31

 

I was glad to ride. To let my bike take me far, far away from the issues at home, at church, and in my head and heart. I felt as if my cares sat in prickly baskets on my shoulders. Breathing took effort, and not because the humid August air was stifling. Stress sat on my chest like a weighty chartreuse elephant. I needed the wind and miles to blow the burdens away and transport me to a place of tranquil, crystal-clear thinking.

I rolled Heaven’s throttle for a while before I took off out of the driveway. “Rock and roll, girl. We’re going for a long ride, just you and me. I hope you’re up for it.”

I didn’t know where I was headed. It didn’t matter. I needed to go away, leave Eel Falls and see something new. It could be anywhere as long as it wasn’t here.

Before long, I was completely immersed in the sheer joy of my bike feasting on mile after glorious mile of wide open road. The deep, guttural roar of the engine and assault of wind on my face gradually wore away the issues weighing me down. I relaxed under the soothing force of the bike’s speed and its thick, throaty song. It calmed me to hear the syncopated pops and rest in its bold, rich song. It was the ultimate escape. Like climbing into an overstuffed, comfortable chair. I allowed the organic sensation of the motor’s revelry to lull me into whole-hog heavenly rest. It was an ironic peace—a cacophony of machine, road, and human spirit—harmonious and suspended in time. It shouldn’t have felt peaceful with all the noise, but it was utterly tranquil.

The day cooled off, and I enjoyed the wind on my skin. My eyes watered a little, but I wasn’t sure if it was from tears or wisps of air slipping underneath my sunglasses. I could feel a small unintended smile on my face. If only I could always feel this serene. If only people could know how really good this felt. They’d want to ride, too, and never stop. No wonder Goliath liked sticking his head out the window when he rode in the van.

After fifty miles or so, I came to a little town called Pinkerton. I slowed my bike to twenty miles per hour and rode slowly past a rickety old church building on a main street. Its stained glass window glowed in the dusk, and its front doors were opened wide. Light from the sanctuary spilled out onto the tree-lined street. From my bike, I could see inside where ceiling fans rotated in rhythmic circles, cooling congregants in the sticky late summer’s heat. As I passed by, teenagers turned in their pews to look at me.

I felt a small pang of guilt realizing I’d skipped church tonight. How many years had it been since I hadn’t been in a house of worship on a Sunday night? I couldn’t remember. Going to church was as much a part of me as the freckles on my face.

But I needed to be as far away from church folks as I could get right now. I required a clear head. I needed to sort out what was me, and what part of me was only someone constantly trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations. And yet, something about that little church drew me. I almost wanted to stop and slip inside, but I didn’t. I knew I needed to get away just as Jesus did from the multitude to get a fresh perspective and refresh my mind.

A block away across the street was a hot dog vendor. I was surprised to feel hungry. I hadn’t been able to eat since picking up Patrick from jail. The street was virtually empty. A young couple completely lost in one another snuggled on a park bench in front of the post office next to the church. I parked my bike a few yards past them and walked across the street to the vendor to get a chili dog.

I sat on the curb and took a bite. I couldn’t taste it. I was too numb. Too many questions rolled around in my mind like a three-wheeled Harley on a bumpy country road. Was I really a Christian or just faking it? Would I go to church if my husband wasn’t the pastor? What if I was just a hypocrite and didn’t really like church people? What if people didn’t like me?

I hated myself for caring what anyone thought of me as a parent. I didn’t want to care that people pointed at me and judged me for having a son who experimented with alcohol and landed himself in jail. I didn’t want to see the criticism in people’s eyes when they saw Patrick’s tattoo and then looked at me.

But how could I not care when it meant not only our family’s reputation but our very livelihood? There would be a board meeting after this incident. I hated the thought of all those accusing eyes measured at my husband. His heart was completely dedicated to each of the people who sat at that meeting table. His phone was always at his side, ready to pick up whenever any of them needed him. And yet, they could be so harsh.

“Why is it OK for them to pick on us, Lord, when we can’t say a word about them? It’s not fair.”

My death for your sins was not fair.

I wiped away some tears and nodded at the sky. He was right. He was always right.

I threw the remains of my hot dog in the garbage bin. Music streamed out of the church into the night air. It gave me a warm comfort the way all church music does. I knew that I was as much at home in a church as I was in my own skin. I had been dedicated to Jesus as an infant, grown up in Sunday school, been a youth group leader, a member of the choir, and had met my husband at a church. Our destinies were as clear as an Alaskan stream. We would serve the Lord with our lives as pastor and wife. It was all I’d ever dreamed of doing. Nothing else had even seemed possible.

