to all who passed, more like a relic from the past. The property on the other side of the highway—where the horses of the church members had once grazed—had been bought up and built on long ago. Across the busy, two-lane highway on the other side of the church were Cindy’s Café and the first commercial buildings of the center of a growing resort village. It had been an ideal location in
those early days—a vanguard to the community, a beacon of God’s love to this
resort town and its visitors. But now, as the commercial district of the
mountain village encroached, it had been crowded onto this cramped property and
ignored for decades. The She gazed meditatively at the sagging roof of the bungalow across the road on the residential side. When the horses could be left in that open woods to find grass as they could during services, the church could have filled all of its pews. Now there was too little parking space, and dozens of weekend tourists driving into town would have to be stopped while church members poured onto the highway after services. Unthinkable! No matter how well she preached, the people could not come to hear—it was far too difficult. Even if the church had a special Christmas program—where would the people park? How could they make their way across busy highways? Where could the children be cared for during services? She faced an unworkable situation regardless of the possibilities and the solutions she might propose. The size and circumstances of the congregation made it obvious that they had been sitting quietly for decades as the town grew around them, encroaching on their property as they became quieter and less active. Pastors had come and gone—few staying more than two winters—and the pastoral vacancy had been open for more than two years when Katelyn had accepted the position. Clearly they expected her to join them in their vigil—inert and unexpectant. Unfortunately—or fortunately—this was not Katelyn’s style. The idea of preaching really dull sermons and providing poor pastoral care, thus driving people away, never occurred to her. Katelyn turned away from the bright windows—wondering again at the sun’s bright glory as it rose—and entered the dark recesses of the church building. Fortunately, she believed, God could come into these tight, shadowed cloisters where the sun could not. Love and joy will enter here. She descended the few steps at the back of the chapel, turned on a weak bulb that dangled hazardously from a wire in the ceiling, and gazed quietly about the big, dark enclosure. Hmmm, she said to herself, but no ideas came. Check this web site next week for more excerpts! More Excerpts from Chapter Two of Autumn Secrets From the narrow hall behind the sanctuary she could look into the church office—one desk told her that the pastor was expected to handle all incoming calls and church business. We’ll soon change that idea, she thought. Another room had a little furniture and a few damaged books and toys, which she assumed was the nursery. Katelyn’s mind drifted back to her own joyful youth and the church events that helped make the time in church fellowship both delightful and challenging: the clean nursery, the bright Sunday school classrooms full of books and toys, the exciting Sunday evening activities in the large fellowship hall with dozens of laughing young people, the quiet Bible Studies around the fireplace, the door-to-door caroling and evangelism, the prayer booth at the county fair, the scavenger hunt ending with a bonfire in the county park. “Why should young people and families come to this church?” She asked herself, “What does it have to offer them?” Katelyn took a deep breath, anticipating change—her green eyes sparkling. She walked outside and gazed across the asphalt parking lot at the little A-frame cabin the church called a manse and she would be calling her home. She looked beyond it at the little convenience store half a block away down the highway and sighed. She turned and made her way carefully around to the front of the church and out to the corner of the church property where the highways met. The highways had encroached so badly that the space between the building and the roads was not as wide as a sidewalk. She put her back against the warming, thickly painted white boards of the church building and faced the dawning sun—though she had to shade her eyes to do so. It was beginning to show brightly through the bare trees. Traffic was beginning to pick up, and she waved to the green grocer as he passed—his pickup loaded with produce from the valley market a few miles down the mountain. “There is hope,” she said—though no one was listening. “There is always hope.” “You looked like the captain of the ship,” someone told her later. He was driving one of the anonymous cars or trucks that passed the chapel that morning. “You looked like the captain of the church, staring out to sea, contemplating the new voyage with hope and confidence. That’s why I visited the next Sunday. That’s why I joined this church.”
Katelyn edged her way between the white clapboard side of the church—bright in this new day—and the busy highway on her right. It wasn’t easy: fifty pounds of extra weight made her awkward and sluggish—clearly there had been too many study sessions with ice cream to soothe her nerves over the past three years. Just inches away from her flesh, and creating fumes that filled her lungs, the traffic moved unceasingly. She made her way as quickly as possible from the noisy front exterior of the church to the quiet rear interior. Looking back, down that highway, she remembered her first meeting with the church elders in this village.
