Everything’s Coming Up Josey (3 page)

Do something crazy. Go after the gold ring.

Only, what and where exactly is that?

Eternal purpose? Yeah, sure. I'd settle for a reason to get up in the morning.

 

The sun is way too bright this morning as I drag my body out of bed, wrestle a comb through my shellacked hair and somehow stumble out to the family sedan to go to church. Does my dad have to honk, alerting the entire neighborhood to my plight?

I spend much of the pre-service warm-up—the organ music and chatter—reading the bulletin. I take note that there is a guest speaker today—Message: Building Tomorrows by Professor Monty Beecher from Moscow Bible College, Russia.

I check him out. Because, well, I'm still single. Way single.

He's dressed like a missionary. Brown suede suit coat, dark brown suit pants and a nondescript tie, but he's got thick blond hair and a tan, which means potential—

Oh, good grief! He's a missionary!

Perhaps it's the fact that I'm still feeling freshly flogged by the wedding, Chase's defection and H's accusations of cowardice, but when the Preacher Beecher says, “For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do,” it gives me another good jolt. His words feel like a custard-filled Bismarck, gooey and soft on my soul. I'm even willing to call it divine providence.

So, I sit up in the pew, suddenly awake as I listen to Mr. Missionary outline his English program. “We need teachers,” he says to the audience, and looks at me.

I can teach. I taught Chase how to sneak into the back entrance of our bakery, right? I taught my sister the books of the Bible song. Once I even taught a kid I barely knew how to tie a bowline knot.

Hey, he thought it was cool.

I leave, but I feel butterflies in my stomach. I decide it is courage….

Not hunger.

 

“A missionary?”

There is way too much panic in my mother's voice.

“Yes. Didn't you hear the speaker this morning?” I'm scraping gravy into an empty orange juice can, feeling like I have eaten a buffalo instead of a roast, mashed potatoes, rolls, gravy, salad, Jell-O
and
apple pie. Okay, I admit it—I over-committed! First benefit to moving to Russia? Starvation.

“Honey, you have a job.” My mother squeezes in beside me to throw a wadded handful of napkins away. She, of course, inherited all the thin genes from her Scandinavian father. “Why would you want to throw that all away?”

It is probably a moot point that the best part of my job is that I get free coffee from the Java Cup. Mom, who still runs Berglund Acres as head cook, who bakes her way to a blue ribbon at the state fair every year, who has published three recipes in the
Minneapolis Star Tribune,
can't possibly understand what it means to feel…insignificant.

I retreat to my room with a piece of wedding cake. I cut it big, too. No need for pleasantries now that the crowd is gone.

 

I lay down my pen and tuck my nose into the journal, feeling the smooth pages cool my forehead. Russia? Okay, maybe it was indigestion, initially, but as I roll the word around in my brain, it fills the nooks and crannies and suddenly my heart feels warm and full. Russia. A missionary. Couldn't I do that for a year?

Eternal purpose.

I envision small children following me home, my name like a song on their lips. They smile, grab my legs to give me a hug. I've taught them to read. I've sung them Bible songs. I am Josey Berglund, missionary, teacher. Mother Josey?

Okay, definitely not. But, at least Josey—friend to the lost.

And maybe, in the end, I might find myself, also.

For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. That feels pretty good right about now. I'd even call the feeling that makes me gasp, peace.

Here I am, Lord, send me.

 

A bread maker!

Yowza, Grandma Netta went all out. I sit at the edge of the room, cradling a soggy paper cup of orange punch, watching the froth dissolve along with my verve. The late afternoon has brought the newlyweds back to the big house for a little personal torture: opening wedding gifts. Who, really, is thrilled by this event except the bride and groom? By the way, they've spent their honeymoon night in one of the Berglund cabins. How original is that? I'll never clean that cabin again, believe you me.

The redolence of jealousy simmers in the room along with the lunch in my stomach. Like we aren't all just forcing our smiles just a little, wishing that the cappuccino maker from Uncle Milt and Aunt Florence was going to sit on our kitchen counter. Or the painting by Monet was going to hang in our bedroom.

I'll let the happy couple keep the potholders shaped like aprons. Some gifts are too endearing to part with.

