The Color Of Light. Emilie Richards
door, which was never a good place for confrontation, and escaped immediately to her study after the last person filed through. She wasn’t afraid to discuss her decision with her congregation. She just wanted to pick the time and place.
Now sipping a cup of tea as she waited to robe for the second service she stood at her study window. She loved this space with its blue-gray paneling and courtyard view. The courtyard was surrounded by three walls, and the fountain in the center was flanked by concrete benches, where she often sat to write sermons on her laptop.
In some ways the courtyard was a secret garden and rarely used. Today was an exception. Dougie was fishing in the fountain, pants rolled up to his knees and lily pads swishing against his calves as he waded the perimeter with an old stick that flaunted a length of string and most likely an open safety pin. Never mind that there were no fish in the fountain. Dougie, like a modern-day Huck Finn, was determined to live off the land.
The sight might dismay the church building and grounds committee, but she found herself laughing, her first genuine laughter of the day. “Okay, Isaiah,” she said to the empty room. “I get it. You always said God comes to us in disguise. So now She’s a nine-year-old boy with a fishing pole?”
Someone knocked, and she tore herself away from the window, straightened her shoulders, as her laughter evaporated. She crossed the room to what she was sure would be trouble. Instead, when she opened the door she found Ethan, in a sports coat and no tie, and she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, closing the door behind him.
“I can leave,” he said. “I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“How did you know I might not be?”
He just smiled, and she smiled back, warmed by the concern she saw. Having been married to Charlotte, who had been in the thick of every important decision made at the Church of the Covenant, Ethan was no stranger to their politics.
“Yes, I talked about the Fowlers. Thank you for understanding,” she said.
“Do you need anything?”
Anything other than a congregation that realized sometimes being a Christian meant more than giving money and saying the right prayers?
“I might need you to remove a certain young man from the fountain,” she said instead. She nodded toward the window.
He peered around her, then his smile widened. “Seems like a shame, but maybe today’s not the best day for your congregation to see that.”
“Dougie’s one of those kids who could get in trouble in a padded cell.”
“I imagine his parents find it hard to keep up with him, particularly when they have so many other things on their minds. You’ve got people who might be able to help.”
“After this morning we’ll see how much help they want to be.”
“Actually I was thinking about the goddesses. There are lots of different talents among us.”
She heard the “us” for what it was. “It doesn’t insult your masculinity to call yourself a goddess?”
“My masculinity is perfectly secure.”
She touched his arm in affirmation. “Agreed. And now will you take your masculine self outside and remove our little friend from the fountain?”
“I’ll be at the service. Break a leg.” He kissed her cheek and left.
She finished her last swallow of tea and tidied up in the adjoining restroom, where she donned her robe again. By the time she got back neither Ethan nor Dougie was in sight outside. For this service she chose a heavily appliqued stole that Elsbeth, her needleworker sister, had made for her. A collage of colorful figures with hands lifted in prayer was artistically intertwined with flames reaching heavenward and culminating with a magnificent white dove. The stole was her favorite and, as she smoothed it over her robe and matched the edges, she said a prayer. Then she went to meet her congregation at the door of the sanctuary.
Most people knew better than to engage in long conversations as they entered, and she shook hands and greeted those who streamed in for as long as she could. She was about to go to the front when Garrett came through the doorway and motioned her to one side.
“You’re going to tell them about the Fowlers?”
She was gratified he used the family’s name and didn’t simply call them “those homeless people.”
“I plan to, yes. I did in the first service.”
“That’s good, because, you know, the word is getting out.”
“It was never meant to be a secret.”
“Well, no.” He frowned, then he seemed to recover. “And it shouldn’t be. But you know how people talk. They need facts.”
“Which I’ll give them. With a story thrown in.”
He seemed to want to say more but didn’t. She nodded and took advantage of that silent moment to leave.
This more formal service began with a processional of the entire chancel choir from the back of the church into the choir loft, accompanied by the full power of their recently restored pipe organ. Afterward she offered an invocation, more prayers were said, hymns were sung, announcements were made, the offering was taken, and finally the time came for her to speak.
The Church of the Covenant pulpit was itself worthy of a sermon. The imposing granite exterior of the Gothic Revival church was matched inside by elegant timber beams, slippery tile floors, and treasured stained glass windows from the famed Lamb Studios of Greenwich Village. The elaborately carved pulpit had been a gift from an early benefactor, with eight steps so that the pastor could gaze down at his flock to more properly admonish them and remind them of his superior moral status.
Like many churches, the Church of the Covenant also had a lectern, a simple but elegant stand with only a few steps, which, until Analiese had arrived, had been used exclusively by lay readers delivering scripture. One of her first innovations had been to abandon the formal pulpit and deliver most of her sermons from the lectern, which was only as high as it needed to be for the congregation to see her.
Today she settled herself there and looked out over her congregation. Assuming many people had traveled over the holiday she had expected a lower attendance. Instead the polished walnut pews were filled with a respectable number of worshippers. She wondered if news about the Fowlers was already beginning to make the rounds.
As she searched for familiar faces she saw Ethan sitting beside his daughter, Taylor. Taylor was one of the goddesses and not a frequent churchgoer, although lately she had been bringing her daughter, Maddie, to Sunday school and staying for the service herself. Today the man in her life, Adam Pryor, was sitting on her other side.
Georgia Ferguson, another of the goddesses, wasn’t present, although she did attend on occasion. Georgia was most likely with her fiancé, Lucas Ramsey, celebrating the holiday with Lucas’s large extended family in the state she’d been named for.
Seeing Taylor reminded Analiese of what Ethan had said in her study. She hadn’t had time to consider how much and in how many ways the goddesses could help her now, but Georgia was the principal of the Buncombe County Alternative School, and nobody would be a better resource for Shiloh than she would.
She put that out of her mind and leaned forward over the lectern. “Pay close attention to your program this morning. Then set it beside you, because I’m not going to speak on ‘The Politics of Giving Thanks.’ If you spend the next twenty minutes trying to figure out how the message I want you to take home has anything whatsoever to do with that, you’ll be frustrated and annoyed. That’s the last thing I ever want you to feel in this sacred space.”
She heard the small ripple of laughter and felt slightly encouraged. “Instead I want to take you back to another time, to a land where turkey, a native of the Americas, was never on the menu, and the word pilgrims referred to the Israelite people who returned to