She was driving up this very highway from the City below, where she had rented a small car at the airport—and it had taken six weeks for the church to reimburse her expenses. She had—of course—found the exact location of the church using the computer mapping system, so she knew to take highway 16 north up the San Pedro mountain to the village by the lake. New to the area, she had not realized how many tourists also traveled this route in search of a resort village away from the big city. Elder Dibbs had been explicit that Cindy’s Café—where they were to meet—was easy to find and was in fact just across from the church—which was also easy to find. So Katelyn was driving an unfamiliar car up into unfamiliar mountains (with hair-raising curves) in an unfamiliar state to an unfamiliar village to meet with unfamiliar people who would probably be her supervisors for the coming years—if she was lucky. Her brain was panicky, her heart racing—unlike her car, which was taking the hair pin turns at a snail’s pace, infuriating the local drivers who were now piled up five deep behind her. She pulled into an overlook to let them pass, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and prayed for God’s peace. Suddenly some words from her reading that morning came into her mind: “he set me secure on the heights.” How did these perfectly appropriate verses get into the Bible? She thought. How did the writers know 3000 years ago that I would be driving in the mountains and need those verses today? I feel I could slip so easily off this road and crash down this mountain into eternity. There must have been some planning involved. She rested her head against the steering wheel for a few minutes while her heart stopped racing and the prayers for peace of mind took effect. Need chocolate! she thought and reached over for a crunchy bar out of her back pack, chewing it methodically. Briefly she thought about her vow to eat less, but she dismissed the interruption of her enjoyment of the chocolate chip energy bar. Yes! she thought, this is not a cookie, it is an energy bar, and she needed energy. Pulling back into the traffic following a red beat-up truck, she continued her journey toward destiny. Surprisingly, she was almost immediately at the entrance to the village. There’s the church on the left, she thought as she whizzed past, and Cindy’s Café on the right—there was no entrance after she spotted the place, so she didn’t even try to brake. Fortunately, she was 15 minutes early, there was plenty of time to backtrack and try again. After searching for every possibility of turning around in the small village that immediately loomed around her, she was finally able to return to the church, going the wrong way, of course. She searched the pavement in front of Cindy’s Café for an opening to the parking lot, but again could find none. Once again, she could find no place to turn around, and she was heading down the mountain before she knew it. She spotted her favorite overlook and managed to pull into it and turn the car—causing only two drivers to curse her. She pulled out after a string of cars and slowed almost to a crawl as she passed the church. She saw an opening in front of the post office into the parking lot, and veered off immediately. Finally through the coveted parking lot entrance and driving a few yards toward Cindy’s, she looked back and sure enough—the entrance she had finally found was the only one! That fact would have been nice to know ahead of time. She calmed herself down—her head was going in circles as her car had been. Slowly, she worked her way out of her car and stood up, preparing to walk to the café to meet the elders. She reached for the doorknob of the black door nearest the car and then drew back as she noticed a neat cobweb across the handle. Clearly not this way, she thought.
