Devoted Heart - A Modern Nativity
Chapter 9
Nine
I didn’t expect my dad to believe, and he didn’t.
Miracle dreams and guest appearances by angels were just a little too much to swallow. Nobody doubted God could part the Red Sea or perform all that other stuff in the Bible . . . He just never did it today, not on our watch
.
That didn’t mean Dad didn’t support us. He liked Mary. And, if in her naive innocence, she’d been seduced by some guy and was now doing her best to protect him, well, that was her business. And mine. If it’s what I wanted, Dad would be there to watch my back . . . even if it meant punching out some punk at the mill.
The thought still made me smile.
And Mom? She was a tougher sell. Still, she did her best to be civil—even when she felt her boy was falling for a line of . . . well, she was too polite to use the real phrase, but we all knew what she meant when she said, “Bovine feces.”
The wedding would be small, not because of embarrassment, but because that was Mary’s style. A quiet celebration with just her family and closest friends. Yes, there would be flowers and music and whatever else our two mothers needed, but for Mary all she wanted was to be with those she loved in the church she loved. Oh, and to be married in her mother’s wedding dress. As a little girl, more than once she’d been busted for sneaking into the back of her mom’s closet and trying it on. Sure, they’d have to make a few alterations, particularly in the baby bump area, but she’d asked for so little—to be married in the dress of the woman she loved, by the father she loved, in the church she loved.
It was that last point that started all the problems . . .
Not with her dad. To be honest, McDermott probably felt like he was eating crow every time he stepped out the front door. But he never stopped believing in us — even without the help of angels. No, it wasn’t the good Pastor, it was his church—less than two weeks before the wedding.
According to McDermott, the leaders or deacons or whatever they’re called, had summoned him to an emergency meeting. When he got there, they were already sitting around, sober-faced, at a long table down in the church’s kitchen. Six men. No women. Brent Wilson, the head guy, broke the news. He was perfectly dressed like he always was—wool sweater, color coordinated tie, freshly pressed Dockers . . . and a face so scrubbed it practically glowed. “I’m sorry, Pastor,” he said. “But as much as we love you and your family, as much as we support your leadership, we cannot allow the wedding of your daughter to be performed on the premises.”
McDermott, a poker player though he’d never touched a card, simply looked at him. “Because?” he asked.
Wilson answered, “Because of the testimony to the community, to the members of the church.”
Martin Henderson, taller, thinner, but just as scrubbed, added, “It’s imperative we don’t give the impression that we are somehow endorsing pre-marital sex.”
McDermott answered, “No one here’s endorsing—”
“Exactly,” Wilson said. “To hold a ceremony on the premises as if there was nothing in the world wrong with that type of behavior sends a message that neither you, nor the congregation would want to endorse.”
“But kids are having babies out of wedlock every day,” McDermott said.
“My point exactly.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re endorsing it. No one’s endorsing it. Mary isn’t endorsing it.”
Wilson looked down at the table. Cleared his throat. “Mary is a role model for the young people in this church. Teaching Sunday school since she was in middle school, working with the youth—”
Henderson eagerly interrupted. “A role model for the entire community.”
Others around the table agreed.
Wilson continued, “All the more reason we have to be careful how we handle this . . . situation.”
McDermott sat there, waiting. He figured there was more, and he wasn’t wrong.
Wilson continued. “That’s why we feel there is a solution. I mean we all know how much your daughter loves this church, how devoted she is to-”
“A solution?” McDermott said.
“Yes.”
“Which is?”
“If Mary would come before the congregation. If she would stand before the congregation and publically confess her sin, if she would make it clear that—”
“No.”
“Make it clear that her behavior was—”
“No.”
Wilson stopped, didn’t have to wait long for clarification.
“My daughter will not be publicly humiliated.”
Looks were traded around the table.
Henderson pressed in. “Pastor, what we are offering is a reasonable solution that everyone—”
“My daughter will not be put on display.”
Wilson chose his words carefully. “Every day your daughter comes to this church she is on display.”
McDermott took a deep breath. He told me later that he’d almost lost it. But I guess you learn a few things about patience being a pastor all those years. “Brent,” he kept his voice calm and even. “You and I, we started this church . . . 24 years ago from a small Bible study in my home. We’ve poured our lives into it. My family has poured their lives—”
“No one here is doubting your sacrifice.”
McDermott looked around the table. “I’ve married some of you here. And your kids. Josh, we just buried your mother.” Eyes faltered, examined the top of the table. “Mary grew up in this church. You’re our family.”
Silence, except for Wilson’s quiet cough.
“No.” McDermott shook his head. “You will not make an example of my daughter. You will not shame her in front of the congregation to satisfy—”
“Your daughter has already done that,” Henderson said. “She’s already shamed herself.”
Talk about a low blow. McDermott could have easily exploded, thrown a chair or two, turned over a table. But he didn’t. Somehow, he kept it together. He never told us the rest of the story. Or how the meeting ended. But they should be grateful it was him sitting across that table and not my old man. Or me.
Later that evening, when he broke the news, when we all sat in his living room, Mary never said a word. She nodded, she briefly touched her eyes, and that was that. I didn’t learn ‘til later that ever since middle school she’d been secretly rehearsing walking down the aisle of the church.
The news broke Mary’s heart. But not her faith.
And mine? I wasn’t sure what it did. It certainly didn’t make me a fan of church goers. And God? All I could do was ask, “Why? Why, if she was so special, if He loved her so much, why did He make things so hard?”
He never answered. At least then. And it only got worse.
Another week passed. We’d agreed to have the ceremony in the old grange hall. Same guests, same decorations, same dress . . . until the registered letter from McDermott’s denominational headquarters arrived. Brent Wilson and his band of self-righteous twits were not content to bar the wedding from the church. They used the same arguments to bar McDermott from performing the wedding:
“An embarrassment to the denomination,” the letter said. “An endorsement of sin.” But something that could, “easily be remedied if Mary would simply confess her sin, if not publically, then in an open letter to the congregation.”
That’s when McDermott hit the ceiling. He may have a longer fuse than me or Dad, but the explosion was just as intense.
He called for another family meeting—same living room, same chairs, same sofa, but with the addition of a lit powder keg. The man’s voice wasn’t any louder, but the bulging veins in his neck and the crimson red of his cheeks said things had definitely escalated.
Mrs. McDermott saw the clues, tried in vain to settle him down. “I’m sure Reverend Katzenberger, just down the street, would step in,” she said. “He’s been a friend since before Mary was born.”
“No.” His voice was ominously quiet.
“Or Dr. Cooke, we always enjoy having him—”
“No.”
“Sweetheart.” There was no missing her concerned tone. “We can’t—”
“I am marrying my daughter.”
“But—”
“It’s what we’ve always planned, it’s what we will do.”
I felt Mary’s body tense beside me. “Dad,” she said, “it’s not important enough to go against the Council. You know what they’ll—”
“No.”
“I’m just saying it’s—”
“I will marry my daughter.” He still didn’t shout, but somehow his voice was louder than if he had. And that’s when I began understanding where Mary got her will.
“Mrs. McDermott tried one final time. “If they defrock you, if they take away your license, what—”
“Enough!” This time he did shout. More of a roar. “The wedding is in 48 hours and nothing will stop me from marrying my daughter!”
The room grew silent.
But there was something that would stop him. Something even stronger than his love, his iron will . . . and even his faith.
What do you think Mary was thinking when faced with the conflicts surrounding her pregnancy?
Copyright © 2017 Bill Myers
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