All Mortal Flesh

was going to be assigned to St. Alban’s.”

“Oh, no, no,” Clare said. “I mean-yes, they did let me know. In person. I just haven’t had my coffee yet.” She made a noise that was meant to convey self-deprecating amusement but wound up sounding like she was clearing her throat. “Why don’t we go into my office? We can chat there. Lois, will you hold my calls?”

She ushered Deacon de Groot down the hallway and into her office. The room had the usual accoutrements one would expect of a rector: a bookshelf filling one wall, a large and graceful quarter-sawn oak desk, two chairs flanking a fireplace, and a sofa not far away, complete with boxes of tissues close at hand for people in counseling.

However, there were some unique touches as well. The two chairs were salvage from a WWII-era destroyer’s admiral’s quarters. The wall behind the desk was hung with framed aviation sectional maps. Interspersed among books on theology and pastoral care were mementos such as a photo of a much younger Clare and her crew in Kuwait, an Apache helicopter clock whose rotors ticked away the minutes, and a flight helmet.

“My goodness,” the new deacon said. “This is positively bristling with martial energy. I take it you were a pilot? In the army?”

Clare unscrewed the Thermos of coffee she always brought to work. “Yes.” She breathed in the steam as she poured herself a mug. She waggled her clean Virginia Episcopal Seminary mug toward the other woman. “Would you care for some? It’s dark-roasted Sumatran. I grind it myself.”

De Groot smiled apologetically. “I’m not a coffee drinker. Do you have any tea?”

Clare gritted her teeth. God save her from tea drinkers. Always with the water not hot enough and the soggy little bags dripping. “Let me get Lois on that for you,” she said. She picked up the phone and buzzed the secretary. “Lois, will you make a pot of tea for Deacon de Groot?” She hung up quickly enough to avoid Lois’s answer.

“So, what were we talking about? The room. Yeah, when I first got here, I just wanted lots of my favorite things around me. But I’ve come to realize the novelty value helps to break the ice when people meet with me.” Clare gestured toward the chairs. “Like now.”

De Groot took a seat, her pleasant little smile unchanging as she eyed Clare’s DEATH FROM THE SKY! mug. “I realize this must have come as a shock, Ms. Fergusson. Going off for a week’s retreat and getting home to a new deacon.”

“Please, call me Clare. And are you Beth? Liz?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth.” Of course. “I can’t lie, it was a surprise. I didn’t hear from Willard Aberforth until yesterday afternoon.” She propped an enthusiastic look on her face. “But I’m looking forward to working with you,” she lied.

“Oh, thank goodness. I feel just the same way. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about all the energy and innovation you’re bringing to this parish.”

I just bet you have. “Since you know more about St. Alban’s than I do about you, maybe you can tell me how you see your role here. You’ll be helping me out with services and…?”

De Groot beamed. “Oh, there’s so much more that a deacon can do besides assist during services! This is a good example of how I believe I can be most of service to you. I want you to think of me as a repository of knowledge. Church culture, church tradition, church law-I’m here to give you the information you need to do the best possible job you can.”

Clare set her mug down so the winged rattlesnake would be visible to her new deacon. “I do have a master’s in divinity,” she pointed out.

“And I have a doctorate. But really, what is book learning compared to experience? I’m sure you feel you’ve learned more in the past two years than you did during your whole time in seminary!”

In the past two years, Clare had been shot at, crashed a helicopter, nearly drowned, and had her car blown up. Oh, yes-and had fallen in love with a man as inaccessible as the moon. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d have to agree with that.”

“That’s what I can supply. The experience. There’s at least one advantage to getting to my age!” Elizabeth’s laugh was both self-deprecating and musical.

Every possible response Clare could come up with sounded snotty, so she held her tongue. “What else do you see yourself doing here at St. Alban’s? Besides being a font of wisdom?”

“Oh, you’re funny!”

A kick to the half-open door swung it wide. Lois stood there, balancing a tray loaded with a china teapot, matching cups and saucers, and a silver sugar bowl and creamer. “Tea is served,” she announced.

“Thank you, Magenta,” Clare said under her breath. She smiled. “Great. Let’s put it here on the table-”

Lois was already lowering the tray. She faced Clare directly and whispered, “Don’t get used to this.”

Elizabeth was exclaiming over the china.

I owe you one, Clare mouthed. With their guest fussing with the tea and the cream, Lois walked backward out of the room. Clare didn’t think she had ever seen anyone bow sarcastically before.

“Okay. Getting back to the subject at hand-”

“Of course. What else can I do to be of assistance? Let’s see. I have a master’s in counseling. I used to be a teacher, so I have a special interest in all aspects of Christian education. At St. Stephen’s, I worked extensively in parish development and volunteer coordination. And at Bethesda Church in Saratoga, I led the capital campaign to restore their historic bell tower.” She smiled brightly at Clare.

“Wow.” Clare couldn’t think of what to say to that litany of accomplishment. “I mean that. Wow. Why aren’t you a priest?”

For the first time, Elizabeth de Groot looked less than serene. “I’ve actually been up before the Discernment Committee several times.” She fingered her collar. “They seem to feel I just haven’t had… an authentic call.”

Clare felt her cheeks pink up. She had been silently carping at the woman, and now Elizabeth’s honesty shamed her. “It seems to me you have been called. To do what you’re doing now.”

The deacon set down her china teacup. “Well, I’m certainly not going to sit around moping about what can’t be.” Her voice was brisk. “And I believe it gives me a sensitivity toward-a reverence for the role of priest that will help me help you.”

Several alarm bells went off in Clare’s head. “Uh, just so you know, I’m not really comfortable with the whole reverence thing. Ordination didn’t suddenly make me a better and nicer person.”

Elizabeth smiled indulgently. “You remind me of some of the first-time parents I used to meet when I was teaching. They often felt insecure about using their natural authority with their kids. Accepting where you are in the hierarchy takes time and experience.”

“I was in the army for ten years. Believe me when I say I don’t have any problem with authority. I just don’t want to be stereotyped into something I’m not.”

“You don’t feel you have any problems establishing your control over your parish?”

Control. Good God. “Leadership isn’t a matter of control,” Clare said. “Leadership is infusing the people around you with trust and confidence and expectations, so that when you move in one direction, they follow.”

“What about the bishop?”

“What about him?”

“Do you have any problems with his authority over you?”

“I don’t see how that-” Clare was saved from making a rude remark by Lois’s appearance in her doorway.

“There’s somebody here to see you.”

“I’m in a meeting.” Clare’s voice was tight. “They’ll have to wait. Or call for an appointment.”

“No, you have to see her now.”

Lois’s tone caught Clare’s attention. The secretary’s face was drawn taut, her lips pressed bloodlessly together.

“Okay,” Clare said. “Elizabeth, please excuse me.” She stepped into the hallway. “What is it?”

Lois gestured down the hall, to the door leading into the sanctuary. “Just… go.” She retreated into Clare’s office. Clare could hear her asking de Groot how the tea was.

Clare walked toward the church with a rapidly coalescing mass of dread filling her stomach. It had to be bad news. But not a parishioner. She had had parishioners sicken, be injured, die. Lois would have told her the details. She wouldn’t have been so shaken. It had to be something personal.

Oh, God, what if it was her father? He owned a small aviation business, he flew nearly every day-what if