Light From Heaven (36 page)
Authors: Jan Karon
“When Clarence was born, she asked us to stay. She loved Clarence very tenderly; when he was yet a tot, she taught him to be gentle with all that he touched.
“She began this patient instruction by giving him a rare piece of early Staffordshire, a milkmaid with a brown cow. She taught him to lift the piece with great care and dust beneath it.
“Over and over again, he did this under her watchful eye, with never a chip or a crack, Father, and he was but a toddler!
“All that love pouring into him is today poured out into his beautiful bowls and animals and walking canes.”
“Cynthia and I look forward to seeing his work on Sunday.”
“Have I worn you thin?” she asked, looking worn herself.
“Never. But perhaps we should save the rest of your story for another time. I feel this has taxed you.”
“It taxes me still further to withhold it. Yes, there is more. Much more. But now we must talk about our teaching on Sunday! Thank you, Father, for hearing me. Your compassion is a great gift.”
He signed the three words he’d signed to Cynthia that morning.
Her eyes brimmed with tears of relief as she signed them back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Covered Dish
The contributions of early arrivals had been placed on the rose-colored cloth.
In the center of the table, Miss Martha’s German chocolate cake was displayed on a footed stand next to Lily’s three-layer triumph. Also present were Lloyd’s foil-covered baked beans, Cynthia’s potato salad made from Puny’s recipe, Father Tim’s scandal to the Baptists—a baked ham with bourbon sauce, Agnes’s macaroni and cheese, and Granny’s stuffed eggs.
“Granny,” said the vicar, “how are stuffed eggs different from deviled?”
“Th’ diff’rence is, I don’t
call
’em deviled,” Granny declared. “They’s enough devilment in this world.”
call
’em deviled,” Granny declared. “They’s enough devilment in this world.”
“Amen!” he said.
At the far end of the folding table, the vicar’s surprise gift stood tall and gleaming, perking into the air an aroma fondly cherished in church halls everywhere.
“French roast,” he told Lloyd, tapping the percolator. “Freshly ground. Full bore.”
“Hallelujah!” said Lloyd, who didn’t think much of church coffee, generally speaking.
Sammy had cut an armload of budding branches from the surrounding woods, and delivered them to Cynthia for a table arrangement. Removing himself from the fray, the vicar trooped into the churchyard to greet new arrivals and contemplate the view with Granny. A chill wind had followed the long rain; the ocean of mountains shone clear, bright, and greening.
“Robert! Good morning to you!”
Robert wiped his right hand on his pant leg before shaking.
“Thank y’ f’r th’ eggs, I didn’ bring nothin’ f’r th’ dinner.”
“No need, we have plenty. Can you sing, Robert?”
“Ain’t never tried.”
“Try today! We’ve got to crank up the singing around here, to help keep us warm. Just get in behind me and go for it. I’m not much to listen to, but I can keep us on key at any rate.
“Sparkle! You’re the very breath of spring.”
“Yeller, blue, green, purple, an’ pink, topped off by a fleece jacket! If anybody’s havin’ a tacky party today, I want to be th’ winner!”
“Where’s Wayne?”
“Down on his back, rollin’ around under a piece of junk he calls a car.”
“Tell him to get up here, we need his fine baritone.”
“If Wayne Foster ever shows ‘is face up here ag’in, I’ll drop over. He didn’ know doodleysquat about what was goin’ on last Sunday. He thought your kneelers was somethin’ to prop his feet up on.”
“A good many Episcopalians think the same! What is that heavenly aroma?”
Sparkle held forth her foil-covered contribution. “Meat loaf!” she declared. “My mama’s recipe.You will flat out
die
when you taste it.”
die
when you taste it.”
“A terrible price to pay, but count me in.”
As Agnes stepped outside to deposit a daddy longlegs on a patch of moss, they saw Rooter coming at a trot from the laurels.
“Which reminds me,” Agnes told the vicar. “The schoolhouse facilities are open; you may wish to make an announcement.”
“Looky here, Miss Agnes.”
Rooter signed to Agnes, the first and second fingers of his right hand gesturing toward his eyes.
“Why, Rooter Hicks!” she said, clearly pleased.
“Y’ know what I jis’ said?” he asked the vicar.
“Not a clue.”
“I said, ‘See y’ later, man.’”
“How did you learn that?” asked Agnes.
“I seen it in a book.”
“A book!”
“At th’ lib’ary at school.They got a whole lot of books on hand talkin’. With
pictures
. Looky here ag’in,” he said, slightly curling four fingers, extending his thumb, and making a motion at his chin. “You know what ‘at’s sayin’?” he asked Agnes.
pictures
. Looky here ag’in,” he said, slightly curling four fingers, extending his thumb, and making a motion at his chin. “You know what ‘at’s sayin’?” he asked Agnes.
“You’re saying ‘Watch!’”
“Yeah. I’m goin‘t’ use ‘at ’un when I want t’ watch Clarence work on ’is bowls an’ all.”
“You’re smart as a whip!”
“I ain’t smart,” said Rooter, offended.
“Quick, then,” she declared. “You’re very quick. And in any case,” Agnes signed her words as she spoke, “I’m tickled pink.”
“I’m goin’ t’ learn s’more of ’at stuff. I brung one of them books home.”
“He don’t like t’ bring books home,” said Granny. “Seein’ as it must be special, I looked in it m’self.”
