In 1971 Thayne had been the pastor of Logan’s Creek’s one church for eight years and I had been the pastor’s wife—truly been the pastor’s wife—for seven. The church’s membership had grown from the handful of parishioners who scattered themselves among the pews to standing room only, thanks in part to Thayne having cleared “sin out of the camp” combined with his increasingly charismatic preaching style.
Added to that was the fact that my father had decided to expand his enterprise. He built the second Fox & Hound Manufacturing Company on the outskirts of Logan’s Creek, thereby giving jobs to the people who lived there and in neighboring Hudsonville, while it brought in a whole new population of citizens. With the explosion of townspeople, additional new businesses were established: clinics, department stores, a car dealership, a barber shop and beauty parlor, a library full of books (Praise God from whom all blessings flow!), and even a movie theater. When the S & H Green Stamp store opened next to the Sears and Roebuck catalogue center, Thayne declared we were bustling like New York City.
As though he’d ever been there.
Two other significant events occurred in 1971. The first was that Thayne and I became the proud parents of twins, Mark and Melanie. They rounded out our family nicely, bringing the number of children to four.
Or five, according to how you look at it. Rachel’s name would always rest near the top of our family tree, preserved in my Bible.
First was Gabriel Johnson, whom Thayne called Gabe but I called Sparrow. Then, two years after his roadside birth, we had welcomed Lena Sue (named for her grandmothers), a sweet girl who grew to look like me but who was graced with the disposition of her father. She never met a soul she didn’t love and who, in return, didn’t adore her. (She also had both her father and her older brother wrapped around her little finger—a fact in which I took no small amount of delight.)
The other thing that happened in 1971 was that, with the increase in parishioners, Thayne was forced to write a formal letter to the church’s district offices, asking for funds to expand the current building. The church had managed to raise five thousand dollars, and he was hoping for matching funds from the denomination.
For days after he sent the letter he hovered near the telephone. On the days and nights he had to go out, he rushed right home, bounded into the house, and said, “Well? Any calls?”
Two weeks passed. One morning, while I was feeding my family a hearty breakfast of cereal and strawberry Pop Tarts, the phone rang. I’d just risen from the table to get more juice for Sparrow and Lena Sue. “I’ll get it,” I said, then answered the kitchen extension that hung on the wall near the back door.
By this time we were living in Alma’s old house. Miss Alma had died in 1965, and in her will had left the house to the church for the pastor’s residence. Our cottage home was now a guesthouse for visiting preachers or the denomination’s higher-ups from Atlanta when they came to town. Mostly, though, it was Daddy’s “home away from home” whenever he needed to visit the Fox & Hound’s second factory, which Tommy managed for him.
A voice asked for Reverend Scott.
I sighed. So early in the morning and someone was already calling for him at home. “Thayne,” I said while placing my hand over the mouthpiece. “For you.”
Thayne rose from the table. He was already dressed in a pair of slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt. His tie—wide and thick—hung loose, not yet knotted. He wore his hair longer now, with curls licking the tops of his ears and playing havoc with his forehead and the nape of his neck. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this new look, but Thayne thought it gave him an edge with the young people at the church and at the high school, where he continued to coach. “Who is it?” he asked with a quick glance at his watch. “It’s not even eight o’clock.”
I shrugged. “My thoughts exactly.”
I returned to the table with more juice for the children, whose cherub faces were a mess of strawberry jam. Sparrow— evermore his father’s son—said, “Why can’t I just stay home today, Mommy? I don’t like second grade all that much.”
To which Lena Sue chimed, “Second grade! I’m in second grade!”
I pointed to her playfully. “You, my adorable little muffin, are in kindergarten. Sparrow is in second grade.”
“It’s just no fun,” my son said, sinking his chin into the palm of his hand.
I started to say something motherly, that school “was not meant to be fun,” when Thayne returned to his chair. “State office of the church,” he said. His voice sounded tight, like a rubber band twisted and pulled as far as it could go. “They’re coming to the church today. Eleven o’clock.”
“This is good, no?” I rose to clear the breakfast dishes. “Children, go wash your hands. I’ll be in there in a minute.” Sparrow and Lena Sue scrambled from the table and tore off down the hall. “Thayne?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “That was Dr. Andrews. He sounded so serious.” He breathed a long sigh. “What if I’ve made a mistake, Mariette, asking for that money?”
I patted his arm. “You’ve done no such thing.”
My assurance earned me a kiss and a smile. But, deep inside, I wondered the same.
A little after noon, Thayne had returned home with the news. He found me in the kitchen, ironing clothes. It was, after all, a Tuesday. “Dr. Andrews wants me to consider another church.”
I felt my brow knit together. “What other church?” I asked, as if there were only one church in the entire world.