The beautiful mural on the wall of the café was breathtaking—the first thing she noticed as she entered the café. The cool green trees spotted the hillsides, made golden and hardened by summer sun—and there was her little while chapel at the meeting of two roads. The elders were reasonable, she told herself later, and they were desperate, too. So the little group had come to an agreement: they would like for her to come to their church as soon as she was able, pending approval from the rest of the members of the church—who were mostly their wives, friends, and family. “You the new preacher? A burly waitress suddenly towered over Katelyn with a steaming pot of purposeful coffee poised and ready to descend into any unsuspecting cup. “Yes,” Katelyn answered, looking up and hoping that her fleeting fear and surprise would not linger on her face before she managed a bright smile. “Meal’s on the house,” replied the waitress, again attempting to fill the empty cup sitting so provocatively by Katelyn’s elbow. “Coffee?” she finally asked. Quickly moving her alluring cup out of reach, Katelyn inquired, “Do you have herbal tea?” “What is herbal tea?” The waitress responded, nonplussed. “You mean leaves and grass and such from the woods?” “Could you bring me a pot of hot water, please?” Katelyn tried to steer her away from further speculation. “I’ve brought a packet of green tea.” “My cousin from “Really?” “Yes, and I don’t know what all they call tea nowadays. In my day when we said tea, we meant Lipton, and when we said coke, we meant any kind of iced drink that wasn’t tea! Don’t know what’s gotten into the younger generation, and that’s a fact!” She mumbled as she made her lugubrious way to the kitchen. She returned shortly with a steaming pot of water and filled Katelyn’s temptingly empty cup. When Katelyn added the tea bag, the waitress moved in to look at it closely. “Don’t look green to me,” she commented. “I’ll have The Works,” Katelyn interrupted her thoughts, ordering from the menu to change the subject. “That’s one of the cheapest meals on the menu,” the waitress countered, “sure you don’t want more?” “It looks like it would fill a lumberjack,” Katelyn responded. ‘OK,” the waitress finally conceded defeat, “Eggs?” “Over easy.” Finally satisfied, the waitress wandered off in the direction of the kitchen, looking for all the world like a foraging bear making his way through the forest. “Mind if I work here a while?” Katelyn asked at the end of her meal. “No problem,” she answered, “You don’t see much going this morning, do you?” She continued to man her post with devotion, however, eyeing the butter dish with a quarter piece of toast on it. Finally, Katelyn gave her the dish and asked for more hot water. She wandered off again and returned shortly with another steaming pot. “Bertha,” she said as she poured another cup. “Yes?” Katelyn looked up inquiringly. “Name’s Bertha,” the waitress enlightened her. “Ah,” Katelyn responded warmly, “I’m glad to meet you, Bertha. Will I see you in church Sunday?” “Yup,” she answered, “I’m one of the church elders—missed our meeting with you. Been coming to that church since I was a tot.” Katelyn tried unsuccessfully to picture this solid mass of womanhood as a tiny child. “Good!” Katelyn responded brightly, hoping once again that her thoughts were not making their way to her face. “I’ll look forward to working with you.” “We’ll see,” Bertha responded as she wandered across the room. Obviously, Katelyn had a lot to learn about living in a small village. But she had to admit she was enjoying the adventure. After Katelyn finished her paperwork on the café table, she returned to the church office, waving as she left. Bertha watched noncommittally, but did not move or smile in response. Katelyn entered the church office with a sheaf of papers in her hands, longing to file them, but sighed and put them back into her briefcase after looking around the little room in vain. It would need scrubbing, painting, re-carpeting, rearranging. Again, The Works. She would have rolled up her sleeves to begin work, but she was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. After about an hour of dusting, hauling water, finding sponges (her own) and soap (in the bathroom cabinet), Katelyn looked up to see one of the loveliest young women she had ever met. She was like a summer breeze—the skirt of her yellow dress billowing out into the doorway behind her. Her bright eyes—well placed in her olive face—were alert and radiant, her hair darkly luxuriant. By this time Katelyn was covered in dust and on the floor scraping up something. Her bush of hair had gotten tangled with the cobwebs and other grunge that lurks on the top of bookshelves and in the dark corners of neglected offices. She rolled over and brushed away some of the dust. “Mary,” the beauty said, breaking into a wide smile. “Let me help you,” and she seized a sponge and bent to her work. “You’re the church secretary!” Katelyn remembered, encouraged by her discovery. “Yes,” Mary responded, “and this room could do with better lighting.” She was not easily distracted. She flew out of the room and returned in a few minutes with a package of new small florescent light bulbs. Katelyn held a rickety chair for her while Mary changed the bulb and brought down the light cover for cleaning. At mid-morning a little man, who seemed to be shrunken with age, appeared at the outer door. “Behold,” he lifted his arms in proclamation, “All things are become new.” Katelyn stared at