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THERE WAS A REASON she hadn’t wanted to let anyone here know about the miscarriage. Greg would never understand. He thought that the more you talked about your loss, the faster you could move on.
That’s not the way Katrina’s heart or brain were wired. She was introspective, like the Virgin Mary who didn’t go off blabbing to every single shepherd or wise man or prophet but treasured up all these things and stored them in her heart.
Katrina was intensely private and had been for her entire life. It made sense after growing up with a mother whose working philosophy was never say anything that might shed suspicion on the family. Might make people doubt that everything was perfect behind the closed doors of their small Bellflower mansion.
If you suffered at all, if your mother was so overbearing that you fell victim to debilitating panic attacks nearly every day of your childhood, you didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, you got yourself an inhaler and told people you were asthmatic.
If you fell in love with a dirt-poor youth pastor from Hicksville, Washington, you ignored your feelings, dumped him, and moved on with your life. At least that’s what Katrina’s mother expected her to do.
And if your daughter elopes with said dirt-poor youth pastor, you make every threat possible to try to force her to have an annulment until she and her new husband run off to another state just to get away from you. And you’ll never breathe a word about the marriage to anyone in your social circle, going so far to protect your own reputation that on the occasional times you actually send her letters at her new home, you insist upon using her maiden name.
That’s the kind of privacy Katrina grew up with. The kind of secretiveness that wouldn’t dream of broadcasting news about something as personal as a miscarriage to the entire community. There probably wasn’t a single soul in all of Orchard Grove now who hadn’t heard about what happened to her.
Just when she’d started to move on ...
She felt guilty now that she hadn’t thought about her baby as much in the past few days. She’d finally gotten over the block that was keeping her from playing her violin. Didn’t that victory count for anything?
Not anymore. Not with the entire town of Orchard Grove reminding her of what she’d lost, with all the Missionary League women offering unsolicited tidbits of comfort that were about as useful as pouring salt water on a two-inch deep gash.
At least now you know you can get pregnant? Had those words seriously come out of someone’s mouth? It was almost as bad as you can always try for another.
She gritted her teeth as she made her way into the sanctuary. The decorations were so gaudy she couldn’t wait to fast-forward through the Christmas season. Well, at least now she was relieved of her responsibilities for the pageant. That was one good thing that came out of all this.
Did Greg know? Did he have any idea of how his wife had been accosted just a few minutes earlier? Or was he too busy shaking hands and pretending to be the picture-perfect, happy preacher the folks at Orchard Grove thought they hired? She hated how fiercely loyal he was to this church he’d grown up in. Why in the world would he want to come back here and lead a bunch of people who insisted on reminding him that they’d known him when he was a snot-faced five-year-old who didn’t even know how to tie his own shoes? Why did he ever come back to Orchard Grove?
The church was nothing like the one they’d attended when they met. The Long Beach congregation was vibrant, loud, colorful, and outspoken. All kinds of people from all kinds of backgrounds, which made the church potlucks a delectable feast of international flavors. Not like Orchard Grove, where it was casseroles, potato salads, and a few varieties of apple-based desserts, mainly cobblers and pies.
In Long Beach, there truly was a family feel, and the senior pastor had worked there for nearly twenty years. Why couldn’t God have called Greg to a congregation like that?
There was one other church in Orchard Grove, where more of the young families went. Sometimes Katrina wondered if she’d even attend Orchard Grove Bible Church if it weren’t for the fact that her husband preached here. If they were just a typical newlywed couple, what would they see in a congregation like this?
Even though the Women’s Missionary League was quite active, with some sort of fancy event or fundraiser at least once a month, Katrina couldn’t point to anybody she truly considered a friend. Joy Holmes was the closest woman here to Katrina’s age, but she was so busy with her kids she didn’t make it to any of the League functions. It was usually just Katrina and about two dozen women in their sixties and older. Women whose favorite pastimes included commenting on Katrina’s fashion style, musical ability, quiet voice, skinny frame, and from now on the topic of her reproductive health would be wide open for everyone to discuss and dissect.
Great.
She picked a spot in the third row. Greg usually wanted her to sit in the front, a fact which she would conveniently forget every few weeks until he reminded her about it. She sat down in the pew, even though most of the congregants were still talking in the back.
Half of them probably about Katrina’s miscarriage. She’d never played hooky growing up to get out of school but found herself now praying for a fever or a cough or a migraine that could give her the excuse she needed to leave church and just go home.
Greg was in the front of the sanctuary, talking with two of the elders. He laughed, and Katrina let out her breath. It was about time those men stopped nagging him like they did. They really had no idea how much energy Greg poured out on this little country church. A little country church where half the congregation hated him, and the other half was just waiting for him to do something unforgivable, and all of them were comparing him to other pastors in the congregation’s past.
She felt sorry for him. As mad as he made her, as irritated as she got, Greg’s job was unreasonably demanding and stressful. With all the strain he was constantly under, it was a miracle they didn’t fight even more than they already did.
She drummed her fingers on the church Bible she’d borrowed, the melody from Miles’ vocal warmups running through her mind. At least all the talk about the miscarriage had gotten her over whatever guilt-ridden confusion she’d carried into church this morning. She watched her husband, admiring the way his dimple grew so much more pronounced when he gave that genuine smile. With as hard as work was for him, he deserved some more grace. It was hard enough for him to try to become the perfect pastor. He shouldn’t also have the burden of being a perfect husband.
Maybe she’d find something special to do for him. She had no idea where the money might come from, but she’d think about it and hopefully come up with a unique idea. Something to let him know she appreciated him.
Something to let him know that in spite of all their stress, she still loved him more than words could ever express.