Dad came to church with us the next Sunday. And the next. For two Sundays in a row, we sat in the balcony and I counted the children in the colored glass. I knew by then that nobody could escape the picture, but when I could count on something being constant, I felt reassured.
“I used to wish I could be in that picture,” I said to him.
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Abby?” Dad put his arm around me and rubbed my shoulder with his hand. He looked sort of sad as he studied the children, and I wished my dad wasn’t too old to join them at Jesus’ feet. Dad’s eyes were moist, so full that when he looked down at his congregation, he brushed his eyes with his hands. I looked away.
“This is my last Sunday in the balcony,” he said. I frowned, wondering if this meant we weren’t going to church anymore, but he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “If God’s still here, then I’ve got to find Him.”
Where did he plan on looking?
On July nineteenth, the Bethel Springs Presbyterian Church readerboard read:
SUNDAY, JULY 25, 1971
SERMON: WHEN GOD IS DEAD
REVEREND MCANDREWS PREACHING 10:30
I ran all the way home to ask what it meant.
“So you think God is dead?” I asked Dad, breathless with anticipation and my run home. “Everybody is wondering.” I threw in everybody for emphasis.
“Everybody is wondering, huh?” Dad smiled. “Then I guess everybody will have to come find out!” he said, nodding to me.
“So you’re not going to tell us what it’s about?” Matt asked.
“Something tells me you’ll be with everybody at church on Sunday,” Dad said, and Matt shook his head and grinned. Dad had him. “Front row balcony?” Dad teased. “Sounds like attendance will go up!”
Dad returned to his church office the next day. I watched for signs of what God being dead meant.
I knew if Dad was going to say God was dead, we were finished at Bethel Springs Presbyterian. I considered the move and imagined a different house and a big backyard. I tried not to think that Rita might not be my neighbor. But if there was a chance Dad’s sermon title was what Mom called a “teaser,” we might have hope.
The return of the reverend was the talk of Bethel Springs, and that week was the longest month of my life.
On Sunday, Matt returned to the balcony with me. And pretty much everybody was there. We could see a lot of the people we saw at Christmas and Easter. Matt counted more than four hundred heads, most of whom I didn’t recognize. But I spotted Dr. Hutchinson, the Monroes, Mr. and Mrs. Gorski, and even the Morettis, who decided not to be Catholic for the morning. Uncle Troy ushered in our neighbors the Whites, and even Bruce Hanley with his two kids. It looked like most of Bethel Springs had turned out for Dad’s “God Is Dead” sermon, and the spillover was filling my balcony pews.
The bulletin listed songs and verses but didn’t hint at the last agenda item, which would determine our future. We could hardly wait for the sermon. That was a first.
As we sang “Near to the Heart of God,” I scanned the verses for clues.
“There is a place of quiet rest … there is a place of comfort sweet … there is a place where all is joy.” We sang it faster than usual, as if in a hurry. Either that, or we finally had an organist who could play it at the right tempo.
Then Mr. Rodecker came to the pulpit to read from Deuteronomy, one of those books so full of rules I couldn’t relate to it. But today it felt strangely familiar and I followed along in my Bible, searching for clues from what Moses told the Israelites.
I liked when Mr. Rodecker read that God would go before and fight on their behalf, and as I underlined it, he continued, “‘In the wilderness where you saw how the LORD your God carried you, just as a man carries his son …’” And then I stopped. There was more after that but I couldn’t focus. Just as a man carries his son. Just as a man carries his son. I kept thinking about that until Dad returned to the pulpit for the responsive reading and instructed us to open to the back of our hymnal.
“‘A Time for Everything,’ from Ecclesiastes 3,” Dad began. “Please join me in reading the bold lines.”
“For everything there is a season.”
“And a time for every matter under heaven.”
“A time to be born, and a time to die.”
“A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted.”
A time to die? The congregation kept reading, but I couldn’t join in. Something followed about a time to heal and a time to weep and a time to speak and much more. But a time to die?
When there were no more bold lines about time, Dad continued alone.
“‘What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the sons of men to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time.’” Then Dad raised his head and continued, by memory, from his heart, looking at us. “‘Also he has put eternity into man’s mind, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. I know that there is nothing better for them than to be happy and enjoy themselves as long as they live.’” Dad paused, as if waiting for the weight of the words to sink in, then closed the massive Bible and placed his sermon on top. Only one page.
“Someone once said that ‘time heals.’ I’ve discovered it doesn’t. There are wounds too deep to be erased by the passage of time.”
I shuddered. Dad was giving up. I looked quickly at Matt, who sucked in suddenly, as if preparing to hold his breath.
