Smiling Madonna - Chapter Nine

about the murder
being meant for me or somebody
else in our community?

Travis caught George as he was leaving the Community House.
“Hey, George, is it true?” he asked.
“About the murder possibly being meant for me, or someone in our community?” George returned. “Apparently it is one possibility.”
“Are you okay?”
George was surprised to find himself standing next to his pastoral colleague as someone like him, his peer. He had always thought of Travis as a pastor who didn’t quite ‘get it’ in some ways. George’s voice caught when he said, “Yup. I, uh, I ‘m okay,” but the sound of the words was like spilled crackers, tossed across a large floor, broken and empty.
“So where is this retreat place, you’re all going to?”
“It’s up Highway 2, you know, on the Stephen’s Pass Highway. It’s near a place called Grotto, around the intersection of the old Cascade Highway and the South Fork of the Skykomish River. There’s an exit there and then we’ll go right through Miller River for about a quarter mile. The Horse Ranch is right up there on the left.”
“You’ve never been there?” George asked.
“No, I didn’t even know Barbara had friends out that way,” replied Travis.
“Huh, well the Horse Ranch sounds like an amazing place.”
“I hope it is peaceful for you,” Travis offered.
“Yeah, for all of us.”
“So, Travis, you have the confirmation class and the adult forum on Sunday right?” asked George.
“Of course, George.” Normally Travis might have been taken George to mean that he couldn’t handle him going away, but right now Travis was easily able to chalk George’s questions up to George’s own unease and anxiety. “Of course, I’ve got them covered! No go so you can miss the traffic!”
The four had rented a large van to get to the retreat site. Stephen drove. George sat up front owing to a tendency towards motion sickness. Jack and Timothy sat in the middle bucket seats, while food and bags took up almost all the space behind them. Rear line of sight vision was not quite compromised.
“George, what do we have to do when we get there? Do you have the keys already, or is someone going to meet us?” asked Tim.
“Actually, I have the keys already. The letter that came with them said we’ll need to turn up the heat, but the outside lights and heating inside is automatic. We just need to remember to turn it down before we leave again on Sunday.”
“I’m glad we don’t have to come up any later than this,” Jack said as he nodded out the window to the darkening sky, darker still by the cloud cover, promising rain soon. You know how I get turned around,”he added.
Smiling Tim went on, “We said we’d get there, settle in our rooms, then meet for evening prayer and officially begin the retreat, right?”
“Right, Yes,” was the multiple response.
“And Stephen you got tonight’s meal all ready, right?”
Jack nodded, saying, “I helped.”
“And it’s meatloaf?”
Again the nod.
“So what would we like to listen to for the audio portion of our supper? I brought along ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,’ a little Earl Klugh, ‘Rattle and Hum,’ and the Joan Chitister audio book we wanted to finish.”
Jack did his best Alistair Cooke impression and said, “Right. Actually, I think I think the Nachtmusik selection would go best with the meatloaf. That Rattle and Hum thing might upset my digestion.”
George was about to offer that they might relax and allow themselves to talk over dinner, but Stephen jumped in; “I’d like to hear the end of the Joan Chitister book, but I think we ought to wait on that and just sit and talk this evening, especially with everything that’s been going on for each of us this fall – other than Henry’s murder. That is one of the reasons we all agreed this retreat was a good idea this past summer.”
There was positive agreement followed by a minute of silence as each man tried to put his concerns and anxieties, commitments and work, and relationships outside of the community in their most appropriate places for this ‘break’ in the usual program and routine.
The car drove on, took the highway 2 exit and moved into the foothills of Stephen’s Pass.

