"Simon of Bethany was accounted a disciple of Jesus. He was one of the few Pharisees who had openly joined Christ’s followers. He acknowledged Jesus as a teacher, and hoped that He might be the Messiah, but he had not accepted Him as a Saviour. His character was not transformed; his principles were unchanged." 19
Blanch tired a red bandanna about her hair.
Bending to tie her shoes, she almost choked over her protruding
stomach. Straightening, she surveyed herself in the mirror, proclaimed
the reflection satisfactory before advancing on the refrigerator
for three scoops of chocolate ripple ice cream. The anxiety, of
waiting for her welfare check to arrive, had driven her to an
act of petty larceny. She hoped her daughter wouldn’t notice
her money was missing until she could replace it.
The telephone rang. “Wait a minute,”
she screamed. “I’m not finished yet.” Gulping down
the last spoonful of ice cream, she leaned over and grabbed the
receive.
“What do you want?”
“Its positively awful, positively awful
how their carrying on at church. Those people think their something,
why their no better then anybody else.”
“O hi, Gertrude, what’s gotten
into you this morning.”
“Can you believe it, those people,
they say we ought to read the Bible more for ourselves. Why should
we do that when we pay the minister to read it for us and tell
us what it says? I don’t have time to be always reading the
Bible, why you can’t half understand it anyway, all those
strange symbols and prophecies. Why, if the good Lord wanted us
to understand it, then He'd have written it in plain English.”
Blanch frowned, she really didn’t care
what they did as long as she felt good when in the house of God.
“So,” she said, “what’s wrong with that?”
“We ain’t got time to read the
Bible, besides, that old lady, what’s her name,” she
paused to consider, “Mrs. Wild, the one who is always agitating
about reading the Bible, did you hear that she has a private stash
of scotch whisky under her bed.”
Blanch laughed. “I always thought she
was a bit tipsy, now I understand why.”
‘The hypocrite,” Gertrude said,
“all this time she’s been urging us to read the Bible
at prayer meeting. Says it’s good for us. Even quoted those
scriptures about not using alcohol. She’s a hypocrite, mind
you, Blanch, no better then us decent folks.”
“Where did you hear about her whisky.”
“Shirley told me. I was talking to
her this morning and she mentioned that Mrs. Wild drinks at least
a pint a day. Staggers all over her apartment, sings so loud,
why even the neighbors complain.”
Blanch laughed. “A pint a day, you
say. My first husband only drank several beers, but, then he’s
a man, men are supposed to drink makes them men.”
“Sure, that’s all right for him,
but she’s supposed to be a Christian,” Gertrude sniffed.
“Alice heard from a reputable source that she also uses snuff.
Now, mind you, Blanch, snuff ain’t so bad, I use a little
myself, but she’s always going around church saying folks
should be more like Christ, and she’s using snuff. Why even
I know that snuff’s not good for me, but, I like it, so what’s
wrong with some tobacco, occasionally. Besides I don’t use
it in public, and she’s been seen putting it in her cheek
just as soon as she gets out of church, and she calling herself
a Christian.”
Blanch laughed. “I never see her use
it. You know I don’t like the busy body, always getting into
my face ‘bout ice cream, I wish she’d just mind her
own business, but I ain’t never seen her using tobacco. Are
you sure that’s not just gossip.”
“Sure’s I’m born,” Gertrude
said. “Why I even seen her using it myself last Sunday. She
was just standing there, on the steps of the church, gossiping
like the rest of us, and then she reaches into her purse, smiles,
like the cat just got out of the bag, sticks something into her
mouth, and smiles again. I saw it with my own eyes. The creep.
Lying all this time. Its disgusting how some folks carry on about
religion whilst all along they using snuff, and drinking whisky,
carousing around like some no good prostitute.”
Blanch sat up and licked her fingers again.
“Now wait a minute, Gertrude, snuff and whisky, all right,
but her seeing men. I don’t believe that, besides she’s
too old, don’t have good lookin’ legs. You know men
takes after only women with good lookin’ legs. Hers are wrinkled,
no man’s gonna want her.”
“Blanch,” Gertrude said with exasperation
in her voice. “DeAnne said twas so, and I believe her. Besides,
you seen how she always corners men in the church talking to them
about God and all that stuff. Why she’s only making contacts,
what do they call it, solicitin’.”
This last comment made Blanch distinctly
uncomfortable. “Gertrude, you know I don’t like her...,
the...,” she searched for a suitable description but finding
none said simply, “the busy body, but, really, soliciting,
I don’t believe it. She’s not that type of woman.”
