just wasn’t working— a passage from James, maybe you know it, on depending on God for wisdom, on holding your tongue. I’m struggling with it—you know, new preacher jitters.”
“Well, I’m not much of a Bible scholar,” I said, trying to make a joke. “But I learned about it in Sunday school, I think, when I was a kid.” I didn’t mention I’d read the same verses that very morning in my hotel room Bible.
I handed the preacher the lug nuts, and she chatted as she tightened them. “What brings you out to Route 2 on this cold day anyway?”
“Just looking around. I’m new to the area and heard about a vacant house out here.”
“You probably mean Helen McCuller's place down the road. Nice old house. This is a great community,” she said. “Seems like it's out in the middle of nowhere, but it's a tight little neighborhood.” Jean dusted off her hands and wiped a little grease onto her jeans. “Probably want to get your tire fixed right away,” she said. “That little bitty doughnut spare is like a temporary crown on your tooth—not good for many miles.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here. You’re the first person who ever volunteered to change a tire for me.”
“Happy to help. Come on in, and I’ll make us a cup of hot chocolate.”
I followed her into the house behind the church, unable to figure out a way to politely decline. My heels sank into the gravel driveway.
“Welcome to my humble parsonage,” she said. “Isn’t that funny? I live in a parsonage. There's something just a little odd about getting a free house next door to your office.”
This house reminded me of Helen's down the road, except without any sign of rats. The place was comfortable but needed work. Jean was sheepish about several pieces of furniture, including a monstrosity of a fake-wood wall unit in the living room and a large fancy dining room suite.
“Nice, eh?” she said, giving me a quick tour. “The church won’t let me move those out. They bought them for their former preacher as a gift of love to be left in the parsonage when he moved, of course. He retired up to Hot Springs and couldn’t care less about this furniture anyway.” She looked around, as though someone might overhear. “I hate it, but I figure that battle will have to wait.”
She fixed our cocoa in old Fiesta Ware cups that I loved. “Tell me about what brings you to Green,” she said.
I told her about inheriting The Green News-Item. She was clearly fascinated about my ownership of the paper and my “bold new adventure,” as she referred to it.
Visiting with this pastor made me happy because I could avoid going back downtown for a while. She was enthusiastic about my move, as though she had known me for years and was celebrating my great success at something I had worked hard for.
“You’re going to do great,” she said. “You’ll be a breath of fresh air for the Green community.”
A little uncomfortable with her goodwill, I began asking her questions, an interview disguised as conversation. In the next thirty minutes or so, I learned more about Jean than I had known about most of my neighbors in the past few years.
“I spent more than twenty years as a schoolteacher in Baton Rouge—high school English,” she said, smiling, “wrestling hormonal teenagers to learn about literature. Loved it.”
“Why’d you leave?” I was as curious about her as she seemed about me.
“A call from the Lord. He wanted me to be a preacher, and I have to tell you, I resisted for quite some time. It was hard. I knew how to be a teacher, but this … this really uprooted me.”
She was rewarded in her new calling by being assigned to this small, dying church in rural North Louisiana about eight months ago. Oddly, she didn’t seem to hold a grudge for the location or the size of the
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