The Horse Ranch looked like what it probably was, foundations of an old mountain hotel, built into an enormous house with three floors, plus a loft. When the brothers entered the front door through the covered carport they were amazed to find the large main room empty except for three large chairs, two lounge chairs, three end tables and two matching torchiers. The stone floor looked like it could not have gotten much warmer ever, and it was cold now. There was quick agreement that the rooms were slightly better, perhaps best was the loft room, since all the heat would rise. The kitchen and appliances all looked unused, but shiny new.
“This is really weird,” said Tim.
“Yeah. It’s not quite what I’d pictured, when Sally was talking about it,” said Jack.
It was a strange place. Jack, prone to conspiracy theories, thought that the home’s purchase must have been used to launder some money, or been made with drug money. Whatever, the others agreed, it was hardly a home, or homey rental. Still, the price had been good for pretty short notice. Sally Ames, had pulled a string or two for them to get in earlier than planned. It helped that they’d sent in the whole fee already.
Mainly the evening was spent in good conversation. George saw Stephen telling Jack about the student groups he had sent to the shelter, and what their experience had been like. Timothy played a new piece of music he had been working on in the background and Stephen and George applauded, just having brought out the evening tea tray.
The rooms were better than the main room, so when the four retired to their separate rooms, it was a slight relief from the austerity. The wall to wall rugs were warm and a warm breeze blew from radiators on the floor. Each room had at least a full size bed, George and Jack, being the creakiest members of the group got the more firm queen size beds. In the morning everyone reported feeling like it could be a really good day, and it was. From morning prayer in the main (cold) room, to breakfast and the first presentation from Jack about St. John of the Cross, it was a good day.
Frustrations only began after a nice noon meal.

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Eight

It is my job to
come over and
talk, especially in
painful situations

Author's note: As more details of locations and people emerge, let me say that none of these churches, monks, pastors, members of congregations, nor this police branch actually exist in reality.

“Sargeant Keith Chang beginning the interview in room three, Greenlake precinct, on October 17^th, 1988. Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“My name is George Anderson. I am one of the pastors at Green Lake Lutheran Church.”

“Pastor Anderson, what did you see the morning of the fifth of October?”

“When I arrived at the Simpson home—“

“Excuse me, you mean the home of Sheila Simpson, correct?”

“Yes. When I arrived at Sheila Simpson’s home, I walked up the sidewalk and turned into the driveway, like I always do. Immediately, an officer called out to me and asked me what I was doing.”

“For the record, I, Keith Chang was the officer. Go on, please”

“Then you asked me some more questions and I told you that I usually walk this way to Sheila, er, Mrs. Simpson’s home, especially when I come to walk her dogs.

“I then told you and the other officer that it is my job to come over and speak with Mrs. Simpson and other parishioners, when they ask for me. Especially in stressful or painful situations.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I walked through the garden and around the front to the door, went in and spoke with Mrs. Simpson.”

“Were you at the house earlier in the day?”

“I was not. I had been called to visit someone in the hospital and switched dog walking duties with Henry.”

“Henry Isaacson is the name of the man who was killed.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know why anyone would want to hurt Henry?”

“No. I can’t imagine. He was a great member of the congregation. He was involved in community activities, including reading at the library with kids. I can’t think of any area of Henry’s life that was not a wonderful witness.”

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill you?”

“What?! No!... Are you saying that you think that Henry’s death was meant for me?”

“We have been examining all the information and this is one avenue we need to follow up on. So, if you would: Can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt or kill you?”

Some few moments passed.

“I can imagine that it is possible someone from one of my past congregations has a grudge against me, but they are far away and it’s an old thing. Not enough to want to track me down and try to hurt me.”

“What was the source of this grudge?”

“I chose to go one way with a decision and they didn’t like it.”

“What does that mean?”

“There was a vote in the congregation about using the endowment funds in the struggle to stay relevant and meaningful and I campaigned and enlisted the help of long time members to overthrow the ‘old guard’ control. I then led the charge to use the funds to spend on ministry that the congregation had been saying it had wanted to do for twenty years.”

“You think that there are some people who would actually want to hurt you for doing this?”

“You must not have be as active a church-goer as I initially took you for.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Of course they were upset enough to hurt me. It might be slightly astonishing to think that anyone would still be that angry now, but I can come up with a scenario, based on what I know of that congregation’s history that might support a few people I can name for you who would choose to, even plan to be violent to me.”

“Damn. Maybe I am glad I’m Catholic.”

“Yeah. That would explain it.”

“Okay, You’re free to go.”

