Smiling Madonna - Chapter Four

The glance
George caught from
him was usually
quite mean

As George drove up Ted Swenson appeared to be finishing his morning cleanup. He was carrying a shovel in his right hand and a few gardening tools in his left. The glance George caught from him was usually quite mean.
George saw Ted’s face change from the expression of an unusually open and contented old man, to dark and narrowed eyes and tight lips when he noticed George’s truck come into the parking lot. George knew Ted had some feelings about the religious community idea he and the other men were working on building, but never before had he seen Ted’s face change so clearly, or completely. Then he remembered the morning’s events.
Stepping out of the truck, holding briefcase and empty coffee mug, George waved good naturedly to Ted. Ted raised a lackluster hand back.
As George turned into the church office he wondered if it really did look like the wind up to the back of Ted’s hand, or if he was putting too much on it.

“Hello, Georgia.”
“Hello, Pastor George.”
It was once a punny exchange between these adults, now, today, it was especially only a ritual with little warmth.
“How is she?” Georgia asked.
“Mrs. Simpson? As good as can be expected, I suppose.” George was glancing over the mail that had come in already – a bit early today, he thought. “I mean,” looking straight at Georgia now, “She had a shock, but she’s had lots of those in her lifetime. Still… that someone was be killed on your property, while you were there. That’s creepy, to say the least.”
“I was wondering if, since it’s only Tuesday, if I might go over there this afternoon.”
“Georgia, that is a good idea. I know you have been working ahead and there’s nothing pressing today, now anyway. Yes, please go see how Sheila is doing.”
Not only was Sheila Simpson a gracious person with her pastors, she was also a wonderful friend, and had been to Georgia and her family over the twenty-some years of being part of this community. It was Sheila who had called the pastors to tell them about Georgia’s husband, when he had been diagnosed with Alzheimers.

George went down to the Green Café to work on his sermon. It was an internet café with really good espresso where George was just far enough away from the church that not many people would be coming by who might ask for his time. A sermon George felt good about preaching usually took at least six to eight hours to write. He still used a manuscript and kept the time to 10 to 12 minutes.
George was trying to settle on his brain treat, barraca or a pretty healthy looking oatmeal cookie. George looked up and saw Rosie come out from behind the espresso machine.
“George,” a wide smile lit up Rosie’s face, “What can I get for you today? Oh, it’s Thursday, so you probably want a couple of them this morning, right?”
George smiled back, Rosie was his favorite barista. She could make the best drink better than almost anyone and anywhere else. George once admitted to himself that he found her attractive too.
The people in front of him, paid and got their drinks and George paid and waited for his first espresso drink.
Rosie passed George’s very large cup over to him and he noticed how beautiful her dark hands were again. “Just let me know when you need the next one,” Rosie said smiling.


George left the Green Café after his second drink. The sermon wasn’t “done,” meaning he had something written, but didn’t yet flow very well. George had heard (and written) his share of sermons, so he judged them by his own criteria. If he were to enumerate those “standards,” they would begin with flow.
Water was a very powerful image for all aspects of community and congregational life. Ripples and disturbances could be a good thing, but flow, the direction or trajectory of the flow, that was more important than the fact some water was in motion.
Of course, the “motion” from the Simpson garage was more than that. Henry’s murder was a sad and horrible end to a wonderful life.
As George drove back to the Community House he thought about ripples and disturbances, and looked at the smiling Madonna as he walked up to, and entered the front door.

At worship on Sunday, the connections that the pastors had made in the intervening days had quelled the murmuring congregation before the service, during the offering, afterwards in during the coffee hour, and in the parking lot as people dispersed. Travis rolled his eyes to George about the group still gathered at the back end of Jill Ackerson’s SUV.
“You’d think they had no where to go,” said Travis.
“Yes, and yet they are still trying to process what happened,” responded George.
“Yeah, didn’t you have some tragedy like this happen when you were in Nebraska of something?”
“Yes, unfortunately. There was a couple who were known to fight often and finally the husband shot the wife and then himself,” said George. “Just makes me not like guns, but this… The way Henry was killed just gives me shudders.”
George shook his robe off in the hall near the pastors’ offices, before hanging it up in the closet there. The church used to use Travis’ office as the robing room, when one pastor had served this congregation and the Scandinavians had thought one man could best lead 300 Lutherans. Now the hall closet held their stoles and robes. That was easier for the altar guild to keep them clean anyway. They could take and dry clean them without going into a pastor’s office.

next week: community and clues