Gertrude snorted in disgust. “Kind
of woman or not, she’s been doing it ever since she came
to our church. Soliciting them men, enticing them into her apartment,
wanting to have Bible studies with them, Bible studies, my foot.
Why she’s soliciting, I tell you, right under our noses.”
“She does give Bible studies,”
Blanch protested. “She came over here several months back,
just knocked on the door, walked right in and talked about Christ
and the Bible. I was watching Wheel of Fortune at the time. Didn’t
want to toss her out, so I turned off the TV and listened to her.
What she said made sense.”
“Did she fool you too,” Gertrude
asked. “She was just casing your place so’s she could
gossip to her friends. She’s always on the telephone, gossiping
about us honest folks. Says she’s giving encouragement to
the sick and all that stuff.”
Blanch remained thoughtful for a moment.
“Well, Gertrude,” she replied, “when my bladder
was acting up last week, she called to offer sympathy. That wasn’t
exactly what I would call gossiping. Sure was nice of her. She
didn’t have to waste her time calling me. I don’t even
like her, and I think she knows it, but she called anyway.”
Gertrude changed the subject. “You
know how she’s always begging people for their cast off clothes?
Says she’s collecting them to send to missionaries? Why I
know for a fact that she sells them to support her snuff and whisky
habit.”
Blanch leaned back on the davenport, listening
to her friend carry on about Mrs. Wild for a few minutes, then
interrupted.
“I don’t know if I agree with
you. When Celeste started school last year, we was short of money,
what with my bladder medication. Mrs. Wild shows up one morning
with some clothes for Celeste. Just the right size. She loved
them, still wears some of the dresses and jeans.”
“She’s fooling ya, Blanch,”
Gertrude replied. “Just trying to convince people that she’s
good whilst all the time she’s selling them clothes to support
her amphetamine habit.”
“Now wait a minute, Gertrude,”
Blanch protested. “You don’t know that she’s taking
amphetamines.”
“Well it doesn’t make no difference.
You can’t possibly think she’s honest about them clothes,
do you,” she said with some incredulity in her voice.
“Yes I do,” Blanch affirmed with
some vehemence. “She’s always in church every Sunday,
keeps herself looking nice all the time, despite the heat. I know
she supports the church financially. Just look at her face, there’s
no sign of whisky drinking or snuff taking. She kinda looks cute,
for her age. And as for soliciting, I’ve overhead her talking
to the men. She really is giving them Bible studies. Several of
them have given their lives to the lord because of her helping
them.”
“All for show,” Gertrude, persisted,
“all for show.”
“Gertrude,” Blanch said pointedly.
“She’s a better woman then you or I is. I think she
really does love the Lord. You've just got it in for her.”
Her friend huffed and puffed, then hung
up.
Blanch went to the refrigerator for another
bowl of chocolate ripple ice cream in order to think clearly about
Mrs. Wild. Was she really that bad, she wondered?
The clothes for Celeste, the telephone call
of sympathy when her bladder was hurting, then there was that
time she stopped by with a half galleon of chocolate ice cream,
wouldn’t take any thanks for it, said she was just buying
some groceries and thought I would like some ice cream.
Gertrude never bought me ice cream, Blanch
thought. She never called me when I was sick. She never wanted
to give me Bible studies. She never brought clothes for Celeste.
Blanch thought and thought her way through two more bowls of chocolate
ripple ice cream before making up her mind.
Gertrude’s assessment of Mrs. Wild
was wrong, completely wrong. Maybe she was a busy body, Blanch
thought, but at least she’s an honest busy body.
“If I was in trouble,” Blanch
spoke aloud, “whom would I call, Gertrude, or Mrs. Wild?”
For a long moment, she thought about her
decision. Busy body or not, Blanch finally concluded, Mrs. Wild
was her first choice if she was sick or in need. She might even
be good for another half galleon of chocolate ripple ice cream.
* * *
Radiant beams of glorious early morning
sunlight streamed into the kitchen window, filling the room with
warmth and hope. The light caught the subtle undertones of Grace’s
hair, making it sparkle with jewels of color, highlighting her
face with a glow of beauty, made more lovely by the unconscious
glory of her character, which was even more lovely then her facial
features.
Beth watched in fascination, the play and
counter play of light and shadows over her friend’s face
and hair, as she and Grace conversed, over their first cup of
coffee of the morning. They loved these early morning conversations.
After their husbands left for work, the quiet of early hour, the
freshness of the day, the unhurried pace of life, gave them time
for reflection and a shared moment of quiet meditation.
Grace moved about her kitchen, dressed in
a pink flowered housecoat with curlers in her hair, while Beth
wore a light blue skirt and a casual cream colored blouse.