George finished up the interview and stood. As he did he realized that this was a revealing interview. Not only did the Sergeant learn a lot about church politics and the emotions connected with those, George himself learned how seriously he was involved in the investigation of Henry’s murder. And that little thing about himself being the intended target…

Stephen, Jack and Tim all listened as George recounted the interview around the dinner table. Wednesday night was “open” night. This meant sometimes they agreed to be silent, sometimes the brothers listened to an audio book and tonight, as on a couple dozen Wednesdays a year, they talked.

“How did the police get the idea that you were the real target of the attack again?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly feel it was the time for me to ask questions,” said George.

“What was it that the sergeant said, after you described how you couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Henry? Something about hurting you?”

“Yes… Actually, he asked if I could think of anyone who would want to kill me… I was surprised, obviously, then he clarified that they were looking into all the reasons why this thing happened.”

“But the officer asked again, why anyone would want to kill you. Right?”

Reluctantly, George answered, “Yes…”

“I think the police department is concerned, because they can’t figure out why Henry would have been killed. And you were the one who might have been the intended victim, since you were the one who initially was scheduled to be there that morning.” Jack paused, then asked the three others, “Does that make sense?”

Tim spoke next, “Yes, I’m afraid it does. But what does that mean? Did the police say anything about their investigation going on from there?”

“And who could be so mad and crazy to want to kill you, George? You haven’t done anything like in San Jose here. And I heard from you as well as other places in the synod that the parish in Bellevue was sad about you leaving! Is there anything else you can think of?”

“I can’t imagine. I haven’t done anything except…

“No way, then any of us might be a target.”

“You’re kidding! You guys aren’t thinking that George is a target because of this community!”

“When do we get to go away for a few days, again?” asked Tim.

“In two days,” said Stephen, “two days, until we retreat.”

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Seven

you are
a despicable person
you've no right
to shake my hand

“You are a despicable person! You have no right to come up to me and shake my hand. You have behaved abominably and with malicious intent. I do not recognize your presence.”
“I was standing in an aisle in a big beverage store near the Seattle Center.” The previous speaker was talking to someone else, while she was pushing his shopping cart with a small child in the seat facing her. George realized it was a parishioner of his who was doing the talking. Then he recognized the child, it was a girl George and Travis had baptized a few years back. The person that George knew was not in the habit of speaking that way. Kay always seemed very measured in her interactions. The situation slightly alarmed him, what would cause such an outburst of ill description to pour from her?
Then all of a sudden George was the person standing at the shopping cart. And it was his child sitting staring at him in wonderment at the words and language he had used.
The last thing he remembered before waking was that he had avoided making eye contact and was relieved to see the antagonist leave the building. Then he pushed the cart ahead, talked with his daughter and slowed in front of a display of holiday foods. Then George woke up.
He looked at the clock, the red lights showed 4:23. George couldn’t throw off the feelings of the dream encounter. He had seen the actual store before, had walked by it, but had never gone in. What was that about: a sticky, broken nutshell texture in the heart of the emotions against that man in the store? George felt his stomach tightening, and sweat on his neck turning cold, even as he woke, revulsion and something else.
Returning even more to his room, George’s body creaked and did actually crackle as his feet reached for the floor, He was thankful that the community had agreed good beds would make them better monks - and human beings – at least as far as being able to live together.
George dressed and went down to the chapel, knowing he would not be able to get back to sleep. Since he had a whole hour before his regular schedule, he brought his prayer beads. An old friend, who had joined a monastery in England long after they had met, had rolled the clay into large pea-sized salmon colored balls, pierced and strung them for him, unfired. George spent the next hour inhaling to the words, “Have mercy on me,” and exhaling “Jesus Christ, Son of God,” dropping one bead after another through his increasingly dusty fingers.

