Antiques and Collectibles
“A girl in trouble here in the country is really in trouble, worse than in town,” he told the childless couple, former parishioners who drove out from the city to seek his help. “Place an
advertisement. You could be the answer to each other’s prayers.”
He had married them while still pastor of his church in Greensburg, his last wedding before he retired to the country to run an antique store. The store was in an old church – merchandise in the former sanctuary, living quarters honey combed behind the pulpit. “I am not leaving the church, I’m moving into it. I am giving up salvation work for salvage work,” he had joked in his retirement homily. A minister never really retires. He substituted in the Methodist pulpit in the village and this summer he had been pressed into service as chaplain at the lake campground.
The couple composed an advertisement with the desperate hope a castaway invests in the note tucked in a bottle. They paid his little local paper in advanceto run it weekly, all summer. The woman called him the first Sunday in July, just before he left to preach.
“Is the ad in?” she asked, her voice brittle and bright.
He opened The Gazette.
“Right at the very top of the Classified.”
“I am praying. But should I pray for someone else to have misfortune?”
He would be late. He did not have time for her qualms.
“Dear, you will be the way out of misfortune for some poor girl,” he said, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he buttoned the clerical collar around his thin neck.
He gathered his sermon notes; his fishing rod and tackle box were already in the car. Reverend Westervelt hurried along the road to the lake and stopped at the bait shop, open early even on Sunday mornings, to purchase night crawlers. He put the worms in the cooler in his car. Every Sunday after the service he drove to the dock where he kept his rowboat, unbuttoned his dog collar, and went fishing.
Preaching at the campground had proved an unexpected delight. The amphitheater beside the lake was carved into a hillside shaded by hemlock. Evenings, park rangers gave talks on stargazing and bird identification. Sunday mornings, standing at the podium to preach, with his back to the lake, he thought of those first outdoor sermons in Galilee, not that he was confusing himself with Christ. He kept the service short and sweet, opening prayer, homily, closing prayer. It was ministry with no strings attached - no collection plate, no elders to please, a choir of bird song rather than a prima donna music director. Best of all, there were different faces every week, no obligation to become involved. The temporary, transient congregation of vacationing families was always relaxed, cares left behind. They reminded him of the saying carved on the sundial his congregation had given him as a retirement gift, Count only the sunny hours.
This morning one congregant did not fit in. She sat on the last bench, the only solitary among the family groups. A bruise bloomed across her face, livid even from where he stood. The service ended.
“Amen, Peace be with you,” he said and the families filed out to go swimming, fishing, bicycling.
But she sat still. He sighed; he would have to stop and speak to her. On the lake, the early mist had cleared, the water sparkled its invitation. The first fishermen were out but he would have to wait. He was an ordained fisher of men, mandated to stop for emergencies of the soul just as a doctor must stop at car accidents. There might be no fishing this morning. He hoped he would remember to put the night crawlers in the refrigerator when he got home. He walked the sandy aisle to the last row. She sat, head bowed, face hidden. If he had not seen the bruise earlier he could have just murmured, “Bless you,” and walked on.
“Can I help you, my child?”
She looked up. He recognized her. She was the girl who had come into his shop a couple of weeks ago. She had bought dishes, tried on the old wedding gown and taken it also. Now the bruise branded her lovely face, her nose and cheeks were swollen. Her pale blue eyes were puffy and bloodshot.
“I remember you from the shop the other day. You were getting ready for your wedding.”
“I’m not getting married. I just wanted the dress.”
“Your boyfriend hit you?”
“My father, when he found out about my boyfriend.” She began to cry.
“Here.” He handed her the handkerchief he kept ready in his hip pocket for pastoral emergencies and looked out at the smooth, shining lake and at the green hill, gently rolling back from the far shore. I will lift up my eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help, he thought....
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