Light From Heaven (8 page)

“A vicar is the priest of a church that isn’t a parish church.”

“So you’re still a priest!” In went the laundry powder.

“Absolutely!”

“Do we still call you Father?”

“You do! Only a couple of things change, really.... First, the money.”

“There’s the rub.”

“I’ll get a stipend, a mere dab. But not to worry, Kavanagh, I have big bucks set aside for our jaunt to Ireland next year.

“Now, here’s the good part—I won’t have to mix it up with a vestry.”

“Hallelujah!”

“Let’s see what else we can stumble upon.” He went to the kitchen bookcase and thumbed through one of the many tomes he’d toted to the farm, and returned to the laundry room.

“ ‘Vicar: A parish priest appointed by a bishop, to exercise limited jurisdiction in a particular town or district of a diocese.’ Here’s another: ‘A bishop’s assistant in charge of a church or mission.’

“And finally,” he said, “ ‘A clergyman in charge of a chapel.’ ”

She cranked the knob to “On.” “That’s quite enough to be in charge of, if you ask me.”

“Especially as Holy Trinity has stood empty for nearly forty years.”

His heart pounded as he contemplated such a thing. Empty for forty years! Why on earth would Stuart have been “patently envious” of such a prospect? Just getting the mice and squirrels out would be a job of vast proportion—and then, to fill it with people from Lord knows where ...

“You look dubious,” she said, folding towels.

“Not dubious. Dumbfounded!” He closed the book and put it under his arm. “And scared silly, to tell the plain truth.”

“Remember, sweetheart, what James Hudson Taylor said; you’ve quoted it to me as I plunged into many a Violet book. ‘There are three stages in the work of God: impossible, difficult, done.’ ”

Of all things! he thought.
Of all things
...

“Let me pray for you.”

She took his hand in hers, and he had at once the sure and consoling knowledge that her touch was a lifeline, one thrown out to him by God as directly as if He were present in the room—which, of course, He was.

They recited the Lenten devotion in unison.

“ ‘... Now as we come to the setting of the sun, and our eyes behold the vesper light, we sing your praises, O God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit....”

He asked the blessing then, and they looked at each other for a moment across the pine table.

“I’m thankful for you,” he said, “beyond words.”

The dogs snored, the fire crackled, the clock struck seven.

She leaned her head to one side and smiled at him. “Here we sit, under the dome of a winter sky, two people facing the unknown, holding hands across the table in a room lighted by a single candle and a fire on the hearth. I find it all too wondrous, Timothy, and I feel the greatest peace about your new calling; He has called you to come up higher.”

He knew she was right. No matter about mice and squirrels, or even, God forbid, snakes; he knew she was right.

He breathed easily, then did something he couldn’t remember doing for a while. He leaned back in the chair and felt the tension release. “Ahhh,” he said.

“Amen!” she replied with feeling.

After conferring with Cynthia, he went to the library.

Though he had no key to let himself in, he was off at dawn to see Holy Trinity, nicknamed Little Trinity due to its seating capacity of a mere forty souls.

No matter what obstacles lay ahead, he would roll them over on God and let Him do the managing; as for himself, he would pitch in head first, give it his all, and let the Enemy take the hindmost.

He would still wear his collar and vestments; he would still celebrate the liturgy and perform all other the offices of a priest. So indeed, hardly anything would change.

He shifted the truck into second gear for the incline, heading west. And so what if things did change?

The thought gave him a kind of buzz, as if something carbonated had been released into his system.

He glanced at Barnabas, who sat on the passenger seat looking fixedly ahead. “Vicar!” he said, tasting the word. “What do you think?”

Cynthia called him dearest; his cousin’s wife called him Teds; as a boy he’d been called Slick, more’s the pity; his mother had often called him Timmy; Dooley called him Dad; one and all called him Father; and now he’d collected yet another appellation, one derived, appropriately, from
vicarious.

He made the sharp curves neatly, sticking tight to the shoulder. Some people in these parts enjoyed driving in the middle of the road, a risky affinity explained to him at the Farmer post office. “We pay taxes on both sides,” said Merle Hoff, whose property bordered Meadowgate to the north.