“Tim, that is… I’m sorry you feel that way,” Stephen said.
Jack jumped into the fray, “I understood we were here to talk about the death of a friend the other day.”
“I am here to talk about everything that led up to that!” said Stephen, his face turning red and an artery almost looking like you could see it pulse, standing out on his neck.
“What?” Tim and George both asked, while Jack sat up in his chair at the end of the table and opened his mouth and left it hanging there.
“I mean… I want to talk about,” taking a breath to calm himself, said Stephen, “how Henry was always trying to help, and how he was part of our whole community – not this one, but Green Lake Lutheran. Henry was always involved, not like Ted, who’s only gotten involved recently. And Ted is only around to grouse and complain. Henry was one of the people the whole ministry is going to miss.
“There are whole lists of things that no one else knows how to do at the church, groups that met and Henry unlocked the door, meetings that enjoyed coffee that Henry made, things that the janitors didn’t have to worry about because Henry took care of it!”
George imagined the waves the murder was wreaking on the church community. They were spreading out further than he’d first thought.
“Stephen, you are right. There are going to be long term adjustments that will have to be made, just for the church to be able to function… Is there anything else you want to mention?” George asked when Stephen did not seem to be going further.
“No, really. I just wanted to make sure this community, this house, at least was prepared for what this murder really means for us and the people of the congregation. I am a little worried about how the synod is going to view us after this.”
“Mmmm,” said Tim. “Yeah, I didn’t think of that.”
“Yeah, well my status as a rostered person is up before yours unless our community is recognized somehow,” said Stephen.
George, finally began to see where Stephen had been coming from – his concern about ‘falling off the roster-‘ not being recognized any more as a pastor. They hadn’t heard from the bishop in all of this. George wondered if the bishop’s office had heard from anyone.
There was some more discussion about how to handle the situation, the “this” that hung over like a cloud heavy with lightning and rain. Finally, it was Jack who suggested one way to help the brothers be better able to handle things better.
“What if we were to move up our quarterly retreat to two weeks from now?”
“Whoah!”
“What? How can we do that?”
“Before you immediately discount that option, look at your schedules. We’re going up to the Horse Ranch on Highway 2, so it’s a matter of finding out if the big house is being used during the week in the pre-ski season. It might be open and Sally Ames, the manager has been really helpful in making things welcoming for us. She might be able to get back with the information about if it’s even possible within a day. We could ask and find out if the site is open, while we check our schedules.”
“This must be something that comes in handy with the shelter, Jack” said Tim.
“Flexibility?” Jack asked.
“That, and coming up with out of the box options,” Tim was the first one to smile out of the whole discussion.
“I am not sure if it’s going to be possible for all, never mind. I’ll check.”
“What were you going to say, George?” asked Stephen.
“I was thinking in terms of the congregation. I forgot for a moment that I was free to take time off where and when wanted to,” he said.
“Okay, then, I’ll find out and we’ll check our schedules,” said Jack.
“Thank you, Jack. Would you be prepared to lead a program on the first day, with some of the material you were going to present tonight?”
“Sure, I’ll look forward to it.”
“Then we will have something to look forward to working on, not just separate meditations, or our own perniciousness to occupy ourselves,” said George.
“Good. Yes,” agreed Tim and Stephen.

“George, how are you doing?”
“Good, Estella.”
“Have you been using the things we talked about since last time?”
“Yes, but it’s been hard.”
“What about the exercises have been difficult?”
“No, it’s in the rest of my life.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you’ve perhaps heard about the woman in whose garage a man was killed the other week?”
“Yes.”
“He was a parishioner of mine, and she is a close friend – the benefactor of my community, actually.”
“Oh. I can see how that would disturb your prayers. So what did you do about it?”
“About the disturbance you mean? “
“Yes.”
“Well… I guess I chose to focus on the activities I felt I needed to get through in order to make it to today.”
“And how did that work for you?”
“It was less than what I hope for regularly.But I was able to include some of my dreams in the meditations.”
“So you did pray, and you did some of what we talked about?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s focus on that today.”
“Okay. I especially enjoyed the time I spent on the Jesus Prayer with the meditations on the images of the Divine…”

