Chapter Five:

California Gulls

Wednesday

 

 

Sunday Morning Hangover. Depression at Its Finest

Provo, UT

 

Rebecca woke up on Wednesday, made some coffee, read a couple chapters from her Bible, then read the paper. She decided to get dressed and put some makeup on so she could feel like a real person. Rebecca paused for a second in the bathroom, forgetting and then remembering the strange and terrifying dream she had the night before. She brushed her hand through her hair to make sure it was all there.

Oh good! All there! She popped one of the pills she’d been prescribed the past year by her doctor, Lexapro, and then flossed.

She turned her computer on in the kitchen to check her email, responded to a few, and then opened her calendar. Wednesday she had marked for Becca and Lee’s arrival, which she had nearly forgot. It would be good to see them. She should go to the grocery store today after work, she thought. Get some steaks and something else nice to cook.

On her way to work Rebecca drove past several multilevel marketing companies en route to the church. Utah County was the home to several of these MLMs. Large essential oil companies and various beverage makers with strange names. Rebecca thought how interesting and strange it was that the state of Utah itself contained more multilevel marking companies than any other state. Prime opportunity for some side hustle business for moms (Rebecca herself was a member of Young Living essential oils, based right here in Lehi, Utah).

Rebecca had a meeting with the elders every Wednesday morning. They met early, at 7:00, before the majority of them—all older, all men, all white—went out to work their day jobs or back home. Greg was a retired doctor, Jim a former missionary, Dale a lawyer, and Adam was a businessman who use to work for GM. Rebecca was now attending the meetings after Phelix’s death, though she never used to. It was a small church, and yet even so, Rebecca felt like these meetings never went anywhere. She got along with the four elders for the most part, but after the meeting the elders would have to run the bullet points of their meeting past the other administrative arm, the deacons, who decided where to sign off financially, and where not to. Rebecca then had to balance any of her ideas with the larger denomination who set issues of doctrine, leadership, and general missiology. Was this what Jesus had in mind? She believed in church, the structure of it, even the accountability it was supposed to create, but she often fantasized about belonging to a church that had no structure or bureaucratic hoops to jump through.

She was proud to be a Presbyterian. She liked the tradition, the history of it. The Evangelical churches, after all, were nearly anarchic in their lack of structure and accountability, and still as dogmatic. Perhaps she simply longed to be a part of a church that had the distinction about what was “business” related versus “theology” related—the two overlapped so much that it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Most churches nowadays resembled late-capitalist society. Consumeristic. Nationalistic. What Rebecca wanted more than anything was an acknowledgment of these discrepancies, of the messiness or grey areas inherent to trying to live out scripture in modern life.

Rebecca pulled into the parking lot, running a few minutes late. She got out of the car, grabbed her thermos of coffee and her black laptop bag, and crunched her way across the grey gravel parking lot. She was wearing an impeccable grey blazer and had spent a good amount of time on her makeup. She felt on today. Smart, confident.

Phelix and she had both moved out to Utah to help start a church nearly twenty-five years ago. Rebecca had grown up as a member of a large communal group of Christians who tended to be very charismatic, a bit hippie-ish, and all about community. Perhaps if she hadn’t grown up in the culture during the seventies and eighties with her parents, she might have looked at the whole organization differently. But while there were many good aspects of it, the community also leaned toward the controlling and the cultish. Rebecca was shocked to find, years later, how the central headquarters had even covered up and perpetuated abuse in a community of their organization. Her parents were Christian hippie ex-pats who had moved out of San Francisco once the drug boom died down and they’d converted. Suffice it to say, Rebecca needed no excuse to move to a state as far away and as foreign as Utah. She would’ve gone pretty much anywhere. Now that both her parents were dead, she missed them. Phelix, in some ways, had a simpler upbringing. He’d grown up Catholic in Mexico and converted to Protestantism with ease once his family had moved to Los Angeles. As far as she knew, Phelix’s family all got along well. They would even check in on her since Phelix’s death, a voicemail or two a week from his large extended family. She never called them back. What could she say? Even the word “thanks” took a lot of energy. There was Emily, Becca’s new mother-in-law, but for some reason the two of them had never managed to hang out very often.

She opened the front door and walked down the stairs into the basement. The hallways smelled of must and insulation. Unless coffee was brewing in the kitchen, the basement hallways were not a place you wanted to linger for long. It was not the hallways’ fault. The entire building was old and in need of renovation, but a remodeling project was way out of the church’s budget. Occasionally they would replace the carpet or paint the hallways, but these changes were cosmetic in nature, a distraction to keep complaining parishioners happy and giving to the church.

“Morning,” Rebecca said, as she entered.

The elders were already there, chatting quietly around the large boardroom table. She motioned to them with her coffee cup and opened up the beige door across from the board room to set her things down in her office. She set her bag down, grabbed her day planner—old-school but impossible for Rebecca to part with—a pencil, and took a seat at the far end of the table.