My brother Buddy has joined us for the celebration, and he sits on Mom's brand-new green sofa, cradling his own wilting punch cup. The plastic isn't even off the sofa yet, and if the past is any indication, that step won't happen until well into the next decade. We were the only family in town allowed to drink soda in the living room on Sunday afternoons. A privilege I found less than wonderful when I realized that sofas were actually supposed to be comfortable and not make noise when one sat on them.

This one looks nice, however, and matches the rest of the décor—straight out of Mother's decorator home parties. I especially love the flock of mallards springing from the wall, surrounded by the plastic flowers. I am hoping to inherit them when/if she ever dies.

I suppose I need a slap.

It doesn't help my outlook on life that Chase has arrived, sans Buffy thankfully, and is leaning near the door, arms crossed, giving me a Doberman look. I've avoided him like leprosy since he arrived an hour ago and plan to play hide-and-don't-seek all night. I smile at him, however. Never let it be said that Josey Berglund can't be gracious.

The two-timing chiseler.

I squeeze past Buddy and don't make eye contact with Milton's mother, a woman twice my size (which makes Milton's double chins inevitable, something I should have remembered and, today, assuages my pain just slightly). She's probably remembering the game of Scrabble I walloped her in the weekend I went home with Milton to meet the parents.

Come to think of it, my relationship with Milton took a quick nosedive after that incident. I am tempted to spill my punch on her bright red, poppy floral dress.

It's a diabolical plot. I know it.

Get a hold of yourself, Josey. I pick up a croissant sandwich and fill my punch cup. No need to go hungry while I watch the newlyweds rake in all my gifts.

“Oh, a hand-stitched dove quilt!” Jasmine holds up the wall hanging and Aunt Bonnie beams. Jas can obviously pull this off way better than I ever could. She even holds it to her breast and sighs deeply, while gazing into Milton's eyes.

Oh, brother.

Maybe now is the time for my announcement. The family is here, my mother distracted. I can just drop the bomb and run.

Except, why would I give all this up?

Jas unwraps another gift and holds up a bib. A bib? As a wedding gift? Talk about a hint. It says “Daddy's girl.”

Okay, I just found my reason.

“I'm going to Moscow,” I hear myself say. In one move, they turn, all ten heads, as if on a pulley.

The sudden entrance of Elvis would have produced fewer gasps.

Now that I've tried that on for size, time to get brave. It is now or never. Two years of post-college hiking on the treadmill to nowhere has left me with nothing but a single bed in the upstairs room of my parents' house, a beat-up Subaru and enough romance novels to paper an American Legion hall.

“I'm going to Moscow to be a missionary,” I elaborate, with gusto.

My mother clutches her head in her hands, Buddy checks his punch as if it might be spiked and Dad frowns, turning up his hearing aid.

Chase stares at me, mouth slightly open, wearing an expression of horror that looks painfully reminiscent of the skin-scraping gravel-road encounter.

Certainly he didn't expect me to stick around to be his best woman, did he?
Drat!
Tears glaze my eyes and I look away, down to the green shag, where I know vermin reside. This is not about escaping.
Lord, please, wasn't that peace I felt earlier?

Grandma Netta to the rescue. “That's in Idaho,” she announces. “I learned that on
Jeopardy.
”

The heads swivel to her. All except Jasmine's. She's got tears in her eyes and the newlywed glow has vanished.

Suddenly, I wonder exactly what I might be sacrificing.

M
y father sings. My earliest memory of him is in church, his wide hands gripping the podium, swaying to a rendition of “Fill my cup, Lord.” He has a resonating tenor that wasn't too bad…until I became a teenager. Then I would slink out of the sanctuary and hide in the library, where I'd bury myself in a book. The only books our church library stocked were commentaries, Old Testaments of the Bible in various translations and missionary stories. Hoping for entertainment, I chose the missionaries.

Between the chapters on the Maasai tribes in Africa and the starving Ethiopians, I found my refuge. The Iron Curtain. The Siberian wasteland. The persecuted saints of the Soviet Union. They called to me from the pages with their cries for mercy, for justice, for running water. I saw them behind my eyes, wrapped in rags, clutching Bibles to their chests with chapped hands, and thought, now
those
are the real Christians.

I say all this to the man with green eyes as I sit nursing a cup of breakfast blend in the Java Cup. I've tracked him (I'm an investigative reporter, right?) through my pastor, intercepted his escape from Gull Lake and invited him out for lunch.