After the spiritually renewing and relaxing meeting with Sr. Estella about his life in prayer, when George got home, he was utterly unprepared for the phone call.
“Hello, Community House, how can I direct your call?”
“Hello, is this the pastor who walks the dogs?” Not even waiting for complete confirmation of the right person, she plowed onward, “I was at the store this morning, and I heard a man talking about how he was terribly upset with how you were handling the situation in the parish – about the murder. You know I was the one who called about the red truck that other week…” There was a slight pause.
“Anyway, the man was saying how he was going to make it his business to get you and your community out of the parish. He said he was angry about your whole involvement in the life of the congregation and he-“
George interrupted, “Excuse me. Excuse me! I need to ask you if there is something you want to tell me. I cannot keep listening to your side of the story. I lay myself open to all kinds of things, including accusations of gossiping! I will not be party to that, or any other destructive group behavior.”
“I… I just want to say watch out at the retreat.” Then she hung up.
“How could she even know that the dates of the retreat had been changed? Wait, she didn’t say that. She said watch out at the retreat. She didn’t necessarily know anything about any change in dates, or the location of the event, just that such a thing was happening,” George mused to himself. “Still, it was weird. People who got the parish newsletter already knew about he retreat. They just didn’t know it would be happening earlier than announced – even more reason not to worry about it, since it was now an unexpected event.

next week: more dreams and a meeting

Week Off

...band names
religion, Godd, children
unchurch, recipes, mandolin,
reading and travelstapled and taped

Actually not a week off, but Home work and slight injury preclude more time on the boys' home this week. Blessings on yours.
PH

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Six

Fear of something
similar images
of the scene
imaginations of things unseen

Saturday George woke early, went to the chapel to pray, and by the time the morning meeting was done, his mind was already focused on the details of the sermon he had yet to finish.

Back at the Green Café, George sat down to ‘complete’ the sermon. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his time of prayer earlier, centering himself. He imagined the familiar sensations of kneeling before the altar table in his room. A plain burning candle in a glass votive revealed a woodpecker feather, a large black Mexican beach stone, and a small modern icon detail of the Transfiguration. George recalled the fondness he had for the scene. A central figure stood, clad in white, with extra large hands and body, feet just peeking from behind folds in the heavily draped robe. Jesus was surrounded by a purple oval with white piercing light shooting out from his figure. Beyond that mandorla, to his right and left, floating above the ground stood Moses and Elijah, both haloed only around their heads in gold leaf.
As George recalled these things, his breathing slowed, he felt less anxious about any one thing, and when he reflected on it later, he noticed he felt better about himself and the world. For now it was enough to focus on the texts and stories for this week.
About an hour later George felt about as good as he ever did about a sermon. It was “done.” There were always last minute changes directed to the specific audience and that morning’s news. But considering the events of the past week, this was quite a feat. For George, this too was evidence that there had to be something, someone, bigger than the human world, some view knowing which was broader than humanity’s. The sermon included some of his first feelings about the murder. George knew he had a lot of meditating to do on that before all the can of worms it spilled was caught. Fear of something similar, images of the scene, imaginations of things unseen. The sermon just touched the squiggling worms lightly, recognizing their presence among the people affected, nothing more.
The rest of the day was filled with mundane preparations and cleaning. George set the dinner table. Tim practiced guitar after putting the community’s evening meal in the oven. Jack returned from the shelter in time to join Stephen and the other two back in the chapel for a brief Service of Light, remembering that the new day begins with the sunset of the night before.
“George, we talked about me having a chance to speak about the shelter again this fall. Can we do that soon?” Jack asked.
“Sure, Jack,” answered George. “Do you want to have anyone else from the Shelter Board, or do you want to preach, or?”
“You know, I love to preach, but I get to do that on all my parish visits. I was thinking about just a coffee hour and education time event. Maybe in the Spring I could ask to preach again.”
“Sure, let’s set up the dates,” said George.