“But time measures seasons. And now it’s time,” Dad began slowly. “Time for a new season. It’s time to plant and build and dance and mend. And if you’ll have me, it’s time to embrace. I have had time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away. I’ve had time to gather stones. I’ve had time to be silent, and now it’s time to speak. And so I tell you today, that when God is dead, it may be that He only seems dead.”
I exhaled slowly; maybe my dad still believed. But what did that mean? I had come to realize I believed whether he did or not. But what would his time to speak mean for our family? Did it mean a new cover for a new puzzle, and could we put us all together differently?
“I don’t have any answers today. I have understood the burden, but I cannot comprehend the beauty. I’d like to be able to tell you that I can fathom God because of what I’ve felt this past year, yet I cannot. I’m still searching. But I have eternity in my heart. I have time to grow.”
I looked over at Matt and shrugged my shoulders. This was not Dad’s usual sermon.
“The books and the counselors say you feel shock, sorrow, grief, and numbness. I think I experienced all of that. And it took a lot of time. I’m a little slow.” He looked up and laughed. That was not in his notes. We all laughed as if to say it was okay. “So I need to thank you for being patient with me. But even more so, I need to thank my family. For any of you who have been through a dark tunnel, you know what it means when someone takes you by the hand and leads you to the light.” Dad looked straight at Mom and she held his gaze. “That’s what Renee has done for me.” I squeezed Mom’s hand. I was so proud of her.
“My son, Matt, he’s all that I could ever ask for in a son. That’s all I’ll say.” Dad looked down and waited. For some reason those two short sentences took nearly everything out of him.
Then he popped back up with a smile. “And Abby?” he asked in a happier voice, finding my face in the crowd. “Abby was everything constant. Through a time of sorrow, she reminded me there could be joy.” Dad smiled up at me and I smiled back, and then I turned to smile at Matt and Mom. It didn’t really matter what Dad said now; we were going to make it.
“You knew Joel.” Dad cleared his throat and then his voice became congested. “I loved him and I still love him and I thank God that I had him for three years.” Dad nodded reassuringly toward Mom. Though we are four, we have always been five and he knew it.
“But this loss changed us. I’ve been asking lots of questions lately. I even asked, ‘What if there isn’t a God?’” Dad waited as if to let it sink in. “I asked, ‘What if there is no heaven?’”
My lip hurt from biting it so hard. I felt the eyes of Dad’s congregation searching the pews for our family. Matt questioned me with his elbow. Without even looking at him, I acknowledged Dad’s confession.
“Don’t act so shocked,” Dad continued. “I know each one of you has asked questions like these.” I turned to see the other members of the balcony. Some pursed their lips as if they were angered by his suggestion, but many were nodding their heads in reluctant agreement. I looked back at Dad, who was smiling up at me like he didn’t care what anybody thought.
“During this time of doubt, it occurred to me that because I wasn’t talking to God and He wasn’t talking to me, I assumed He was dead. But I found out that just when God seems dead—it might be when He’s coming back to life.”
It was summer, but it felt like spring, Easter Sunday. Resurrection. We had been about death, but now we were about life.
“Like the Israelites in today’s reading, I have been carried like a father carries his son, and yet I have not trusted Him. Still, I know He has gone before and He will show me the way, if I will follow. I have faith, just a little, but I still have it. I pray daily God will help make it grow. Now more than ever, when faith is the hardest and the least likely, it’s the most needed. And it’s the best way for me to say I love God. And I think I do.”
Dad pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He never did that during a sermon.
“I’m back up in the pulpit. Be patient with me. I have more questions than answers. If you’ll work through them with me, I’ll do my best for you. I’ll try to be the minister you need.” Dad picked up his page and folded it in half. “I love you all and thank you for your prayers.”
And then Dad did something really shocking: he just sat down. I saw heads turn and women dab their eyes. What had happened? I turned to Matt, but he had no explanation.
“Three points?” he whispered, holding up three fingers. I shrugged, and my frown gave way to a silly smile. I tapped my watch and held up five fingers. Dad had only spoken for five minutes, and I had actually paid attention the whole time. Matt shook his head and exhaled.
I craned to see Mom’s reaction. What was she thinking? The organist made a hasty return to her bench, unprepared for the brevity of Dad’s message. Her first notes sounded dangerously like Mom at the keyboard, but nobody minded: Reverend McAndrews was back.
“This is my Father’s world,” the congregation sang out, at first hesitantly and then growing in fervor. “All nature sings and ‘round me rings the music of the spheres.” I fumbled with my hymnal, unable to find the page number, too stunned and excited to join in. Beside me Matt sang really loud; I couldn’t look at him or I’d cry, but not because I was sad. And then I remembered the words on Joel’s tombstone, HE SHALL WIPE AWAY ALL THEIR TEARS.