“Where are we starting?” she asked, occupying the head of the table. The room smelled of aftershave and ego.

“I want to talk about this app Dale mentioned,” said Adam. As always, Adam was sharply dressed in a black business suit even though he was retired. “How much does it cost?”

“It’ll be a few hundred dollars,” said Dale. But at the conference I was just at, they said it increases church giving up to twenty-five percent, especially with the younger generation. And we can send out email blasts and push notifications through it.”

“Send what?” said Greg. Greg was the oldest at close to 80—blue, button-down shirt, white sneakers, freshly moussed hair, smelled like original Old Spice.

“They’re text alerts that we’d send to anyone with the app. It could be announcements or podcasts or links to give online.”

“Do we really need all of that?” asked Greg.

“I think it could be good,” said Dale.

“Rebecca, what do you think?” asked Greg.

“I agree with you. I don’t know if we need it, but I don’t know. I can’t keep up with all of this technology. What’s for sure is that we do need some younger folks to attend the congregation.”

“I assume there will be a processing fee?” asked Adam.

“Yes, but it’s small,” said Dale. “I think we should give it a shot.”

“Well,” said Rebecca, hesitantly, still waking up, “let’s vote.”

The vote was four to one yes, Greg the only defector.

They discussed some other items—finances, the worship music, the upcoming Christmas service they’d do, possibly Thanksgiving baskets—until Rebecca, bored and frustrated and excited to get to her new idea, jumped in.

“Okay! As we’re wrapping up, I’d like to present something I’ve been thinking about for some time.” The men turned to her in surprise. She continued. “I think we should convert a corner of the fellowship hall into a food bank of sorts. It wouldn’t be much construction. Besides, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed, we have more and more homeless people wandering around town, single mothers who could probably use it, disabled vets, opioid addicts. . . . I spent last night sketching out plans.”

“Doesn’t the Catholic Church down the street already have a food bank?” asked Greg.

“Well, yes, but I’m sure there’s room for more,” responded Becca. Besides, if this Supervolcano explodes, we’ll have to help others in need.”

“If the Supervolcano explodes, we’re all goners,” said Jim.

“Oh, God wouldn’t let that happen,” said Greg. “And if it does happen, well, we’ll have to trust that it’s part of His plan. At least I know where I’m going.”

“Who’s going to run this food bank” asked Adam, clearly not interested in talking about such myths.

“I will, or Stephanie.”

“I don’t think the problem is food; for many of these people it’s mental illness and drugs,” said Jim.

“Well, maybe with this we can start ministering to those people and help them get counseling or other services,” said Rebecca.

“I’m in favor,” said Adam.

“I don’t know,” Jim said. “As a church, our goal first and foremost should be salvation. What good does it do if we feed someone but neglect their very soul?”

“Oh, come on, Jim,” said Dale, annoyed, looking ready to leave the meeting. “You know we’re called to do both. I think it’s a good idea. We have to care about both the physical and the spiritual side of things.”

“I say we run it by the deacons,” said Greg. “Right now, I think it’s more important for us to make sure we don’t go into the red. We’re already pushing it as it is.”

“Yes, that is a good point,” said Adam.

“I agree,” said Jim. “It’s a good idea, Rebecca, but I think we need to be safe.”

“So, I’d say no for now.”

“Yes, no . . . for now.”

Rebecca was shocked at how swiftly and suddenly her exciting idea was shot down, as if a house she had spent years building went up with the flick of a match. What kind of a church couldn’t fit feeding the poor into their budget?

“Rebecca?”

“Is that okay, Rebecca?”

“Rebecca?”

Rebecca knew should reply, nod in agreement, make eye contact, something. Agree nicely and not make a big deal of it. But all she could do was stare blankly.

“Yeah, well . . . whatever you think is best.”

The men looked at each other awkwardly. Silence ensued.

“While we’re here now, well, there’s one other thing,” said Adam adjusting the tie around his neck.

“Adam, I don’t know if this is the best time,” said Greg.

“Yeah, I need to get to work,” said Dale.

Adam continued anyway. “It’s, um, well, awkward to address, but it’s about you, Rebecca.”

Rebecca snapped to attention. Adam did not meet her eyes, which was unusual for him, Adam, the businessman.

“Me?” said Rebecca, her eyes narrowing, her lips thinning, her stare suddenly cold and austere.

“Yes.”

Adam looked around the room at the other three men, as if for backup or encouragement. But they were either staring at the floor or else their eyes focused on some unknown object in the room.

“Well, we appreciate all you do on Sunday mornings, the sermons, the care you show to other people, and for you being here for these meetings, for your feedback . . .”

“Feedback?” asked Rebecca, in a tone that was louder than she expected or wished to convey.

“Yes, I mean, not feedback, but your participation and leadership in these meetings . . . it’s just that, well, technically . . . you’re not an elder.”

“You’ve never been confirmed,” said Greg, jumping in. His voice, too, was louder than he wished. “We know you and Phelix co-led Sunday mornings, but technically he was the only one who was an elder.”

