The preacher, a new one at that, tries to get to the bottom of an old mess, two sisters who won't speak to each other and haven't for years.
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Of course, it wasn’t just the cleaning that got Norma heated; it was what she read as Mae’s self-righteousness, a affliction she claims she’s lived with for 70 years. Her mouth was stiff from the dentist, but she managed to say some viscous things in language best left for sorting hogs.
Three years of silence have followed. Church comes and goes every week, and there’s funerals–we got more than our share–so there’s always coffee and cake served afterwards by the two of them and others. And there’s this and there’s that, not to mention three years of Eunice Society, the two of them never missing a meeting but never speaking to each other either, sitting on opposite sides of the circle of folding chairs. It’s just something you just get used to, like hail.
Except for Pastor Terry, who thinks he’s Nelson Mandela. And right then he’s got Norma at the door, and the fireworks are about to start.
Listen, our church was constructed long before anyone here remembers, and it’s inside walls are thin as Ritz crackers. So once we know Norma’s coming, all of us wander shamelessly to the 3rd grade Sunday School room which shares a wall with the study.
This is how it went, or something like. Carol says to get it right.
Pastor Terry hears the knock on the door and gets up. We’re sure Mae doesn’t turn around because it’s none of her business who’s there, and besides what if it’s Lola Harmsen, whose husband’s catting around again. She doesn’t want to know every last person to come to the preacher’s office for spiritual help.
“Norma,” Pastor Terry says, “how nice to see you. Come in.”
Now we didn’t see a thing, of course, but we couldn’t miss the silence. Right then the temperature in that room dropped to zero. We figure the preacher was on his feet, standing right between them, when he turned back toward Mae. “I thought it might be nice to get the two of you–sisters–in for a chat,” he says. But both of them know what’s being staged here because neither would have come if the preacher had whispered a word about the other being there. You can cut the air with the knife, let me tell you.
“Who’s older?”
What a stupid question. There’s this long pause. Nobody says a thing.
“So how you feeling, Mrs. Meerdink?” the preacher says, but his is the only voice.
My wife looks at me as if I ought to do something.
“You must be feeling better,” the preacher says, but still nobody says a word. Frost was starting to form on the wall. We were there.
“I wanted to talk to both of you,” he says. “What I’m wondering is what you’d consider Jesus would think of your not talking to each other?”
He shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t talk down to those old birds. We’re thinking Mae is likely to walk out, Norma let fly with some language better left out back.
“I wonder whether Jesus is proud of the witness you offer to the world with your anger,” Pastor Terry says.
Not a word.
“I heard it’s about cleaning,” he says. “I heard it’s something about cleaning up somebody’s else’s house–do I have that right, Mae?” he says.
You can be sure the two of them didn’t look at each other. They’re good at that–three years of practice. But you can be just as sure they weren’t looking down either–way too proud. My guess is they’re staring at the preacher like a couple of mad, barnyard cats.
“You may remember when Nathan came to David,” Pastor Terry said, and right away I’m thinking this doesn’t have a thing to do with adultery and murder. “David didn’t even see his own sin,” the preacher said. “Can you see what you’re doing?”
Of course, there could be a murder.
“Listen to me,” he says, “we’ve got kids young as three wearing WWJD bracelets–‘What Would Jesus Do?’–you ever asked yourselves that?”
Nothing. Not a word.
“I’m not letting you go until one of you breaks,” he says, and right then Carol looks up at me and tips her head as if it’s time for us to go in there before something bad happened.
“We’re going to get this settled if it takes all day,” he said.
What’s one afternoon on a three-year investment?
“We’re going to get through this because we can’t have grudges in the family of God,” he says. “You think the Lord is happy with your anger?”
You can just see them, can’t you?–both of them staring right into the young man’s eyes.
“Can you talk at all?” he says. “Can you say anything?”
Dead quiet.
“What happens if one of you gets taken to the grave without having made up–what then?” he says. “What happens if one of you dies and the other is left choked up with guilt?–answer me that.”
Nobody says a thing.
“I don’t want that to happen, and you know why?” he says. “If one of you dies, I’m going to have to deal with the mess because the other is going to come in and bawl her eyes out because you never kissed and made up,” he tells them. “What’ more,” he says, “it’s childish. It’s downright childish.”
Now he’s on a roll. Thinks he’s Jeremiah.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard it,” he says. “Marlys Fynaart told me–“
And we all stare at Marlys, who slaps herself on the forehead.
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Tomorrow: The confrontation ends.
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