My entire future teeters on his expression. He's spent most of the meal devouring a Reuben on rye from the deli next door, while I, too nervous to eat (how about that for a divine sign?), convince him that I should go to Russia.

Something that I'm trying hard to talk myself into at the moment. After Jasmine's ashen look yesterday, the room resumed the hubbub and—aside from Chase's less-than-clandestine frown and obvious attempts to get me alone and nail my intentions to the wall—nothing more was mentioned about Russia, Moscow or even Idaho.

I am Lara Croft, Tomb Raider, adventurer, investigator. I've smiled, dodged Chase and tracked down Monty Beecher, missionary and gatekeeper to my future. And now I will woo him with my wit and educational prowess.

“I know that I would be a great asset to your team,” I say, my confidence ringing through the tiny coffee shop.

“It sounds to me like God has been preparing your heart for years to serve in Russia,” Monty says, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Have you ever taught English?”

“I have an English degree.”

“Teaching ESL takes more than a degree. You need training.”

Training? To speak my own language? “Well, I um, sorta thought…well, you made it sound like you just needed willing bodies.”

He frowns at me, one eyebrow squished tight, the other high, and I squirm. Maybe I've overestimated my abilities here.

“I can get training.”

He relaxes, smiles. “We offer excellent classes, and I am sure the first year we could team you with an experienced partner.”

The first year?

I take a long sip of my coffee.

“I'll leave you an application. Fill it out, send it in with your picture and we'll be in touch.”

He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out folder. I'm thinking he'll take out one of those sheets. He hands me the entire folder. “I know it looks big, but we just like to get to know our applicants.”

Now I do the one-eyebrow-up move. Get to know me? I flip through the wad of papers. Biography. Spiritual history. Psychological profile. Medical form. Theology quiz. Dental exam. Waiver.
Waiver?

I scan it and every hair stands on end.

RELEASE AND WAIVER OF LIABILITY

The undersigned is an adult 18 years of age or older who desires to volunteer his/her services for a mission trip to Russia. The undersigned understands and acknowledges that there may be risks of bodily injury, illness or security (including death) inherent in travel to Russia, and that he/she voluntarily assumes all such risks and releases Moscow Bible College, or any of its directors from all liability for these and any other risks in connection with his/her activities.

The undersigned acknowledges and affirms that he/she has carefully read this release and has asked for and obtained a satisfactory explanation to any questions he/she has and has signed it voluntarily.

Signature of Volunteer

Date

 

My mouth is full of cotton as I mumble goodbye. He lets me buy lunch and drives off in a 1988 Ford Escort.

I stand on the street, feeling the cool air brush off the lake, smelling freshly cut grass and tasting my future sour in my mouth.

Including death?

 

“Feeling testy this morning?” My editor Myrtle's breath streams over my shoulder. I smell garlic—her egg-salad secret ingredient. Ew.

I stare at her blankly. She smiles and points to the screen. “Opinion, not fact. No editorializing.” She pats my shoulder and winks, like, oh, honey, someday you'll get it.

Excuse me, but last time I looked this wasn't the
New York Times
or the
Washington Post.
We are not breaking open a conspiracy or unearthing CIA files, and frankly the gypsy moth article needs a little spice.

And I did not,
did not,
compare the gypsy moth to Chase, wondering if his engagement to Buffy was a rash swoop-and-mate decision made during a warm spell. Nor did I wish upon him a cold front.

Shake it off, Josey.

I delete the last two lines.

I spell-check it and hit Send before I'm tempted to add any more “editorial.” Like why their numbers should be counted, why all measures should be made to exterminate—

I sigh and lean back in my leather desk chair. I purchased it myself after the old one, a 1952 squeaker that used to belong to the school, dropped me onto my backside. I stare out my window. The sun is low, and turns the lake to cobalt-blue as a slight wind bullies a scattering of cirrus. It's a warm day, but I keep the window shut, and let the fan propped on the file cabinet behind me dry the sweat off my neck. Gull droppings aren't my favorite scent, and at the moment I'm trying to avoid further inducements to fleeing.

Not fleeing.
Finding new opportunities.
Chase has gone back to Montana, where he's been studying the Kootenai people in a village somewhere in Glacier National Park. He took Elizabeth with him, grr.

I wonder how the gypsy moth population is doing in the mountains.