“I’m so tired of the evil in the
world,” Beth complained. “Its everywhere. You can’t
read the papers, watch television, listen to radio, walk down
the street, without seeing it. It darkens the very atmosphere
we breath, making the sunlight appear like shadows, covering the
earth with a blanket of dirty snow. Everything we touch turns
to ashes. Moral poison fills the air we breath. Grace, I am so
tired of filth, corruption, and the moral stench that fills the
air with noxious poisons. When will evil ever end,” she protested,
tugging at her girdle? “When will this lovely world ever
be cleansed of its moral filth and death? When will Christ rise
and reclaim His rightful heritage? This experiment in sin has
gone on long enough.”
“Another thing I hate, and that’s
long hair on men and pants on women. Its getting so today that
you can’t tell the difference between men and women. Boys
are wearing ear rings, while women cut their hair short. Its disgusting,
positively disgusting the way people are carrying on today. No
shame, no sense of moral outrage.”
Grace stared at her friend. Never had she
heard Beth speak with such vehemence. Usually taciturn or hesitant
of expression, she was animated and quite voluble this morning.
Grace rested her elbows on the table, while holding the cup to
her lips, eyeing her friend with renewed curiosity.
Beth took a sip of coffee, a look of infinite
sadness over spreading her face. “How can Christ sit there,
on his throne, watching a world filled from one end to the other
with sin, and retain his sanity? I feel sorry for him, sitting
up there in heaven, watching and listening to evil men and evil
women, intent upon their evil business, destroying his lovely
creation, turning it into a corruption filled sack of poisons.
How can He endure the sight, day after day, year after year, millennium
after millennium, without rising up in righteous indignation and
putting an end to this horrid experiment in unrighteousness?”
Grace remained silent in rapt attention,
listening to her friend’s uncharacteristic outburst. So unlike
Beth, the quiet, shy, reserved, almost timid woman, she had know
for many years. So unlike her to voice such irate feelings of
revulsion and hatred of sin. Beth, the typical background wife,
who went about her household duties with an air of efficiency,
never complaining, yet always in the background, preferring it
that way.
Grace cleared her throat. “To tell
you the truth, Beth, I have never thought of it from God’s
perspective. I have only considered my own point of view.”
Beth interrupted, “that’s the
problem, Grace. We are so selfish, so self-centered, even in our
religious practices, that we never consider that God even has
a point of view. He just sits up there in heaven, smiling benevolently
upon us, without feelings or emotions. He has emotions, you know,”
she insisted, “and we can hurt him through our choices and
conduct. We would do well to consider him more often in our prayers.”
Grace reached for a pencil and piece of
paper. “That reminds me, I’ve got to stop by the store
and buy some pork chops for supper. George loves them, especially
when smothered with onions and mushrooms,” she said with
a grimace.
“Henry likes sirloin steak, but its
too expensive to serve regularly.”
“I hate pork chops, can’t even
stand the smell of them cooking, they actually make me sick, I
think I must be allergic to them.”
“How did righteous indignation remind
you of pork chops,” Beth inquired?
Grace looked surprised and thoughtful, then
shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she replied.
Absently, she inquired, “How can we hurt God, you were saying
something about offending God, I thought that was impossible,”
Grace asked, going to the toaster for more toast, then refilling
Beth’s empty cup?
“We can begin by thanking him for the
blessings he showers upon us every day. Grace, there’s a
scripture in Chronicles that says ‘all things come of thee
and of thine own have we given thee.’ When we realize that
all we have, houses, furniture, clothes, cars, food, even our
bodies belong to Him and He has given them, or, rather, loaned
them to us to supply our needs and to advance His kingdom, then
our hearts ought to overflow with gratitude.”
“But,” Grace countered, “George
bought these things, including my collection of stuffed animals,
with his hard earned money. By the way, did you see that absolutely
charming lady bug I found in the store last week, its just darling
with a pink ribbon in her hair. Its on the mantle along side Billy’s
blue rabbit.”
“But who gave him the ability to earn
money” Beth question, a look of irritation on her face at
Grace’s lack of attention? “Who gave him the intellect
to plan and organize? Who gave him life and breath and health
to work?”
Grace shrugged. “I guess God gave these
things.”
There was an insistent scratching at the
kitchen screen door. Absently, Grace rose and opened the door,
allowing Rumples, an old calico mother cat to saunter in from
a profitable evening of mouse chasing to complain, loudly, that
her bowl was empty.
Beth reached down and petted the cat, who
purred at her attention, while eyeing Grace carefully as she opened
a fresh can of tuna and gravy.