“It’s a church just outside of Columbus. They already have a membership of about five hundred.”
“Five hundred?”
Thayne slumped at the table, then pulled the knot of his tie loose.
“Take off your coat,” I told him. “I’ll get you some iced tea.” I set about doing my wifely duty and listened as Thayne continued.
“Their numbers are actually slipping. The pastor there—a Dr. Lee—has been battling depression.” Thayne waved his hand in the air. I brought the tea to him, placed it on the table, then sat across from my husband. “The home office is thinking I might be the ticket to bring the membership up while Dr. Lee takes an early retirement.”
“Can they do that? Make us leave Logan’s Creek?”
Thayne took a long swallow of his drink then shook his head. “Oh, I don’t think so, no.” He seemed to ponder it for a moment before adding, “I think they want to give me the option, though. It’s a nice offer.”
A nice offer. “So then what did you tell Dr. Andrews?”
Thayne smiled. “I told him I’d pray about it. And I will.” He straightened then, looked me in the eyes. “What do you think? How do you feel about it? It’ll mean a bigger salary, more money to help take care of the kids’ futures. And Dr. Andrews says the pastor’s home is quite nice. Two story. Brick. Five bedrooms, three baths. Has a balcony running all across the front of the house. Big white columns.”
I looked around me. After Alma had died, the church members had gotten together and done everything they could to bring the old house up to a more modern standard. Once completed, Thayne and I had spent every spare minute renovating it to our personalities. Still, the kitchen was in need of a new floor, new appliances, and even a new ceiling. The countertops and cabinets weren’t anything to write home about either. There were only three bedrooms, which meant that, for now, Sparrow and Lena Sue were sharing one, the babies shared the nursery, and Thayne and I had the master.
But leave Logan’s Creek? I couldn’t imagine.
“I vote no,” I said, then patted Thayne’s hand. “But you pray and I’ll pray too. If God says move, then we move.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Thayne said. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “This was in our mailbox today.”
I recognized the handwriting immediately; the loops, the lines, the slanting to the left. “A letter from Rowena,” I said. I took it from him, then walked it to the counter and laid it there. “I’ll read it later. With a cup of coffee.”
Letters from Rowena were not to be rushed. They were to be savored while curled on the end of the sofa sipping hot tea or coffee. She now lived in North Carolina and was working for a woodworking company where her furniture designs brought a nice paycheck and had won her several awards. I’d seen photos of some of her work; it was both stunning and impressive.
She’d yet to marry—yet to date anyone seriously, really. She’d also never seen or spoken to her mother or brothers again. If she ever cares to write or call, she once wrote, she does know where to find me. Until then, I have a job I love, friends who make me smile, and I’m walking close with God every day. For a girl with my past, that’s not a bad combination.
In the years since her sudden departure from Logan’s Creek, we’d not seen each other. But she wrote once a month and called twice a year, on my birthday and at Christmas. One year, she surprised us by sending a personally hand-carved cherry bookstand for Thayne’s office and a free-standing needlepoint hoop for me, both intricate and lovely to behold. And, one time for my birthday, she sent a birdhouse that looked like the outhouse behind the Oglesbys’ home. I laughed till I cried.
In the years since we’d moved to Logan’s Creek, I’d made many new friends, and some initial acquaintances, like Charlotte (who Thayne called a “rascal”), had become dear friends. But never would there ever be another Rowena Griffith in my life. A girl in so many ways like me—living on the outside looking in, wanting to be left there alone, and yet desperately wanting to belong.
We’d prayed, Thayne and I. Together. Separately. We gave the decision to God and trusted he would let us know in his own way what we were to do. And then, a week after the offer was made, Thayne gave a solid “no” to moving to Columbus. Dr. Andrews was, he said, initially disappointed when he went to the Atlanta office to personally give his answer. But then he’d chuckled, shook Thayne’s hand, and said, “You know, in my heart I hoped you’d say this. Logan’s Creek’s in your heart, son. Our thoughts for sending you to Columbus were selfish, but God knew better.” He then informed Thayne that the powers that be had considered the need for expanding Logan’s Creek’s little church building and were granting him $15,000. Thayne nearly soared on eagle’s wings for the month after. In those that followed, he oversaw every detail of the renovation and, when all was finished, announced to the congregation that we’d have an official ribbon-cutting ceremony the following Sunday, followed by dinner on the grounds.
“My wife,” he said from the pulpit and with a wide smile, “will not be providing the fried chicken.”
To which the congregation, in unison, offered back, “But she will bring the deviled eggs!”
From the place where I belonged on the first row pew, directly in front of my husband and to the left side of the sanctuary, I threw back my head and laughed.
And they all laughed with me.