The Church Ladies Read online

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE CHURCH LADIES

  published by Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

  © 2001 by Lisa E. Samson

  Scripture quotations are from:

  The Holy Bible, New International Version © 1973, 1984 by International Bible Society, used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House The Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV)

  Multnomah is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, Inc., and is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The colophon is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  For information:

  MULTNOMAH PUBLISHERS, INC. •POST OFFICE BOX 1720•SISTERS, OREGON 97759

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Samson, Lisa, 1964–

  The church ladies / by Lisa E. Samson. p.cm. eISBN: 978-0-307-78173-4

  1. Women–Religious life–Fiction. 2. City and town life–Fiction. 3. Church membership–Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3569.A46673 C47 2001 813’.54—dc21 00–012265

  v3.1

  “Ready for a deliciously different read? Something quirky, edgy, and utterly original? This novel’s for you, girlfriend! The Church Ladies is laugh-out-loud funny one minute, soul-deep serious the next. Every character came alive for me; every struggle rang true. Loved it, loved it!”

  LIZ CURTIS HIGGS

  AUTHOR OF BAD GIRLS OF THE BIBLE AND BOOKENDS

  “I absolutely loved this book! Lisa Samson’s talent leaves me envious and awestruck.”

  TERRI BLACKSTOCK

  AUTHOR OF WORD OF HONOR AND TRIAL BY FIRE

  “As a twenty-year member of the ‘church ladies sorority,’ I applaud Lisa’s fresh and insightful novel. This book made me laugh, cry, and, most importantly, think I’m sure that God, who loves an honest, questioning heart, is smiling with approval on this marvelous work.”

  ANGELA ELWELL HUNT

  AUTHOR OF THE IMMORTAL AND THE NOTE

  “Lisa Samson may as well quit writing right now because I don’t know how she will ever top The Church Ladies. Samson’s irresistible town of Mount Oak is Mitford with a glorious edge; the characters who populate it are as familiar as the men and women who occupy pews beside you each Sunday. Perhaps, as I did, you’ll even catch a glimpse of yourself within the pages of her novel! This captivating, precious story of grace could not be more beautifully told.”

  DEBORAH RANEY

  AUTHOR OF A VOW TO CHERISH AND IN THE STILL OF NIGHT

  “Lisa Samson’s writing is literate, wise, whimsical. To those looking for a delightful surprise: Read The Church Ladies and be refreshed!”

  JAMES SCOTT BELL

  AUTHOR OF BLIND JUSTICE AND THE DARWIN CONSPIRACY

  “Lisa Samson’s The Church Ladies is a rollicking ride into the world of those tenuous yet strong ties that bind believers and families together. It runs the gamut from tears to laughter … to the point where I stop to examine my own life and the masks we Christians wear.…

  “Samson’s unique flair for language and voice make this a book you’ll remember long after you close the cover. The Church Ladies is a must-read that bravely shows us Christians aren’t perfect—just forgiven. Kudos to Lisa Samson for her willingness to show us the real face of redemption.

  “The Church Ladies takes readers past the bounds of popular convention and straight into the spectacle of the flawed and quirky lives of the Fraser family. Poppy Fraser, guilt-consumed pastor’s wife, heads up the parade as the reluctant matron of Highland Kirk Presbyterian. She’s an unconventional woman who fulfills the role handed to her about as fitfully as a bat in a chandelier.

  “Samson’s writing effervesces with a perception of human nature beyond her years. You will believe you can order up a latte at Java Jane’s and tête-à-tête with the eclectic cast of characters who enliven the streets of Mount Oak. Sample a slice of this delicious novel … a reviving exploration of family love, duplicity, and forgiveness—all served up with a side of abiding grace—and you won’t stop till you’ve finished the whole pie. Lisa Samson writes like a dream!”

  PATRICIA HICKMAN

  AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF KATRINA’S WINGS

  “Many authors write about life as it should be; Lisa Samson writes about life the way it truly is: fiery and fragile, tender and tragic, messy and magnificent. A stand-out novel in the sea of Christian fiction, The Church Ladies is penetrating, poignant, and astonishingly real.”

  SHARI MACDONALD

  AUTHOR OF THE SALINGER SISTERS SERIES

  To Jack Cavanaugh,

  fellow wordsmith and trusted friend.

  Thanks for telling me to “Go for it.”

  This one’s for you.