Travis moved over to his chair again. His drink spilled a little as he allowed his fatigue to overtake his dexterity. Travis looked at the glass, and through it, out the window, holding it up. He and Barbara had a nice view from this window. In the winter, they could see both mountain ranges, though the leaves interrupted the view the rest of the year.
Barbara was out at the office still. She had twenty-some years experience, and twenty-some years to go before she could retire. Barbara and he had discussed how she could advance in her specialty, which was small business accounting and management. Yet, in a city like Seattle, there were many younger and better trained women who were keen to advance quickly. Travis assured his spouse that there were none prettier, however.
Travis, on the other hand, saw few opportunities for advancement. He had served long in the churches he had been called to and had not advanced to the position of “Senior Pastor.” He always played second fiddle to men who were not always older than him. He was fed up. He kept that under wraps, but the feeling had gone beyond rubbing him like a constantly changing piece of sandpaper in his grip. Now it was pretty intolerable. Something was going to happen.
Focusing on his glass again, Travis tried to relax. He realized his grip on the crystalline tumbler was cramping his 43 year old hand. He wanted to be Senior Pastor at Green Lake Lutheran Church or somewhere, by his forty-fifth birthday, to finish his service in a comfortable position as either Senior Pastor at a bigger church, or as a “preaching pastor” at some even larger congregation. Travis imagined himself in that position. His friend John from seminary was already in such a position, down south. John occasionally even taught at the seminary from which they graduated. Travis heard about this from newsletters and communications from the school. Sure there was a little more than a bit of green in his eyes when he looked at his friend’s status and roles.

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Five

...were
watching the
pastor come
and gowith the dog

George was at home later that day and answered the phone.
“Hello, Community House, George speaking.”
“I want to talk with someone about what I saw the other morning at the Simpson House.”
George was caught off guard, a little confused. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“I want to speak to the pastor who usually walks the dog on Tuesdays, the day of the murder.”
George felt a chill on his neck.
“Why do you want to speak with him?” The little community was pretty good, not only at keeping pastoral confidences, but also with insulating one another from all kinds of marketing and other time occupying interruptions. Speaking in the third person was almost a habit.
“I… I saw the same car parked in the neighborhood each Tuesday for three weeks. It looked like they were watching the pastor come and go with the dog – then the other man came and that is the day that man was killed,” said the woman.
“Can I ask who you are?”
“I can’t tell you that. I can’t –“ Abruptly the line cut off.
George didn’t see a phone number listed in the caller ID. He couldn’t call back.

George hung his feet over the side of the bed until they pressed firmly to the carpeted floor. He squeezed his eyes and then his toes. What had woken him from such a heavy sleep? The alarm would go off in ten minutes anyway, so George dressed in his chapel clothes and made his way down to the basement area the brothers had set aside for prayers and worship.
This ‘morning’ chapel was one of the ways of living which the little community found gave them the greatest sense of having a monastic life. It wasn’t the fact that the time together in prayer was at 5:30 am. It was the actual waking up alone, to immediately join with several other people who also were dedicated to this joint opening their eyes to the Divine.

George took his seat in the cool dark room ringed with chairs. He felt rather than saw that Jack was already sitting quietly in his favorite place. Minutes passed, in silence and slow breathing of the Divine Name, until there came the rustle of clothing of the other two members of the household. One took up his favorite position.
It was Timothy’s turn to turn on the lights and prepare the space. Before entering the room, he pressed the dimmer, raised the level of light, and moved to the tall table in the center of the room, where he lit the big white candle standing at its center.
An amazing amount of light is thrown off by a little candle flame, especially if you’re used to the dark.
Then Tim went back to the doorway in the dancing shadows, and reached outside to flick the switch on the ring of halogen lights reflecting off the walls to warmly illumine the room.
George saw his fellows gather themselves and their prayer books up, resting the small 3 ring binders on their laps. Their eyes adjusting, Jack picked up the singing bowl and struck it three times, stretching out the last tone for a long moment. Then George began the day’s words with: “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God…”
They finished morning chapel, grabbed some coffee and were sitting down to the daily meeting. George needed to report on the meeting with the bishop and what happened with Sheila Simpson and the police. Jack was due to talk about some financial things and Stephen the possibility of allowing guests to come stay overnight at the house. Tim was the notetaker for the week’s meetings.
It was probably only a romantic notion which they had, that the community living a monastic life would actually still be around for someone to want in their archives.
George thought, “At least that’s how I’m feeling today.” ‘It could happen,’ a group of men living together in a monastic house could spark a new thing in a tradition which was in part made popular by releasing people from monastic vows which they had made when they were too young, too naïve, or just felt there was no other option. ‘It could happen,’ but George was doubtful today.
It was decided that; the community’s finances were fine, they would keep exploring what it would mean to allow guests to spend the night in the second floor rooms, and the bishop was being tentative and politically correct about recognizing the community. While the last item was disappointing and might result in the loss of official status for Timothy and Stephen, the brothers did not imagine that finally they would have to choose whether or not to be recognized as clergy.

