Daffodils crowning the summit
of this country church-topped hill
have begun to pale and wither
from the sun and heat of Arkansas
summer, though the earlier
hymn of the flowers’ open mouths
brought out the city dwellers
to the festival the congregation
here celebrates every year.
But it is the church itself which
calls us, our pilgrimage
a journey to familiarize my mother
with this site and one other
the Bishop appointed her to lead.
Her recent vocation has been
rehearsed with sermons, ceremonies,
and assisting in the rituals
that embody the articles of faith,
reaching beyond response
which a lifetime of supplication
has taught to lead the call,
but, at sixty-eight, she now seeks
to test the strength of her
calling anew, to discover if this
challenge is the path study
and long prayer mean to bring her to.
My father, my wife, and I
have joined today, all of us, perhaps,
a bit skeptical and concerned,
but also warmed by the enthusiasm
apparent in my mother’s
sharp attention to all the practical
concerns: how long it takes
to drive from home, gas stations
or their lack upon the way,
the safe and unsafe speeds to wend
this single winding trail.
My wife steps out first and then
the rest of us stretch
and gaze about at this calming
scene, the handiwork
of masons resting under the oaks.
The stone church appears
to be locked tight, but a back door
guarded only by a blue-
bellied lizard opens and we enter.
There is much more here
than any of us had dared hope for:
kitchen, Sunday school
meeting room, an organ and piano,
and the simple solid altar
and cushioned pews the sanctuary
presents us with exceed
every expectation and demonstrate
the care of belief and duty
we might or might not find evident
in storied sacristies
housing relics of less humble
design. Attendance
figures from the Sunday before
show “38” adults on hand,
“15” children, and a collection
of “$143.85” with “$20”
added for building and grounds.
My father wants a picture,
and though my mother refuses to
pose for him, my wife
and I take turns standing behind
the sturdy Communion rail.
We head down the hill to Bigelow,
six miles away by road
—though the hawks we see rising
in the bright sky might
make the distance less than three—,
and my mother wonders aloud
why two small congregations are not
one, though she says she
would not rush either church toward
a change neither might want.
As we reach the bottom of Wye Mountain,
the rich flood plain for
the Arkansas River slopes through
stands of pine and tangles
of honeysuckle on to Toadsuck Ferry
where the now lock-and-dam
tamed waters are traversed much more
easily, though perhaps less
often since busy interstates have
cut off these back roads.
Bigelow approaches with promise
at first, a horse farm
shadowed back amidst the loblolly,
a cattle ranch with heavy
Bhraman hybrids sinking in a stock
pond’s cool mud. But as
we near the single railroad track
which marks this town as
here—along with its beige aluminum-
sided post office—houses
begin to seem to sway as much from
poor construction and
disrepair as from the humid heat.
Our first attempt to find
the church finds us turning around
at the mobile home assembly
yard that must be this town’s only
industry, though scattered
insulation and a cemetery of unused
metal frames appear to be
permanent monuments to prosperity
long past. A second try
leads us back and forth dead-end
one-way streets, but there
are few enough that by process
of elimination we end up
in front of what a weathered sign
tells us is the “United
Methodist Church,” though easily
we could have mistaken
the style of the scrawl painted
here for a “For Sale By
Owner” posting. With no apparent
parking site and the ditches
flanking the road choking with tall
weeds, I ease the car
onto the crossover leading up to
the white wooden building
which teeters on its cinderblock
foundation. The squat
steeple points toward heaven only
indirectly, seemingly
concerned in this world with
the thin shade in sight
some hundred yards away. My wife
and father get out, but
I remain with my mother, who now
gasps a bit from the close
air. She fans herself and tells
how this church has lost
members to death and relocation
the last decade, how fewer
than two dozen names appear on
the current roll—maybe
fifteen or twelve active members:
Not a growing ministry.
The job here would be staying
the decline and, perhaps,
attracting a new congregation,
though from where is—
at best—unclear. When my wife
and father return with
the word that the building is
locked, their survey
of the exterior is grim indeed:
rotting doors stacked
carelessly against the outside
of the church, mildew
and what unstained paint there is
flaking and peeling off
—an erratic layer of dandruff
spotting the surrounding
ground—, no visible electric lines,
—though a rusted-out
window unit belied the absence
of power—, and stairs,
front and back, warped and loose
and waiting for any
misstep to send someone tumbling.
“Someone should burn
it to the ground,” my father says,
despite forty-five years
working for and with the Methodist
Church. “If you’ve got
a match, I’ll do it right now.”
But my mother is calm.
She says this challenge is what
she prayed for. We all
wonder how this forgotten church
has kept its charter,
but slowly my mother’s resolve
takes hold of us doubters
until my father even begins saying
he will transfer membership
to this church, work with them
to clean and shore up
the damage. We drive back past
the chapel atop the hill
on our way home, understanding
a little more the devotion,
the need to serve which shapes
my mother’s calling.
A week later, the Bishop joins
my parents for their
introduction to the congregation
of ten at Bigelow and
the members of the church welcome
my mother and father.
Then the Bishop tells the church
how happy he is to find
them supportive of this newly
licensed minister on her
first appointment, and suddenly
the recognition strikes
them, they want to know what
the Bishop thinks he is
trying to pull on them, that surely
he doesn’t expect them
to receive sacraments from a woman.
Recounting this later,
my mother says, “It was as if I
were no longer there
the moment they realized I was,”
and her voice is weary,
even as she goes on to describe
her surprise at the beauty
of the sanctuary: six tapestries
resplendent on the walls
following the Gospel of Christ’s
nativity, His ministry,
the Last Supper, Gethsemane,
the Trial before Pilate,
and Calvary’s hill. New hymnals
rested beside dog-eared
Bibles in the plush red-velveted
pews. She said they had
polished the brass to impress their
new pastor, decorating
the heavy oak altar with yellow lilies
bowing beneath the dark
shining wood of the empty cross
suspended from the rafters.