  Special thanks to Bill Jensen for giving this book a place at Multnomah. To Karen Walker, Penny Whipps, and Steve Curley for their diligence. To my own little family, Will, Tyler, Jake, and Gwynneth, I know this one took a while, so thank you for your sacrifice and your patience. To my sister Lori, thanks for always being excited about my books, and thanks for actually thinking my writing matters. To my friends who encouraged me along the way, Miss Gloria, Jennifer, Heather, Chris, Karen, Marty, Jack C., you all are priceless. To my writing family in Chi Libris, it’s a joy to take the writer’s journey with the wonderful likes of you all, but I especially want to thank Athol Dickson, Deborah Raney, Colleen Coble, Angela Elwell Hunt, James Scott Bell, Terri Blackstock, Shari MacDonald, Patricia Hickman, and dear Liz Higgs for all their encouragement. A huge, heartfelt thanks to Doris Elaine “Till” Fell, who kept me sane with her understanding, her sympathy, and her wisdom. You, wonderful lady, are a gem. Thank you to attorneys Jim Bell and Douglas Fierberg. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for giving me the chance to serve You. I am in awe of Your grace.

  I love to hear from my readers! Please email me at [email protected].

  How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity! It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down on the beard, running down on Aaron’s beard, down upon the collar of his robes.

  It is as if the dew of Hermon were falling on Mount Zion. For there the LORD bestows his blessing, even life forevermore.

  PSALM 133

  As a prisoner for the Lord, then, I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to one hope when you were called—one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.

  EPHESIANS 4:1–6

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cha
pter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  About the Author

  One

  Many mornings I awaken thinking how much easier the men have it. Their Monday through Friday rolls by on well-worn ruts in a convoy of monosyllabic tasks. Wake, eat, work, eat, work, eat, sleep. Saturdays pass much the same with an extra “sleep” included in the afternoon. But Sunday mornings in particular cause me to call into question that ridiculous description of women as “the fairer sex,” because there’s nothing less fair than divvying up early morning tasks that first day of the week.

  Scrambling around for children’s church material and doling out cold Pop Tarts to anyone coherent enough to grab one, I sweat through my shower freshness even before the obligatory, understated string of pearls decorates my collar bones. A quick spritz of the sweet, flowery perfume the ladies’ auxiliary gave me for Christmas last year accompanies the pantyhose runner check. And then, while the darkened sky still hovers over me like a Reformer’s cloak, I scurry over to the church in the obligatory, understated pair of bone-colored pumps to mimeograph the bulletin, and, heaven help me, I always discover at least three typos, some embarrassing, some amusing, all sure to be exhumed by the hardly understated, censorious church maven, Miss Poole.

  “Reverend Fraser needs three teams for the Mount Oak All-Church Spring Troubles Tennis Tournament in July.” That typo deserved typo hall of fame status in the “Tell It Like It Really Is” category. But when the bulletin called for “sex volunteers to cover the tables at the town health fair” the board had actually met, threatening to take away the “bulletin ministry” from me. I asked Duncan: husband, ruling elder, teaching elder, pastor, groundskeeper, and father of my three children, “So, is that a promise?” and heard nothing further.

  Clearly I had put him in a difficult position. Clearly I breached any convention mentioned in The Proper Christian Ladies’ Handbook of Church Etiquette and Behavior, chapter 15—“Church Authority.” But the final clause at the end of the book, “And if you fail to uphold these statutes, ask God to forgive you, and He will,” did leave room for maneuvering without eternal consequences. Of course, the guilt can last a lifetime.

  I know a lot about guilt. My name is Poppy Fraser, and I’ve been living with guilt for a long time now.

  Though I apologized to Duncan for jeopardizing his good standing with the elders and begged God’s forgiveness for my belligerence and all, I’ve never stopped feeling sick when I see Elder Barnhouse handing out the bulletins. Surely, Sunday wasn’t designed to be this way. I often think about persecuted Christians in flowing robes risking their lives to praise the Lord and learn His ways. Who cared about bulletins and typos when lives were staked upon one’s own simple obedience?

  I long for that kind of purity again.

  Years ago I convinced myself that God could meet with me right in my breakfast nook. It’s amazing what we can talk ourselves into. Not that God isn’t able to meet a person anywhere, but that Scripture verse about forsaking not the assembly of the brethren is in there for a reason. Sometimes I think I liked my husband better as just a computer geek who worked too hard seven days a week. Who is this caring, preacherly guy he has become? And where does that leave me? I am suspicious, and it grieves me.

  Life as I now am forced to live it is more than I bargained for back at the altar.

  And Duncan’s sermons feel more like sedation than inspiration. Just being honest. Although, if I am being totally honest, I have to wonder if his words bounce off of the invisible shield that materialized around me the day he announced our lives would change forever.

  Most men’s midlife crises seem to be a wild, awkward clutching at rejuvenation. The pathetic sports car. The pathetic mistress. The sudden, pathetic interest in handball or the like and all the pathetic gear that goes along with it. But not my husband. Oh no. Nothing could ever be that simple or pathetic with Duncan. He had to do the opposite. Batten down the hatches. Tighten the reigns. Slam on the brakes.

  Oh, boy.

  And there we were selling practically everything we could and going to seminary in the Midwest. Surely if God called Duncan to be a pastor, I would have experienced some kind of call to be a pastor’s wife. Surely a sovereign God would know better than to put someone like me into such a position.

