Gone to Green (7 page)

Turning in, my heart rose and sank. “Quaint” might be the word to describe the place. In the midst of winter, brown grass covered the yard, and dead plants lined the flowerbeds. Beautiful bushes loaded with small pink flowers offered the only bright spot. The garage listed to the right, close to falling down, but the house itself looked decent.

Opening the front door with the same fortitude with which I had entered the Lakeside Motel the evening before, I was amazed at how chilled a vacant house in winter could be. A musty smell hit me. This was not the awful been-empty-for-years smell but one of fairly recent paint and what was probably Louisiana dampness. As I wandered through, I noted with delight the wood floors and with dismay the space heaters and ancient avocado appliances.

In the war of emotions I had waged for weeks now, I won a minor victory here, although I had to quickly analyze it. The house offered free rent for a year but was located too far from town. The surroundings were peaceful but sort of desolate. My antiques would look great scattered about, even if the house was a little worn around the edges.

The free rent for a year made up my mind. I could live here for my year in Green, honor Ed's original commitment, and not leave the paper in the lurch. I also needed to consider my own future in this house. The beautiful lakeside properties I’d seen in the real estate guide enticed me, but money factored into my choice to stay here.

Then a large rat ran across the kitchen.

I hate rats. I can abide spiders—even snakes—but I hate rats. I looked around for something to jump up on. My theory on rats is if you see one, there are probably a couple dozen more waiting to jump out. Nearly running to my car, I considered other housing options, such as living for a year at the Lakeside or rooming with Iris Jo or Tammy. But I could not live out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields, forests, and rodents. I started the motor, and if there’d been asphalt, I would have burned rubber out of the driveway.

Totally caught up in my housing dilemma, it took a few seconds to register that my car sounded as though a helicopter had landed on it. It limped to the side of the narrow road, and I got out, hoping I was far enough away from the trailer that the dogs wouldn’t chase me. I’m one of the few people in the world who will admit to not being a dog person. I also confess to a deathly fear of dogs, from terriers to pit bulls and all models in between.

My quick inspection confirmed a flat tire. Shivering in the cold wind and dressed only in my favorite business suit and boots, I looked around. I was stranded in the boondocks within sight of a yard with three big dogs. I punched in the office number on my cell phone, hoping that
News-Item
truck No. 1 might take me back to town. But this was the outskirts of Green, Louisiana, and my cell phone had no reception— not one bar.

I assessed my options yet again. I could drive on the bad tire until I reached town, probably ruining the rim; drag out the jack and spare tire and try to change my first tire ever; or I could walk toward town in hopes of finding help.

I chose the latter. Maybe someone would be at the little church.

Luck was on my side. An older-model green Taurus was parked behind the church. I know all makes of cars. It's a weird, somewhat useless base of knowledge. I suppose it might come in handy someday if I’m in a car chase or witness a bank robbery getaway. I walked around the churchyard, calling “hello,” hoping the preacher's family didn’t own a dog and wishing I had not left my jacket in the car.

No one answered at the house, but the side door of the church was unlocked. As I entered the dimly lit sanctuary, a distinct cozy smell greeted me. I was standing up near the choir loft, and beautiful winter light streamed through the stained glass windows. The sight shook me. How long ago that day in the college chapel seemed, even though it had only been a handful of weeks. Life could change fast.

I called out “hello” a bit louder and wandered behind the sanctuary, where there was a room with a little table and tiny chairs for children; a fellowship hall with a large coffee maker; and a small paneled office. A woman wearing a souvenir sweatshirt for a walk-a-thon sat at the desk, looking over notes. An open Bible lay nearby.

The woman jumped when I tapped on the door. “Sorry, I do that every time. I’m still not used to being in this building by myself.” She looked like she was going to hug me but then held out her hand. “Jean, Jean Hours, Pastor Jean Hours.” I could not say why, but it felt good to shake hands as I introduced myself and explained my predicament.

“May I use your phone, Pastor? I don’t seem to have cell service out here.”

“No problem,” she said, moving the phone on her desk my way. “You might as well toss that cell phone. Green is notorious for weak service. But I can take care of that flat for you. I’ve had lots of experience lately changing tires. I’ve had two flats in the past six months, and one of my church members had one last week when she dropped off a cake at my house.”

I tried to turn down her offer, but was glad when she would not take no for an answer. She grabbed a denim jacket hanging nearby and headed outside through a back door.

“I think God's trying to teach me something with all these tires,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t know—humility, patience, remembering not to be too full of myself.”

She dug around in my trunk and pulled out the tiny spare and jack. “Let's see if we can find the key to unlock the lug nuts.”

“I should know where that is.” I leaned over beside her without a clue what she was talking about.

“Here we go.” She held up a small piece of metal and knelt by my car.

I stepped back, unsure what to do. “I’m so sorry for bothering you. I know you have better things to do than roll around in the dirt for a stranger.”

“I welcome the interruption,” she said, breathing heavily as she hoisted the tire onto the car. “It's so quiet out here, and I was trying to pull together a sermon. It just wasn’t working— a passage from James, maybe you know it, on depending on God for wisdom, on holding your tongue. I’m struggling with it—you know, new preacher jitters.”