After Grace resumed her seat, reaching for
a tube of purple lipstick to begin her morning facial make over,
Beth continued. “Without God’s constant intervention
in our lives, our hearts wouldn’t beat, our lungs wouldn’t
breath, our fingers and hands wouldn’t move, our brains wouldn’t
operate. If, for one moment, God forgot to sustain our lives,
we would drop dead.”
Grace grimaced. “Beth, I simply haven’t
thought about these things. I just assumed that we had this house
because George earned the money and the sun shines,” she
shrugged, “because it shines, and the trees grow because
it rains. I never thought God was so involved in our lives.”
“How often do we as Christians recognize
the wonderful gifts He gives us every day. We ask for something
in prayer, and when it isn’t immediately forthcoming, we
complain and gripe and grumble because God doesn’t love us.”
“This business of love bothers me,”
Grace sighed, setting her coffee cup down and glancing out of
the window at the sun rising over the hill top near their house.
“I love George, Billy, and LuCinda, but I’m not sure
I love God. After all, I can see my family, touch them, comfort
and take care of them when their sick, the way a wife and mother
sought to. I gave birth to LuCinda and Billy, they were nourished
by my body, I took care of them when they were babies, but to
love God, whom I have never seen, never taken care of, never given
birth to, never married, I’m not sure I know how to love
him. Do you love Henry,” she inquired as she absently jotted
another item on her grocery list.
Beth shrugged. “Sure, I guess so. I
pray for him every day. I look forward to his returning home from
work every evening. I suppose that’s love.”
Grace noted sadness in her friend’s
voice. “But there’s something troubling you.”
“He does things I don’t like,”
she said, tugging at her girdle. “I try to tolerate them,
I pray to God every night that he will convert Henry and take
away those hateful things but he continues.”
“Are you praying for Henry or for yourself?”
Grace felt for her friend and hesitated long before broaching
this question.
Beth looked at Grace curiously, “what
do you mean?”
“Are your prayers for Henry based on
what’s best for him or what’s best for you?”
Beth struggled over the answer. Where her
prayers selfish, as Grace insinuated, or where they sincere. Did
she want Henry to stop because she hated oral sex or did she want
him to stop for his own benefit.
As Beth remained silent, Grace continued.
“We have to be careful about our prayers. Sometimes we want
God to act as a referee rather then a Savior. If something bothers
us, if our children or neighbors, or husbands do or say something
that offends us or hurts us, we want God to intervene and stop
it, not because it is the best thing for them but because we are
selfish. Thus, we attempt to make God a party to our selfishness.”
Beth squirmed in her chair. “How then
should we pray for someone else.”
“We should pray that God will make
me blind to the faults of others or change me, rather then changing
the other person, just so I can be happy or the annoying situation
may end.”
Beth literally rose up out of her chair,
chin jutting out in a uncharacteristic manner. “I will not,”
she retorted heatedly. “What Henry does is horrid, and I
want him to stop. I can’t look the other way, I’ve tolerated
it for years, pleaded with God to stop it, now you want me to
change.”
Grace smiled at her friend’s outburst.
She’s got spunk after all, Grace thought. “That’s
not exactly what I meant. Have you told Henry about your feelings,
discussed your revulsion over his insistence upon oral sex?”
Beth replaced her indigent look with her
accustomed meek one, and quietly replied, “no.”
“Why not,” Grace inquired kindly.”
She didn’t want to drive Beth’s emotions underground
where they so often resided.
Beth shifted in her chair uncomfortably.
This line of conversation had gone too far, and she fervently
looked for a way to change the subject. “George doesn’t
do any of those things to you. He’s so kind and thoughtful.”
Grace allowed the conversation to change
direction. She sensed that her friend wasn’t ready to discuss
her inner feelings. “George is a mystery. Sometimes I think
I understand him and then at other times, he reacts in an unexpected
manner.”
“Henry’s like that, too. Do all
men act that way?”
Grace laughed. “And they say women
are fickle. Men are just as fickle as we are, but in a different
way. Do you want some more coffee?”
“No thanks, I’ve had enough. Did
you ever hear what happened to your grandmother, isn’t her
name Baxter?”
“We all call her Grandma Baxter,”
Grace replied in a grave tone. “No, we haven’t heard
from her or Uncle Angus. George wanted to return to the area to
search for them, but he has a heavy work load right now and besides
the national guard is still restricting travel. They say it’s
too dangerous to go up into the mountains just yet.”
“Will your insurance pay for his truck,”
Beth inquired, “he says it was a total loss?”
“They’ll pay,” Grace replied,
“but the settlement may take several months with all the
other claims resulting from the hurricane, fires, and floods.”