him, her jaw dropping in wonder. Was everyone going to greet her in some fantastic way? “This is George,” Mary was telling her. He has vowed to say every Bible verse before he dies, and since he is 82, he hardly says anything but Bible verses now. He helps with all the cleaning and yard work for the church, and he knows more than anyone about the history and “innards” of the building. George set to work immediately removing the trash that they had accumulated. They worked well together and diligently, so that all was tidy by noon. George went off to wherever he went to have his quiet sandwich. “Sorry about the drab colors and old carpet,” Mary apologized, “but Bob says he has some brighter paint and a piece of good carpet his men can take care of by the end of the week.” “And Bob is?” “One of the deacons. You’ll see him on Sunday. Can’t miss him—always wears a bright plaid suit, or shorts depending on the weather.” “Good,” Katelyn responded, “Let’s get lunch,” and the two of them walked across the highway to Cindy’s. “Not every meal.” Bertha greeted them, unsmiling. “Pardon?” Katelyn had difficulty following these lines of communication. “Do you have any specials?” “Hi, Bertha,” Mary interrupted the wavering conversation by greeting the waitress with a big hug—although her lanky arms did not reach around Bertha’s bulk. Bertha did not move or respond. “What do you mean by specials?” she eyed Katelyn suspiciously. “We’ll have your super burgers,” Mary ordered for them, “and two ice teas.” “Will that be green tea?” Bertha tried to look askance at Katelyn and failed. “Just regular,” Mary responded and lightly took the seat opposite Katelyn in booth three. “Booth one is too near the front door—very cold in winter. Six is too near the kitchen, two is too narrow, and someone choked and died in booth five, so I always use three or four,” she informed Katelyn. Bertha served their tea quickly. She knew her work and went about it efficiently when customers ordered from the menu—as they should, Bertha told herself often. Within minutes she put their order on the table. After Bertha gave up hovering over them, Katelyn asked, “How did you get here?” “Been here all my life,” Mary responded, “What do you mean?” “Well, you are beautiful and intelligent, and competent. Seems like you could find better opportunities in one of the cities in the valley.” “Are you implying that mountain villages have no beautiful, intelligent, or competent people? Best watch your opinions, pastor.” “I stand corrected,” Katelyn blushed. “I guess I don’t know much about mountain culture and people.” “You don’t know squat!” Bertha interrupted. Katelyn never knew how much Bertha heard. She refilled their tea glasses and retired to the counter, her eyes never leaving their booth. “I grew up here,” Mary continued their conversation, “my mom is the doctor for the village, and a full blood Paiute, Native American. I went away for college and worked for a couple of years in the City. Now I come up here two days a week to help you and see my mom. I work the other days in the City.” “Keeps you busy.” “Keeps me out of trouble.” “Well, yes, staying busy can do that, too. What do you do?” “I’m a research analyst with a large firm. I analyze data and report my findings to our stockholders. Pretty powerful stuff. They seem to appreciate it.” “I imagine they do.” “Where are you from?” Mary turned the conversation to Katelyn’s background. “Grew up in central Texas, but my parents moved to
southern California when my sister, Mare, was little, so she’s more a
California girl—and looks like one, too. I returned to “I’m glad you found us,” Mary said, her face radiant with smiles. “So am I,” Katelyn grinned. She knew they were going to
get along. Sister SessionKatelyn loved this time in the week when she could sit comfortably at her desk, a mug of hot tea at her elbow, and contact her dearest friends. They were her best support group—sometimes they laughed that they were on life support—and she loved them deeply. Being a pastor could make one feel isolated, and there was often no one with whom to share difficulties. They called this email time their Sister Session. The five women who worked together like sisters from the
time they met in seminary were very different from one another. Katelyn (32) was
the youngest and quite spirited, full of hope and new ideas. Melody was 45 when
she graduated, a year before the others. Her gifts were language and literature.
Although her hearing loss prevented her exhibition of some of her musical
skills, she had commanded quite an enthusiastic following when she soloed in Te
Deum with the seminary choir. Elanore was next: plain looking and plain
speaking, she brooked no nonsense, but her two almost-grown sons seemed to stay
in hot water. Dear Sisters: What a busy time this has been. I’ve attached some of the details. There are so many wonderful people in this precious parish. I’ll introduce them to you one by one. Mary is my part-time secretary. An amazing young woman of the darkly beautiful kind. All softness and grace. But, she’s also an amazing help in any work, cleaning or paperwork. She has a degree in research from Harvard, and her mother is the village doctor. It will be such fun working with her—and a bit of a challenge intellectually. Elanore: Be brave. Joanna: You sound squeezed but spirited. I’m creating a stole for you to wear at your ordination. Colors? When? Where? We all want to come. |
Bonnie Meadows
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