  Maybe if I had been saved in the Jesus movement or something very California I’d have a better grasp of the first day of the week now that it’s become the focus of the other six as well. But I’m an East Coast girl, and the guilty dread and heroic resolution that haunt me from 8 P.M. Saturday night forward haven’t rendered the day any more attractive. Well, at least our church has the sense to hold their worship at nine-thirty. That way I can be home to cook a nice brunch. Some things I refuse to give up. Or maybe I just can’t.

  But now that Duncan had benedicted the service and most of the congregation had snorted awake from their morning naps, I rode alongside my husband in our van. My youngest child, Angus, began crying in the backseat, resonating much like the main soprano in the threadbare group the Highland Kirk calls a choir for lack of a more suitable term. Their rendition of “Jerusalem” that morning truly inspired awe amid the congregation. I had no idea that such a familiar song could be transmogrified into a dirge. But apparently anything can happen on Sunday. And at Highland Kirk, where contemporary means Honeytree, Vestal Goodman, or Dave Boyer, it didn’t surprise me.

  It was a pleasing song to have whirling over and over on the brain calliope, however. “Hosanna, in the highest! Hosanna to your king!” In my head I sing like an opera singer. Only not quite so loud. Back in Baltimore, back when we had money and prestige and clippings of our smiling faces in the Maryland section of the Sunpaper, I found myself at the opera frequently. Maybe in heaven I’ll get to sing like that. Or maybe I’ll just keep painting pictures. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at anyway.

  “Angus, honey, would you please stop crying?” I glanced over my shoulder at my five-year-old slumped down so far the top of his behind smashed the frayed maroon cording clinging by exhausted threads to the edge of the van’s bench seat. “Here, maybe this will help you feel better.” I untwisted the coat hanger that wires the glove box shut and fished around for the pack of cookies I always keep on hand for such emergencies. When did I place these things in here? I couldn’t even begin to remember.

  Oh, brother. Stale treats again. On the highway of motherhood I careen a few miles north of Peg Bundy and at least a hundred miles south of Elyse Keaton. Mrs. Brady zooms somewhere on the other side of planet earth in a large, sparkling new SUV, with Donna Reed singing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” at her side, a car that seats eight and still smells new, a car with a clean windshield … on the inside, and no crumbs jumping up at every bump in the road.

  Shuffling through the contents of the glove box, I realize someone has been messing with my “mobile junk drawer” as my husband christened the space years ago.

  Well, Angus didn’t do it. Though clinically, verifiably a genius, he possesses the motor skills of a three-year-old. The hanger would have deterred him right away. Angus would have rightly deemed a paltry little box of bleached out cookies cast in some obscure animalian shape not worth such effort. Although, considering the fact that any runway model out there prances around with a higher body fat percentage than he does, I wished he were the culprit. His dark hair and anemic complexion only heightens the innocent vulnerability that drives most mothers to their knees beside
their child’s sleeping form. I am no exception to this nocturnal activity. And in the end, I can only rest in the fact that we are all in God’s hands.

  My two eldest children, hard-working young adults who own their own cars, would rather die the death of a thousand screams than stoop to a ride in the putty-patched van. They couldn’t have possibly taken the cookies.

  The raiding of my glove box seems to presuppose a certain level of intimacy. Thus, I complete the elimination process. “Duncan!”

  His small, brown eyes, diminished by the thick lenses of his round, wire-rimmed glasses, glimmer like M&M’s fresh out of the package. And he frowns below a mustache with much the same mottled coloring as an old Scottish terrier. It is softer than it appears. “Why are you always picking on me, Poppy? What do you think a grown man like me would have to do with a pack of processed, pasteurized kid food like that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I think it was you, Duncan?” I shut the glove box door and begin to twist the hanger. “You have that look on your face. The same one you got when we caught you eating up the candy bars Robbie was supposed to take to class for the seventh grade Christmas party.”

  Duncan cringed. “Oh, well, thanks for bringing that up, Popp. Not to mention that was over seven years ago.”

  “Hey, once you’ve earned a reputation, it’s hard to live it down.” Fact is, Duncan has a sweet tooth the size of Jim Carrey’s incisors.

  I held onto the door handle as our minivan lurched down the road on worn-out shocks. “Besides, I thought you didn’t like the cinnamon kind with the white icing.”

  “They weren’t cinnamon, they were—” His eyes closed briefly. “Crud, Poppy. Why do you always do that? Can’t you save those tactics for the kids?”

  Meanwhile, Angus had stopped crying, but how long ago, I couldn’t say.

  “I’m okay now.” His rather tart tone accused. “If anybody really cares, that is. The mice ate through the cords, and Aslan came back to life.”

  I swatted Duncan with a rolled-up bulletin—only one typo today, thank God, and I literally meant that. “I told you he was too young for those books.”