“Billy certainly has changed. I heard
him taking to that Friedlander boy the other day. He was actually
talking about Christ.”
Grace brightened. “Yes, he has matured
almost three years in the last week. Isn’t it wonderful.”
Then she paused, with a rueful expression on her face, “I
kinda miss his silliness, though.”
Beth smiled. “You hate to see him grow
up, don’t you.”
Grace allowed that Beth was right. “But
its LuCinda that I worry about. She’s getting so wild lately.
George and I don’t like the boys she’s hanging out with.
That feller with the long hair and ear rings, what’s his
name,” she thought for a moment, “Jack Spencer. We think
he’s a bad influence on LuCinda.”
Beth looked grieved. “Children these
days seem bent upon following their own way regardless of common
sense or parental guidance.”
Grace laughed. “We weren’t any
better when we were their age.”
Beth looked injured. “I didn’t
get my first pair of ear rings until I was 22 and the boys I went
with preferred that I wear them.”
Grace laughed heartily. “Times have
changed. Boys wear their hair long while girls cut theirs short.
I wouldn’t be surprised if boys started wearing make up and
girls sprouted beards.”
Beth laughed. “That’s what I was
saying an hour ago. How can God watch all this evil and not bring
it to an end. He can stop it anytime he wants to, yet it goes
on and on and on.”
“Taking the cups to the sink to rinse
them, Grace inquired over her shoulder, “do you really want
evil to end?”
Beth looked surprised. “Of course I
do,” she replied indignantly, “don’t you?”
“Then maybe the evil God desires to
end is the evil in our hearts, not the hearts of others.”
Beth paused in mid stride, as she was about
to lend a hand with the left over breakfast dishes.
“What do you mean,” she inquired
suspiciously, removing a dish from the drainer and wiping it with
a cloth before placing it in the cupboard.
“If we want God to stop the evil, clean
up this wicked world, then maybe he wants to start with us, with
the evil in our lives.”
Beth seized another plate, wiping it vigorously,
as if working off some pent up tension. “I’m not evil,”
she retorted, rather heatedly, Grace thought, as she rinsed off
a bowl, placing it carefully in the dish rack.
Grace laughed to defuse the tension between
the friends. “I don’t know about you, but I’m filled
with sin and God says sin is evil, so, I guess I’m evil.”
Beth paused in mid wipe, stared at Grace
with a bewildered look on her face. “Your not either, why
I can’t think of one evil thing about you.”
“I hate pork chops, over do the cosmetics,
although I do like purple lip stick, and spend too much on stuffed
animals.” Sorting through bowls coated with dried cereal,
Grace continued. “Beth, don’t misunderstand me. It is
precisely when we think ourselves just about right with God that
we are in the greatest danger of being lost, but when we see ourselves
as the worst of sinners, then we have the hope and confidence
that we are close to Him. It is only through the conviction of
the Holy Spirit that we see our true condition. If I can’t
see any thing bad in me, God certainly can, for He shows me almost
every day some new sin I never saw before.”
Beth placed her hands on her hips, dish
towel hanging at her side, and pursed her lips in concentrated
thought. “The only thing that troubles me is Henry’s
idiosyncrasy. Other then that, I don’t think there’s
much wrong with me. As far as getting nearer to God by seeing
ourselves as more sinful, I’m afraid I disagree with you,
besides eating pork chops isn’t a sin, but when men wear
long hair, that’s a sin.”
Grace paused to look at her friend. I must
pray for her more often, she thought. If she really thinks of
herself as about right, then she has greater spiritual problems
then I realized.
Relaxing, Beth glanced at her watch. “I’ve
got to be going, Grace. I’ve got a house full of work of
mine own, and here I’m helping you with yours.”
Grace laughed. “I appreciate your help,
though. Are you and Henry coming to the pot luck next Sunday at
church. I’m bringing George’s favorite Dutch apple pie
for desert. Whenever I bake a pie for church, I always have to
bake two pies, one to take and one for George.”
“I’ll be there, but I’m not
sure I can coax Henry in to coming. He may be going out of town
this weekend. Something about a real estate venture he is working
on.”
After Beth departed, Grace poured herself
another cup of coffee and resumed her seat at the kitchen table,
as Rumples brushed against her leg, desiring love and attention.
Leaning on her elbows, cup to her lips, Grace meditatively reviewed
the last hour of conversation with her best friend. How little
she really knew Beth, she realized. A growing conviction entered
her heart that everything wasn’t right with her friend. She
would pray for her more often, asking the Lord to give her a correct
sense of her own sinfulness and a desire for Christ’s cleansing
grace. But for now, she thought, she had to finish those dishes
and but those disgusting pork chops.