I could have danced in the aisles, but then again we were Presbyterian—that would never work. I wanted to run down the steps and fly into Dad’s arms. He was home. We were all home.
When the postlude began, Matt stood and turned to go. Standing tall, he put his hand on the small of my back and urged me forward, as if escorting a date.
“It’s good to have your dad back,” said Mr. Henry.
“Shortest sermon he’s ever preached!” Mr. Siemens laughed, and then added gently, “I heard every word.” He tapped his hearing aid as if I might have forgotten.
“I don’t know when I’ve been so moved. It made a lot of sense,” added Mrs. Corning.
Dad made a lot of sense by not making any sense. He hadn’t answered any questions, except to say that it was all right to question. Waves of people headed toward him to shake his hand.
“I forgot my bulletin,” I said, excusing myself. As the balcony emptied, I returned to the front pew and sat down.
I know God is everywhere, but for me, He was especially in the balcony that Sunday. I was home. The sun streaming in the side windows blinded me, so I closed my eyes in its warmth, rested my arms on the railing, and folded my hands.
Maybe it was a prayer, maybe it was a resolve, but I knew from then on, wherever I went to church, I’d find the balcony and rehearse the questions I’d ask God when I got to heaven. Maybe after Joel died, Dad had had time to do that, too. Maybe the balcony was a good place for a man who was only used to the pulpit.
As the church emptied, I headed down the back stairs with the bulletin I wanted to keep forever.
Dad looked different. Softer, gentler, and strangely at peace. He knelt down and talked to the children who came to him. He gave Miss Mary Frances a hug. He listened carefully when Mr. Rohatsch told him yet again about his bum leg. And then the line of people came to an end, and Dad looked from the stained-glass window back to the balcony, surveying the church, as if God’s house was a thing of beauty. He opened the pocket door to his study and we followed.
“Let’s go home,” Mom said, as if we hadn’t been there for months. “I know you told me not to worry”—Mom slid the door closed—“but I wondered what you were going to say,” she said with a catch in her voice. Dad pulled her close and she sighed, her worry squeezed out in his embrace. They held each other for a long time. Usually Matt would have squirmed, but he stood in silent respect.
“I don’t have any answers.” Dad stepped away to take off his robe. He hung it on the familiar hook behind his door.
“Questions are okay, too,” Mom answered.
“Let’s go home!” I said, anxious to celebrate. “Mom made your favorite!” I could already smell the rosemary and thyme Mom had pasted across the roast, potatoes baking beside it. The green beans fresh from our garden would be steamed, and the molded Jell-O salad in the refrigerator was a special treat. And mulberry pie for dessert.
We left the room that would once again be Dad’s office. A warm midwestern wind blew, and Mom planted her hand on her hat. Matt stretched his arms as if in a yawn. “Good day for a drive,” he offered tentatively.
“A Sunday drive …,” Mom began dreamily, and then awakened. “Well, it was a good day.”
“Easy on him, Renee—it is a good day for a drive. Matt’s getting to be quite a good driver.”
Dad stopped at the roses, fully in bloom, and we all paused when he cleared his throat and announced, “I asked for one more Sunday off.”
“More time?” Mom asked, looking concerned.
“They said yes, Renee.”
“I guess they liked the sermon?”
“I was thinking we need a family vacation. This year has been no vacation.”
“I’ll second that,” Mom said. Matt and I silently acknowledged a third and fourth.
A year ago, we had left everything familiar for our first family vacation. I hadn’t known then how it would change us. Now I was more than a little scared.
“Where would we go?” Mom asked.
“I’m not sure.” Dad shrugged his shoulders. Dad didn’t know where we were headed, and he didn’t have a plan. That was strange. “I’m open to ideas,” he continued. “We have the next eleven days.”
“Can we go east?” Mom asked softly, and Matt nodded in agreement.
“Or maybe even north,” Dad answered. “Remember Lakeside, Ohio? On Lake Erie? We could take the ferry to Putin Bay and spend a day at Cedar Point.”
The wind blew my hair about my face and Dad brushed it aside.
“You’re quiet, Abby. You don’t want to go?”
Yes and no. This would be our second family vacation. I wanted everything to be safe, but I also wanted something different. I wanted new experiences and to make more memories, but I also wanted to hold on to this moment and many more—if they were all good.
Dad turned my shoulders to face him. “Abby, I can’t promise you that nothing bad will happen. But we survived this, didn’t we?”
I nodded and looked up at Mom, who smiled. She looked so happy. Matt’s eyes met mine and he nodded back.
It was now almost a year since Joel had died. Time had gone on, even when we could not. But somehow we had made it and we were together, and we were willing to try again. Did Mom have a word for that? Was there a word bigger than hope?