People poured out of the little church. I watched as they shook hands with their pastor and hugged one another. There weren’t many of them, maybe fifteen or twenty, but they were going about the same Sunday evening ritual they had performed for generations.

Some of the church folks avoided me. I was a new curiosity in this little town and probably looked a little menacing in my biker gear. But most of the kids came over and talked to me about Heaven. The girls were especially excited to see a pink Harley.

“That a Harley?” A young man tried to sound cool.

“Yup.” I smiled. “Her name is Heaven.”

“Cool.” The girl with him eyed my freedom with envy.

We talked for a while about the paint and some of the chrome and even about going to heaven, but it was getting dark, and I didn’t like riding in the dark.

“Time for me to go. Lots of squishables like to come out and play in the road this time of night. Was nice meeting you. Stay in church.” I pointed to the young people and pulled on my helmet. I hoped I looked cool doing it. They laughed and waved as I took off, and I knew I had a crowd watching me as I drove away. I might not have looked cool, but I felt awesome.

If I was so perplexed about my own faith—why had I told that young man to stay in church? I smiled, realizing I told him because I knew where my hope came from. Not from church, but from Whom I worshipped when I was there.

On my way home, I decided to swing by Lily’s and Milo’s place. They lived about twenty miles back in the country on my way toward Eel Falls. I loved their house set way off a country road. There was a pond in front of the three-story brick Italianate house and a yard full of chickens, ducks, and geese. In the side pen were some goats and sheep, and I could smell the cow pies from the back lot.

“When did you get a llama?” I asked Lily as she greeted me at the door.

“It’s not a llama, it’s an alpaca. I got him a couple of weeks ago. Gonna give it a try. I got two more comin’ tomorrow.” Lily motioned me inside the front door and onto her screened-in porch.

“What are they for?” I took off my gloves and jacket and set them on the porch swing.

“Wool. They make great sweaters.”

We stepped inside the living room where Milo sat staring at the blank TV screen.

“Who’s that?” he snapped at Lily when he saw me.

“Milo, you remember Kirstie, Pastor Aaron’s wife.”

“Is that Jennifer?” Jennifer was Lily and Milo’s daughter. She’d been killed in a school bus accident riding home from a basketball game during the winter.

“Jennifer? Did you shut the door to the barn and make sure the light is still on for the chicks?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I said, looking at Lily and shrugging. “Everything’s fine. How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?” He dropped his head into his hand and rubbed his forehead. “It’s past your bedtime. What you doing up? Get to bed.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Lily and I tiptoed past him through the dining room and into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry about that, Kirstie.” Lily set about making tea.

“Don’t be silly, Lily. There’s nothing to be sorry about. He can’t help it.”

“Some days he’s fine and others…well, others are like this.” She sighed with such sad eyes I wanted to run away. “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea sounds wonderful,” I said.

We sat at Lily’s table and shared our troubles. Mine seemed small compared to hers, and hers seemed small compared to mine. It was good to have a friend to pray with. Especially since my mother was no longer around. I needed the wisdom of an older woman like Lily to keep me sane.

“Try not to let the little stuff get to you, Kirstie. Remember, it’s the little foxes that ruin the vine.” Lily went to the counter and opened her cookie jar.

I smiled. “Song of Solomon, chapter two.”

“Keep the main thing the main thing, and you’ll do fine.” Lily arranged a variety of cookies on a pretty antique plate.

“I just wish Bernice would stop being such a busybody. I’m having a hard time loving her. Sometimes the things she says and does seem unforgiveable.” I took a sip of tea and stared out the kitchen window.

“Just remember something. When people go around telling other people’s secrets, it means they have some secrets of their own.” Lily set the cookies on the table and sat down across from me again at the kitchen table.

“What do you mean?”

“Bernice and Norman have family secrets from way back. I think that’s why Bernice works so hard to spread malicious gossip. If everyone is gossiping about everyone else, then they’re too busy to gossip about her.”

“How do you know this?” I reached for a cookie.

“I grew up here, too, remember? Our families go back several generations. Her ancestors settled here about the same time as mine. I know things. I’m not going to share them, but I know things from tales I remember hearing as a child from my great-grandmother.” Lily took a bite out of a snicker doodle she had dipped into her tea.

I nodded. That made sense. “My grandmother always said hurting people hurt people.” I took my last bite of cookie and downed my tea.

After a few more minutes of girl talk, Lily walked me to the door, and we said our good-byes. I hated riding in the dark, but spending this time with Lily was worth the risk.

As I pulled out of her driveway, a little fox peeked at me from behind the goldenrod by the side of the road.

“Little foxes,” I whispered to myself. “Those crazy little foxes.”