Miss Julia Stands Her Ground by Ann B. Ross Page A

their minds.”
    I kept thinking. “All of them women?”
    He tightened his mouth. “Most of them.”
    â€œUh-huh.” So some men had signed the petition, too. Interesting. “I tell you what, Pastor, I need to think about it. As you’ve told us many times from the pulpit, becoming an elder is a high honor, one that requires a strong spiritual foundation, greatintegrity, and the Lord’s leading. I didn’t ask for this, never even considered it, but here it is anyway. I feel a little like Moses, who was minding his own business and taking care of his sheep when a bush flared up in front of him. So I need to be sure what the Lord wants me to do.”
    I thought he would choke then. “The Scriptures are clear!”
    â€œYes, I know. But I’m neither the husband of one wife nor of many wives. But then, I haven’t been nominated for the diaconate anyway, have I?”
    If he wanted to stand on a literal reading of the Bible, I was more than willing to take him on.
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    I was so full of the news that I practically ran across the street. Throwing the door open, I rushed into the house, slinging my pocketbook aside as I went.
    â€œSam,” I called as I rushed by, “where’s the church directory?”
    Not waiting for an answer, which would’ve been slow in coming since I’d disturbed his Sunday nap, I dashed through the dining room and into the kitchen. Pulling out the drawer under the telephone, I snatched up the directory and headed toward the living room again.
    Sam met me, but I veered around him and took a seat on the sofa. “You’ll never guess what the pastor wanted,” I said, as I opened the directory. “Come help me, Sam. Oh, I need a pen.”
    â€œThere’s one right beside you.” He pointed to the lamp table. “I was doing the crossword puzzle until I nodded off.”
    â€œCome sit down,” I said, patting the sofa. “We need to get some campaign statistics.”
    Sam smiled, somewhat bemusedly, and took a seat. “What campaign are we talking about?”
    I had to laugh, so delighted to have the upper hand over the pastor. I know that doesn’t speak very highly of my spiritual state, but Larry Ledbetter had made me squirm so many times in thepast that I couldn’t help but take a little pleasure in the changing tides.
    â€œOh, Sam, the pastor is beside himself because—hold on to your hat—I’ve been nominated for the session. Can you believe that?”
    â€œSure I can. And you’d be good at it, too. You’ll do it, won’t you?”
    I opened my mouth to answer, but was brought up short as I recalled my determination to follow his lead as the head of the household. “What do you think I should do?”
    â€œWhy, Julia, whatever you want. That’s a decision you’ll have to make. How do you feel about it?”
    I brushed that aside with a wave of my hand. “I don’t know yet. I told him I’d think about it, which certainly didn’t reassure him. But, look, Sam, I want to count how many women there are on the church roll. He showed me several pages of a petition, but he wouldn’t let me look at it. Just said it was mostly signed by women.”
    â€œSo you want to see how many members are women?” Sam was always quick to understand my methods.
    â€œYes. I want to know what percentage of the total membership is made up of women. Of course,” I said, with a sideways look at him, “he did admit there were a few men who’d signed it, too. Did you know anything about it?”
    â€œNope. But I would’ve signed it, if I had.”
    Well, of course one would hope that one’s husband would be supportive, although I knew from experience that one’s husband couldn’t always be counted on. I patted his hand, grateful for his trust in me as a spiritual leader.
    With Sam’s help I went through the