That was the problem with Karen, thought Luanne, laughing to herself, she always cut to the chase and made you defend your position. “Let’s see, it makes no sense to say there are no rules at all. That would make everything ok. And clearly not all lifestyles could be called ‘Christian.’ But what made one Christian a living believer and another a ‘wolf in sheep’s clothes,’ as Abbey would put it?” “It seems like there are two things that matter: One, there are direct prohibitions in the Bible like ‘don’t steal’ or ‘don’t sleep around’; and there are direct proscriptions like ‘believe in the Lord Jesus.’ Then there are those things which we are called to do, but aren’t spelled out. Like ‘love one another’ and ‘be joyful.’” Luanne remembered the list that Abbey had quoted as the “fruits of the Spirit”: Love, joy, patience, kindness, and goodness. “The fruits of the Spirit that Abbey mentioned all seemed to be attitudes. They could be acted out in a zillion different ways.”
Karen nodded and said, “And what about the ‘do not forsake gathering together?’”
Luanne looked down at her hands. She’d been taught all her life that she had to go to church. She hated church. But she loved Karen, and Joan, and Sally. She loved a lot of believers. She loved getting together with them. Talking about life, about things they were doing, about how God was working in them. She even loved hearing God’s Word at church. She looked back up at Karen and said with conviction, “I don’t think you are forsaking ‘gathering together’ just because you skip church. There can be other productive ways to gather together. I think Sally had a good point on that. I guess I feel guilty about it when Abbey talks because she seems so sure that you have to go Sunday mornings to be a good believer.” She halted and watched the bird pick little pieces from whatever was in its claw. It suddenly stopped and flew off, letting the carcass fall—stripped of almost everything that identified it uniquely. It had been a butterfly. It had one wing missing entirely after the bird was finished and the other was torn in two. It lay on the ground at the base of the fence post and flopped about, no longer having the necessary equipment to fly as it was intended. Luanne watched it lunge about for a moment or two. Then she said, “I feel like Abbey is picking people apart—trying to make them fit her ideal. I know I love God, and I know I’m living in Him. I don’t want to conform to her view.”
Karen grinned and said, “Then you should keep at it Luanne; go where God leads.” And let Abbey keep at it too. Her patterns work for her. And yours works for you. You both are great women, and I’m sure Abbey is deeply appreciated for her services—as are you.”
Luanne nodded and started the car. She prayed a quick prayer for Abbey and her other friends as she drove from the lot.
Cat
Margaret Nadine Skyler’s eyes knifed open at seven a.m. at the clanging insistence of her old fashioned, round-faced alarm clock. She hated the morning. “If God wanted me to see the morning, He’d have scheduled it later in the day!” she always said. Her pudgy hand groped out from under the covers and slapped down on the alarm, silencing it. She stiffly rose, wrapped a terry cloth robe around herself, and waddled out into the kitchen. She snagged a piece of mushroom from a scrap of last night’s pizza as she passed the linoleum-topped kitchen table. Chewing it absently, she loosed the bolts on the door (one had to bolt the door to keep the weirdoes out) and looked down to see her cat, Tracker, waiting to come in for breakfast.
Tracker was a large—some would say fat—three year old, orange tabby. Margaret dubbed him Tracker because when he was young, he would track and catch mice in the back yard. He had pretty much given that up, which was fine with her, since he was getting older and slowing down. Kind of like Margaret. She was almost 35 now. And on cold mornings like this she felt it! It was hard to move her considerable weight when her joints were so cold and stiff, that was for sure. “Ah well,” she thought, “no one enjoyed the process of aging.” Well, except the physically gifted like that snooty Jean Reynolds. She was God-knows-what age and still ran around the block half-naked in spandex! She was some sort of freak of nature; at least forty and still rather slim and active. Not many were like that, that was for sure! It must be some genetic oddity. “Well,” Margaret thought, “she was a ‘sports’ nut anyway. All that running around. That can’t be healthy, obsessing over exercising like that. You need to be more well-rounded, and anyone who runs around the block in the morning is definitely not well-rounded in Margaret Nadine Skyler’s book!
Having let Tracker in, Margaret shuffled back through the kitchen. She pulled a nice piece of pizza from the box on the table and wadded half of it into her mouth as she passed the table again. Reaching the pantry, she took a box of dry cat food from the shelf, and returned to the door, cramming the remaining half piece of pizza between her lips. “Stans makes the best pizza,” she mused. And if you bought an extra-large, you got a whole bag of cheesy bread with it! Free! She noticed that Tracker’s bowl was only half full, and though he never seemed to actually finish his food (he was no “clean-plate clubber!”) she filled it over the brim until it spilled out onto the floor. “Damn,” she scolded herself, “now I’ll have to sweep!” She then went back over to return the box of cat chow to the shelf, appropriating another large piece of Stans’ finest on the way.
While Tracker was busily scarfing food, she trundled out to the living room toward the front door. She nonchalantly fisted a few mints from the bowel as she passed the mantle. “It’s always polite to have a few sweets out for guests,” she’d say. Some people like that Jean Reynolds didn’t know that! She’d been to her house a number of times. The Reynolds would have bar-b-cue and invite the whole block! And although there was always a nice selection of food, Margaret noted that there were no “niceties.” Things that make a person feel welcome, like mints, or popcorn, or jelly beans. Jean had said she didn’t care for mints, but that was not the point! One doesn’t just sit around eating mints. They are there as a welcome saying, “Come in! Feel comfortable! Have a mint!” They let a person know they were cared about. Margaret had been to the Reynold’s dozens of times and never had one mint! She had received small gifts from them too, and not once was it a nice chocolate or anything of the like! Well, one can’t force graciousness on others. She refilled her hand with jelly beans from the table, and went to the door.
It was bright and sunny out, but cold! Margaret hated that. There was Jean on her morning run. Red top today with blue tights. Pretty ostentatious! Jean waved and grinned at her as she passed, her breath pluming out of her mouth. Margaret waved back thinking, “I’m sure glad I don’t have a problem with ostentation!” And she lazily thought of her nice conservative brown, tan, and gray wardrobe. No one could accuse her of being self-involved! She dressed demurely at all times.
That damn paper boy! The paper lay at the end of the porch near the steps. Margaret was going to have to tiptoe over the freezing concrete to get it! How hard can it be to toss the paper a few more feet to the mat? Johnny Spellman had been the paper boy for three years now. He never missed Ms. Skyler’s house, that was for sure! Though he did on occasion miss the mat. She tipped well at Christmas, and paper boys always wanted more money. She often wondered what fun activities Johnny gave up just to get money. She recalled her own childhood and the fun she had had sitting with her mom in the kitchen baking. They made the best cakes and pies together. She would spend hours with her mom rolling dough, mixing fillings, and all sorts of things. Margaret slipped the last few jelly beans into her mouth still wondering what Johnny missed out on just because he wanted her money. She then lightly (as lightly as her bulk could allow) skipped out to the paper and picked it up (groaning with the exertion). She danced back to the warm carpet inside, breathing heavily, her breath pluming like that Jean Reinhold’s, and quickly closed the door. She deftly mouthed a few peanuts from the light stand near the window, and went back to the kitchen.
Margaret loved to read the paper in the morning on weekends. She always got up early, but enjoyed a good long read on Saturday and Sunday. She hated rushing off to work. And she was very conscientious.