“Well, I’m not much of a Bible scholar,” I said, trying to make a joke. “But I learned about it in Sunday school, I think, when I was a kid.” I didn’t mention I’d read the same verses that very morning in my hotel room Bible.

I handed the preacher the lug nuts, and she chatted as she tightened them. “What brings you out to Route 2 on this cold day anyway?”

“Just looking around. I’m new to the area and heard about a vacant house out here.”

“You probably mean Helen McCuller's place down the road. Nice old house. This is a great community,” she said. “Seems like it's out in the middle of nowhere, but it's a tight little neighborhood.” Jean dusted off her hands and wiped a little grease onto her jeans. “Probably want to get your tire fixed right away,” she said. “That little bitty doughnut spare is like a temporary crown on your tooth—not good for many miles.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here. You’re the first person who ever volunteered to change a tire for me.”

“Happy to help. Come on in, and I’ll make us a cup of hot chocolate.”

I followed her into the house behind the church, unable to figure out a way to politely decline. My heels sank into the gravel driveway.

“Welcome to my humble parsonage,” she said. “Isn’t that funny? I live in a parsonage. There's something just a little odd about getting a free house next door to your office.”

This house reminded me of Helen's down the road, except without any sign of rats. The place was comfortable but needed work. Jean was sheepish about several pieces of furniture, including a monstrosity of a fake-wood wall unit in the living room and a large fancy dining room suite.

“Nice, eh?” she said, giving me a quick tour. “The church won’t let me move those out. They bought them for their former preacher as a gift of love to be left in the parsonage when he moved, of course. He retired up to Hot Springs and couldn’t care less about this furniture anyway.” She looked around, as though someone might overhear. “I hate it, but I figure that battle will have to wait.”

She fixed our cocoa in old Fiesta Ware cups that I loved. “Tell me about what brings you to Green,” she said.

I told her about inheriting
The Green News-Item.
She was clearly fascinated about my ownership of the paper and my “bold new adventure,” as she referred to it.

Visiting with this pastor made me happy because I could avoid going back downtown for a while. She was enthusiastic about my move, as though she had known me for years and was celebrating my great success at something I had worked hard for.

“You’re going to do great,” she said. “You’ll be a breath of fresh air for the Green community.”

A little uncomfortable with her goodwill, I began asking her questions, an interview disguised as conversation. In the next thirty minutes or so, I learned more about Jean than I had known about most of my neighbors in the past few years.

“I spent more than twenty years as a schoolteacher in Baton Rouge—high school English,” she said, smiling, “wrestling hormonal teenagers to learn about literature. Loved it.”

“Why’d you leave?” I was as curious about her as she seemed about me.

“A call from the Lord. He wanted me to be a preacher, and I have to tell you, I resisted for quite some time. It was hard. I knew how to be a teacher, but this … this really uprooted me.”

She was rewarded in her new calling by being assigned to this small, dying church in rural North Louisiana about eight months ago. Oddly, she didn’t seem to hold a grudge for the location or the size of the congregation, although it was clear she was trying to find her way. She sprinkled her conversation with remarks about how God was blessing her on this journey, despite what she called some “dry bones” moments.

“The hardest part has been being away from my husband,” she said. “Believe it or not, I’m forty-eight years old, and this is the first time I’ve ever lived alone. Married the week after I graduated from college. He's still in Baton Rouge, has a good job at a bank there, and … ” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes narrowed, as though she were looking at something in the distance.

“Will your husband move here too?” The reporter in me couldn’t help but ask the obvious question.

“He hasn’t been able to make it yet. Comes here when he can and keeps an eye on things there—the house, the kids. Our daughter's in college in Lafayette. Our son works in Baton Rouge and has an apartment.”

For the first time, Pastor Hours seemed unsure. “That's been the straw that broke the camel's back for my new church. It was bad enough to get a woman preacher, and then she turns up without her husband.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “But I believe God has called me here. Some days I don’t quite understand it, but this is the next step on my journey. I try hard to be faithful to that call.”

Clearly embarrassed at having said so much, she switched back to me. “Green is a nice place to live, Lois. You’ll settle in just fine. Just remember that people aren’t all that used to newcomers here, and they don’t much like change. But God sometimes wants people to change, you know. I see that all the time.”

Feeling suddenly antsy, I needed to think about change all right—changing the tire on my car to something more dependable. I thanked her again for her help. “Guess I’d better head back to town. Good luck with your sermon.”

“Come on back Sunday at eleven and see what you think,” she said.

“Oh, I’m just settling in and not sure when my things are coming. Besides, I’m not much of a churchgoer. I may stop in one of these days. Thanks for asking.”

I was not prepared to commit to church on my first Sunday in Green. My plans for the next year didn’t include a commitment to anything other than the paper.

When I returned to the newspaper plant, reporter Alex, fresh back from his meeting, brought the news that town leader Major Wilson was peeved with me. “He thought you would show up at the police jury meeting to introduce yourself and get to know everybody.”

Come to find out, the car dealer/real estate developer was also on the “po-lice” jury, as Alex called it. The young reporter apologized about mentioning my arrival to Major. “He already knew, though. Said Dub and Chuck told him weeks ago. You know, Miss Lois, he's a big cheese in town and a golfing buddy of the McCullers. You might want to give him a call.”

“So any real news from the meeting?” I asked, uncomfortable with this kid giving me advice.