“Well done!” said the vicar.
“But I couldn’ make hide n’r hair of it.”
Rooter’s eyes brightened. “I’ll teach y’!”
Father Tim sat down on the wall. “I’ve got an idea, Rooter. What if we put you in charge of teaching the congregation one simple hand sign every Sunday? Something everyone can do. That way, we’ll all learn how to talk with Clarence.”
Rooter looked astounded. “Y’ mean stand up in front of all ’em people an’ do what I jis’ done?”
“Yes. Don’t you think so, Agnes?”
“I do!”
“Next Sunday, you could teach ‘How are you doing, man’—which you already know.”
“Yep.” Rooter signed what the vicar had said.
“The following Sunday, you could teach ‘See you later, man.’ And so on.Would that work for you?”
“I ain’t standin’ up in front of no people. No way.”
“Why not?” asked Father Tim.
“‘Cause ...”—Rooter made a face—“’Cause they’d look at me.”
“Right. Looking at you is the way they’d learn to talk to Clarence. Right now, the only people who talk to Clarence are his mother ... and you. And maybe me ... but only a little. Three people.”
Rooter pondered this, then looked up at Agnes.
“You’d have t’ do it with me.”
“I’d be honored,” she said. “Come now, it’s time for worship.”
The vicar saw his patient and affable crucifer waiting for him with the hand-carved cross. He signed the three words to Clarence, who grinned broadly and signed back. To Lloyd, standing by to ring the bell, he gave a thumbs-up.
Bong ...
Bong
...
...
Bong
...
...
The sound shimmered out from the tower, across the gorge and dappled ridges.
Processing behind the cross to the altar, he realized he was missing Sissie.
“Thirty minutes,” he said, checking his watch, “and you re on your way.
“Thanks to everyone who prepared nourishment for today’s table of fellowship. I’ve had more than my share of such holy meals, and must tell you that today’s offering was as good as it gets.
“I’d also like to thank those who enjoyed what was prepared and said so—that’s an important contribution in itself, as any cook can tell you.
“Agnes informs me that this was Holy Trinity’s first official dinner on the grounds in ... how many years do you think, Rooter?”
“A hundred!”
“Good guess, Rooter. Miss Martha?”
“Forty-three years!”
“Forty-three years! And isn’t it wondrous, that at the time of His blessed resurrection, Holy Trinity should also rise out of death into new life? Alleluia! Or, as Granny might say, hallelujah!”
Startled by unexpected recognition, Granny involuntarily lifted her hand and waved at the vicar.
“I grew up, primarily, in the Baptist Church, and love that pronunciation as well. However you say it—and both ways are correct—it feels good to again utter that glorious word of praise. And speaking of words ...
“This morning, the Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans, and Presbyterians worshipped in a
sanctuary.
You worshipped this morning in a
nave
, and you entered the nave through a
narthex.
sanctuary.
You worshipped this morning in a
nave
, and you entered the nave through a
narthex.
“I see that Lloyd and Robert are sitting on the
gospel
side. And Agnes and the rest of you are sitting on the
epistle
side.
gospel
side. And Agnes and the rest of you are sitting on the
epistle
side.
“These and other unique words—and traditions—make us a little different at Holy Trinity. Before Agnes and I talk next Sunday about our prayer book and, for example, the great help you’ll find in the
rubrics,
we’ll talk today about this building, God’s house—which I believe we’ll all come to love as a true home ...”
rubrics,
we’ll talk today about this building, God’s house—which I believe we’ll all come to love as a true home ...”
“This is his treasure, Father.”
In the dark, cool interior of the woodworking shop, Clarence reverently lifted the lid of the burnished mahogany chest, and revealed the contents of early handmade tools.The vicar caught his breath.
“W-wow,” said Sammy.
“Ditto!” said Cynthia.
Clarence signed to them as Agnes spoke the interpretation.
“When Mama and I lived in Chicago, I went to a school for the deaf. I took a woodworking class and that’s when I knew I wanted to work wood for the rest of my life.”
Father Tim noted the unmistakable joy on the face of his crucifer.
“A really old man used to come and teach us special skills, like hand-carving a bowl instead of turning it on a lathe. He was ninety-four, and had this tool chest which he would bring to the shop for the students to look at. We couldn’t touch any of the tools. But I really wanted to.”
Clarence removed a tool from the chest and handed it to Sammy. He handed another to Cynthia and one to Father Tim.
“The man’s name was George Monk, and the chest had come down in his family of woodworkers from Sheffield, England. Somehow Mr. Monk thought I was pretty good at woodworking, and one day after everybody had left the shop, he let me take all the tools from the box and handle them. He talked about how they were used, and told me he thought I was ...”
Clarence dropped his eyes to the chest, awkward.
“Gifted!” Agnes explained. “He said Clarence was gifted.”
His face flushed, Clarence signed again. “Mr. Monk didn’t have any children,” Agnes interpreted, “and when he died, the lawyer came over with the chest. I was eleven years old, it was the most important thing that ever happened to me.”
Clarence appeared moved by this memory.
“Mr. Monk said it was better than any tool chest he’d seen in museums,” explained Agnes. “We were deeply touched by his gesture of love and trust. Clarence says you’re holding a gouge, Father. Cynthia, that is a socket chisel ... do you see the maker’s mark, John Green, just there? Sammy, that’s a brad awl.”
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