George and Timothy shared a cup of tea, looking out over Green Lake, from Simpson House. The deck out back had been put in by the congregation a few years ago, but it stood the test of seasons very well. Timothy looked over to the side of the deck, where Stephen’s herbs looked a little droopy and got up to water them with a can still partly filled. George dipped a spoon and wrapped the tea bag around it, squeezing out the last tasty drops of peppermint.

As Tim sat down again, he said, “How is Travis doing?”
“What? I think he’s doing pretty well. What makes you ask?” said George.
“I dunno. I thought he looked a little down, or tired on Sunday,” offered Tim.
“Hmm. I guess I didn’t see that,” said George. “He has been working a lot on the Mexico Mission trip and trying to get fundraising for it. Pulling the strings all together for that bunch of balloons to go all in one direction is a pretty big deal.”
“Yes,” then after a brief pause, Tim asked, “How about you? How are you doing?”
“I’m alright. I feel a little in a haze after Henry’s death. A murder that close is a scary thing. How are you doing about it?
“You know, I have been pretty focused too, with the things going at the Udub, trying to pull the balloons together, as you said, for the annual ecumenical commission meetings in a month. The student groups have been working really hard, but they’re students, so I’ve been trying to tie down loose ends, speakers, accommodations, rooms, you know… I guess I haven’t really had time to process the thing with Henry,” said Tim.
“Maybe that’s something we ought to do as a community. It would be really helpful for me in my role as Senior Pastor at GLL. I don’t want it to be something that is looping around with energy we could be focusing elsewhere, more usefully,” said George.
“Right. How about this Tuesday, at the big chapter meeting?” suggested Tim.
“That’s a good idea. We’ll ask Jack if he would reschedule his presentation on John of the Cross. Would you ask him about that? Maybe even suggest that he might still lead the opening and closing meditations? I won’t be home until late tonight, after he will have gone to bed. There’s an education committee meeting and then a worship and music team session.”
“Okay. I can do that.”

A gust of wind blew into the kitchen where Tim was making dinner. He realized that the front door must be open and then heard it close. It would be Jack getting home. Tim ducked through the hall to the entry and found Jack taking off his trench coat, which was dribbling rain. The spattering of rain had picked up a little in the last few minutes, slashing the clear glass on either side of the door with droplets. Weather does change in a snap in Western Washington.

Jack said, “Sure, that’s not a problem, it will work out for me too. I have to get some things done by Friday for the Shelter Board and it will give me a little more leeway.”
“Thanks, Jack” said Tim. “How are you doing with the murder at Sheila’s place? I know you have been friends with her even longer than George, since you have been here longer.”
“Honestly, Tim, I am having a hard time. I knew Henry pretty well too. He was a good guy when, I mean he was always a good guy, but he helped me out when I was looking for support for the shelter. He had never been involved in that kind of ministry before, and for about five years he really beat the drum for me, getting money and just ‘awareness’ of homelessness out there. That was a long time ago, but we’ve always had a special friendship. I am really angry and sad. The meeting on Tuesday will be good for me.”
The two men hugged one another’s shoulders, standing next each other in the entry of the house.

The coroners report read something like, gruesome death by asphyxiation after the trachea was punctured, cut in half, by a fairly sharp object. By the aluminium shavings and dirt recovered from the neck wound, the object might have been a garden instrument. A big sharp object. The report described the blow as being quite powerful, and coming from an angle that suggested someone of stature, who was right handed. The police would wonder for some time what could be the instrument of this murder.
Weeks later they would find an old aluminum shovel, used to scrape up leaves and dirt on pavement. The leading edge had been sharpened by years of use on smooth sidewalks around the church’s physical plant. They found it in a storage shed in the back corner of the church lot. It was a shed that was locked almost all the time, but could not be proven to be locked most of the time. Anyone could have taken the shovel, used it horribly, and put it back. It was clean when the police found it. “Clean” of blood residue anyway.


next week: finish the message?

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