“So, what are you saying?” asked Rebecca, her voice a rasp, soft as she could make it, though inside she felt only fire. “I know I’m not an elder, but you asked me to be here for these meetings, and now you’re saying that I’m not allowed to participate anymore?”

“Well, not necessarily, it’s just, well,” said Dale, “we want your participation–”

“And we still want you to lead Sunday mornings,” chimed in Adam.

“But, as I’m sure you’re aware,” here was Greg now, older, a veteran, unafraid to say what the three other middle-aged men could not say, or were too nervous to, prancing around the subject, perhaps out of their own embarrassment or sense of complicity in the specific case, “our denomination, the Presbyterian Church of America, PCA, does not ordain women elders.”

There it was. Rebecca was glad they had finally come out with it. She had, of course, thought about this fact, but saw no reason why she could not also pastor and be involved with the weekly meetings.

“So, you do want me gone?”

“No, no, that’s not what we’re saying,” said Dale, who seemed the most apologetic. “We just want to clear this up in case you were unsure and alert you to the fact that we may also be looking for another pastor to help co-lead on Sunday mornings.”

Silence.

“A man?”

“Yes,” said all three men.

“Well of course, I know about the denomination thing,” Rebecca said. “I do have a Master of Divinity, after all. But you guys were the ones who originally invited me to sit in on these meeting to participate after, well, Phelix . . .” She stopped herself.

“You’re still invited to participate,” Adam said, with an apologetic smile. “We really don’t want you to leave.”

“Is this about something else?” Rebecca asked. “Am I overstepping in some way or dropping the ball in some fashion? I know I haven’t been perfect–”

“No! Nothing like that,” said Dale. “We just needed to clear it up, for, well–” Adam jumped in here.

“Administrative purposes.”

“Yes.”

“You know,” said Greg, “if you’re looking for something else to do, alongside this new pastor, we could use some help with the children’s ministry.”

Rebecca stared at them. Her eyes on fire. She was fine with it all. Up until this last statement. It threw her over the edge.

“Is that all for today?” she asked briskly.

“Yes,” said Adam.

“Fine. Meeting adjourned then.”

Rebecca walked back across the hall, softly shut the door to her office, and put her head down on her desk. And so, for “denominational” and “administrative” reasons. For a certain “interpretation” and “truth” of scripture, Rebecca was not allowed to be an elder, not allowed to be an “official” leader, purely because of her gender. Though she still preached the sermons, organized Sunday mornings, and pastored the flock. The arrogance of men was now, more than ever, astounding to her.

But it felt good, now that everything was out in the open. Sometimes you needed the dark to be exposed to the light. Sometimes you needed the tremors beneath the surface to finally crack the earth. Every resurrection first needs a death, maybe even crucifixion. Sometimes you needed to fall apart in order to be put back together. This was the personal lesson she’d been learning over the last year after Phelix’s death. Sometimes it was healthy for things to explode and your life to crumble.

In the afternoon, after lunch and a quick walk around the block, Rebecca fell asleep watching TV. She daydreamed while she slept on the couch, the warm sun heating her through a diamond-shaped skylight, about the time she and Phelix had stayed up at a lodge in Deer Valley. A surprise weekend getaway. They had driven up Parley’s Canyon. Stopped for ice cream in Park City, then up around the roundabout past the lodges and a small marsh and tiny lake. They checked in with the concierge before going up into their room. The room was almost as big as their house—two giant bedrooms, a kitchen, three bathrooms—with tall, clear windows that looked east up onto the hills, where brown spring snow melted next to patches of dirt underneath the chair lifts. It was one of her favorite memories of the two of them. They did everything you saw people in the movies do. They ate a fancy steak dinner—well, she had had the burger with farm ranch beef and white cheddar, Phelix got the steak—and they ordered a bottle of Argentinian Malbec. They went to a spa and sat around their giant rooms in their giant bathrobes watching TV and making love. In the morning they made coffee and then went on a hike, and she remembered feeling how it was so nice just to be away. Even though they were only an hour away from home, it felt like hundreds of miles. Like somewhere most people had to fly to to experience, but that was Utah.

When Rebecca woke up from this nap, she felt paralyzed. What time was it? She checked her phone: 3:00! Dang it! She wanted to get up, but she had no desire to. She wanted to get up, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t, so she lay there, staring. She wished she could have a cigarette.

Thirty years later and she still missed smoking. She used to have one in the morning with a cup of coffee on the way to class in college, one for a mid-morning break before lunch, one after lunch, and one after finishing up the day on the way home from class. Several while drinking. This desire had returned once Phelix had died, which made sense because she had quit smoking after becoming a Christian and meeting Phelix. Rebecca was very tempted to get in her car and drive to the nearest Maverick and yet, she knew if she picked it back up now, her life as a nonsmoker would practically mirror her life as a single woman. She felt as if she returned to smoking it would be accepting her singleness, which now went by a different name—for she was now, of course, a widow.