“Lillian,” I said as we reached the kitchen, “I’ve got to stop letting my mind wander all over the place. I seem to be doing a lot of that here lately, and it’s not healthy.”
“What you need is something to do till Mr. Sam get back, so why don’t you get busy and find it?”
“You’re exactly right. I do need something to do. But, Lord, Lillian, I’ve lived so long that I think I’ve already done everything I possibly can.”
“I don’t wanta hear no more grumblin’ ’bout how you gettin’ old. Just be glad you’re still gettin’ there.” Lillian poured a pot of beans into a bowl, steam rising about her head. “Think about that church ’cross the street. From what I hear it need all the help it can get.”
That set me back on my heels. If Lillian had heard gossip about the First Presbyterian Church of Abbotsville, then how many others had heard the same? It was not like me to let things get so far out of hand that internal church business became the topic of conversation around town.
“It’s certainly something to think about,” I said, realizing all of a sudden that when you got right down to it, my probem wasn’t age. It was boredom. And right then and there I determined that it was past time that I put my hand to the plow.
Chapter 2
Before he’d left on that hazardous trip of his, Sam had made me promise to stay out of trouble. “Don’t do anything foolish,” was the way he’d put it, so it had been easy to give my word. I never did anything foolish—ill-advised, perhaps, but never anything out-and-out foolish.
Actually, a big part of my current discontent, which Lillian had heard me moan about time and time again, was the fact that Sam was off on that highly unnecessary trip, traipsing around Europe at the same time that gangs of terrorists were doing the same thing.
I was sick with worry, but nothing would do but that he had to go. He was determined to see the great cathedrals—the French Gothic ones being high on his list—just the sort of landmarks that would also draw the interest of madmen bent on wanton destruction. And Sam was in and out of every one of them.
“Julia,” he’d said when he had first broached the subject, “honey, I am just fed up with the way the world is going. All our great accomplishments, which we love to boast about, boil down to little more than nuclear arsenals, satellites, cars, and more and more intricate and expensive devices—iPads, iPods, and iPhones that can be used to send pictures of naked people or to prey on children—what a legacy to leave! But that’s what our society has seen fit to build, and every last one of them is made to wear out or be used up or upgraded and replaced. And to top it off, every Tom, Dick, and Harry can tweet, Twitter, or e-mail half-baked opinions about everything under the sun and be listened to.”
Surprised by his strong feelings, I had sat quietly listening as he got it all off his chest, and he’d had plenty to get off.
“And, Julia,” he’d gone on, “that’s the sort of thing our generation and the ones coming after us are spending their lives doing—coming up with more and better ways to intrude on others or to get their names and faces on television—and half of them are high on legalized marijuana. I’m sick of it—I want to go see those grand, magnificent cathedrals that men spent their lives building—and not just their lives, but the lives of the following generations. Why, honey, some of those cathedrals took more than a hundred years to complete. And thousands of everyday men trudged to work every day to spend their entire lives working on something that they knew they’d never see finished. They did it not for their own glory or to put more money into corporate pockets, but for the glory of God, and, after centuries of wars, daily use, and weather of all kinds, those great monuments are still standing, still being used, and still awe inspiring.
“Think of the contrast,” he’d said, waving his arms. “Those Apple people and others like them come up every year or two with a new phone, just so their last one—also introduced with great fanfare—will be obsolete. I want to go see something that was built to last—and see it before some hate-driven maniac attacks it.”
I could understand that. My concern was that he’d be there when that hate-driven maniac decided to do it.
But off he went, and here I stayed. That wasn’t unusual. He’d taken long trips before while I’d stayed home—we were doing exactly what each of us wanted to do, which is exactly what makes a good marriage.
“Lloyd here, Miss Julia.” Lillian had glanced through the window and seen Lloyd crossing the yard to the back door. “Supper on the table in about two minutes.”
Lloyd, now a sophomore in high school, was staying with me while Sam was gone. He spent most of the day in classrooms, and the rest of it in extracurricular activities, getting home around dinnertime to eat and do his homework. But just to have him in the house, even though we both were sleeping during most of his free time, was a comfort and a joy.
“Hey, Miss Julia,” Lloyd said, unslinging his bulging backpack and dropping it to the floor. “Hey, Miss Lillian, I’m starving. Supper about ready?”
“More than about,” Lillian said. “I’m puttin’ it on the table right now.”
“Lloyd,” I said as we sat at the table and began to fill our plates, “do you think our society produces anything that will outlast us?”
“Huh?” The laden fork that was halfway to his mouth stopped short. “I mean, ma’am?”
“I’m talking about the big picture. What have we built or produced that will