Behind me, in the one-room
Gazette
office, Myrtle is tapping on her keyboard. She's laid the Dear Ruth column and a new recipe on my desk. I glance at the recipe.

Edible Modeling Clay

½ cup creamy peanut butter

¼ cup honey or syrup

½ cup instant dry milk powder

2 tbs powdered sugar

Mix and knead into a pliable dough, adding more powdered sugar to taste.

 

Okay, how pitiful am I that that actually sounds good?

“I'm going down for a cup of coffee.” I push away from my desk and don't look at Myrtle. It's okay, she doesn't hear me anyway. I pick up my satchel, bulky application folder stuffed inside and stroll down the back stairs.

There are two good things about my job—Number One, Java Cup is located below our office, and they let me drink unlimited cups for a free block of advertising in our weekly. My favorite is their house breakfast blend, but sometimes I take a stroll on the wild side and go with the flavor of the week.

Today it is a vanilla chai. That sounds exotic. I order one and find a perch next to the window. It overlooks our main street—three cafés surrounded by an antique store, a quilting shop and a dime store. Obviously we take food very seriously in Gull Lake.

Number Two, Myrtle Shold is my father's aunt, his mother's sister. Thus, I'm allowed excursions to Java Cup, the Right Moose Café and an occasional walk down the Gull Lake pier.

She's okay, Myrtle. She's been the editor of the newspaper for nearly thirty-five years, and to her credit, knows what Gull Lakers like—the fishing report, weather forecast, recipes, school news, obituaries and an occasional editorial by a pastor. There are five from the stock Gull Lake churches—First Baptist, Our Savior's Lutheran, Gull Lake Congregational, First Methodist and Holy Rosary Catholic. It's a good mix. Not a lot of fighting, except when there's a new baby born to a mixed family. Then we'll get a slew of infant baptism op-eds. Myrtle edits those, to keep everyone happy, being that she is an agnostic.

Myrtle lives just up the road, on land owned by the Berglunds, in a two-room cabin. I remember as a child being enthralled by her lawn art—a display of Bambi and all the forest animals that looked so real I always found myself sitting in the middle of the crowd, chatting.

Maybe that's why she hired me. My active imagination.

I'm going to need it if I hope to fill out this application.

I slap the folder onto the table and a little thrill of fear and hope rushes through me. Russia. I want to imagine European bistros and excursions to ancient sites, but suddenly all I see is ice.

Snow.

Siberia.

Gulag.

Maybe I should do some checking first. Thankfully the Java Cup has their pinky on the pulse of the needs of the local tourist and offers free Internet service with a cup of java.

I log on and Google: Bible church, Moscow.

My first choice nets me a congregation in Moscow, Idaho. So Grams was right. Interesting stuff, but I click the next link.

Did you know that there is also a Moscow, Pennsylvania? I can't wait to trump Gramma on that one.

Third time's a charm—www.moscowbiblechurch.com.

I wait while my browser finds it, tapping my fingers on the wooden table. I sip my chai—it's not bad—and watch the pictures load.

Children reading Bibles. A man being baptized. Men and women sitting at desks. They look eager, clean. There are no bedraggled rags or barbed wire fences. Or snow.

I search Moscow, Russia, and the screen lists over 1,000 pages. Top of the list is the embassy. I like that word. It sounds so espionage, even dangerous. “Hey, let's check in at the embassy,” or “Is the embassy having a ball tonight?” Yes, I like embassy.

I scroll down to
Weather Underground.

Twenty-one degrees? In June? My heart just went into hiding. No wait. That's Celsius. Okay, this is better. 70 degrees with a low of 62. That I can deal with.

Just for fun, I enter average temperatures for January. Ew. Eighteen below. That's painful. But again, Celsius. A comparison in reality lists that as 0 degrees. Still not a heat wave, but then again, I'm currently living in Gull Lake, the ice fishing capital of Minnesota.

Things are looking up.

I skip over the
Moscow Times
and go right to
Moscow Insiders Guide.

Jackpot!

The welcome page tells me that I am not only lucky, but should feel happy and confident about my trip to Moscow. I like upbeat webmasters. The page loads and the choices look promising—culture, entertainment,
shopping…

Click.

Art galleries. I guess I wasn't expecting a shopping trip to Fifth Avenue, but a Saks would be nice.

How about culture?