First thing to be done was call a locksmith, he’d take care of that when he got back to the farm. And who would he call to sweep out the place and patch the roof and mend the chimney and replace any rotten floorboards, and generally make things right? He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

Stuart said his coadjutor had planned to come and look over the situation at Holy Trinity, but circumstances had intervened, and they knew almost nothing of the details. In truth, the consecration of the cathedral, Stuart’s retirement ceremony, and the consecration of the new bishop were all scheduled to happen in a single day, a fact that had every soul at diocesan headquarters upside down and backward, not to mention beside themselves and altogether witless.

Stuart had thus turned the entire Holy Trinity caboodle over to him. It was to be Tim Kavanagh’s baby, lock, stock, and barrel; in other words, check it out, go to work, and get it done. According to Stuart, someone who’d anonymously given a cool million to help build the new cathedral also had a special interest in seeing Holy Trinity revived, and had pitched in an extra twenty-five thousand toward that end.

Further, Holy Trinity was to withhold all offerings from the diocesan assessment, to help fund physical improvements and local outreach programs.

“You’re absolutely the one for the job,” Stuart told him. “The fact that you currently live within shouting distance of the church had nothing to do with my decision—though it makes things convenient for my new vicar, I should think!

“You know my unbounded esteem for you, Timothy. I have no intention of prattling on about it and giving you the big head, except to say you’re among the single finest
pastors
—please read my meaning here—that I’ve had the privilege to serve with.”

“You’re more than gracious,” he’d replied. “But I must tell you I’ve promised to take Cynthia to Ireland next year for two or three months. I’ve been a bump on a log far too long and I must keep my promise.”

“Can you give our arrangement one year?”

“Just that, I’m afraid.”

“To quote you, Timothy, ‘Consider it done.’ You get Holy Trinity up and running, and we’ll send in a curate for the long haul.”

He didn’t ask what, exactly, made his bishop feel so all-fired, patently envious.

He estimated he’d climbed several hundred feet along the winding track, which was in fairly rough condition. Some of the ruts were as deep as watering troughs.

Always a trick to keep a steep dirt roadway from washing ...

It was still a winter landscape, though the minutest of leaf buds were visible. Glancing left into the barren woods, he occasionally caught a glimpse of mountains, a sight that never failed to compel his spirit. On the right, endless upland meadows with vast outcroppings of stone ...

The road leveled off for a mile or two, then ended abruptly at a bold stream. He was relieved to see that the track continued on the other side. “A ford!” he explained to Barnabas. He hadn’t seen a ford in years.

He drove the truck carefully through the high waters created by snowmelt from the mountaintop and checked his watch. If the directions from Willie Mullis were right, he should be close. As he left the stream behind, the trees began to form an arch above the lane; light filtered through interlocking branches and danced on the hood of the truck.

At an ancient white oak, the road curved sharply and he saw it—a white, shingled building with a bell tower, resting on a stone foundation and facing west.

But this wasn’t what he’d expected, not at all.

Though the church sat with its back to visitors, it was obvious that the building and grounds were tended, even tidy. Nothing about it spoke of decline or disrepair.

His eyes searched the green tin roof and the tall window at the rear. Both appeared to be in decent order.

Was it indeed Holy Trinity? The weathered, hand-painted sign in what he construed to have been the parking lot confirmed that it was.

He turned off the ignition and reached over and opened the truck door for Barnabas, then jumped down himself. He felt at once the sharp sting of fresh mountain air in his lungs.

From where he stood, he could see sunlight warming the mountaintops, but the larger view was obscured by a low stone wall that ran in front of the church.

“Come on, buddy!”

He trotted alongside the church with a surge of excitement, as if he’d never before seen a rising sun illumine the hills beneath.

Beyond the wall, it appeared that the whole of Creation opened itself to him. An ocean of the world’s oldest mountains rolled away on their journey to the west, green upon green, and in the great distance, blue upon blue. Small lakes of mist collected in the hollows; a poker-red sun cast its light upon the ridges and hog-backs as it ascended above the trees behind him.

He crossed himself, exultant.

He might have been standing at the top of the world, with every fret and horror far beneath him; indeed, he might have been standing on hallowed ground ...