Even with the windows open, the church—which obviously had no AC—was very warm, and when she noticed everyone around her fanning themselves with their bulletins, she picked hers up and studied the image on the cover: it was a beautiful photo of a field with a setting sun behind it, and over the image were the words Well done, good and faithful servant. She opened it, and read the title, A Celebration of the Life of John (Jack) Matthew Tennyson, and then quickly scanned the page, looking at the different readings the family had chosen, and the names of speakers. She noticed the minister’s name listed across from “Reflections by the Minister” was Melinda Keck. She continued to study the bulletin, looking for Gage’s name, but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t see it. She did see Chase’s name, though, across from the traditional reading from Ecclesiastes . . . and across from the eulogy.
Promptly at 11 A.M., the church bell began to toll high up in the steeple, and a pretty, middle-aged woman wearing a long, black robe with a beautiful purple stole opened a door in the front of the sanctuary, and the whispering and murmuring in the church grew quiet as the Tennyson family walked in. Maeve peered over the heads in front of her—looking for Gage—and was surprised when he appeared first, pushing a wheelchair with an older gentleman in it. A slim, graceful woman with silver hair followed him, and behind her walked a man with salt-and-pepper hair—who looked like the photo she’d seen of Dutch—and then, three more of Jack Tennyson’s tall, blond-haired sons, their wives, and a host of towheaded grandchildren emerged. Coming through the door last were Liam and Chase.
Maeve took a deep breath and reached into her purse for a tissue—the service hadn’t even begun and she already had tears in her eyes. She watched Gage maneuver the wheelchair to the end of the first pew, adjust the light blanket on the man’s lap, and sit down next to him. The rest of the family filed in, too, filling two entire pews. Finally, the minister stepped up to the pulpit, and with a warm smile, welcomed everyone, and then invited them to stand—if they were able—to sing one of Jack’s favorite hymns, “The Old Rugged Cross.”
51
AS THE FIRST NOTES OF THE OLD HYMN DRIFTED OUT, GAGE OPENED HIS hymnal and offered it to his mom, and even though Libby knew the words by heart, she held her side of the book and sang softly, trying not to cry. Soon, the collected voices of the congregation swelled, along with the music from the organ, and Gage looked down and realized his grandfather’s weathered face was radiant as he mouthed the words, too. Gage nudged his mom so she would see her dad singing, and she shook her head, and whispered, “He’s having a really good day—seeing you has made such a difference.” She motioned to her brother, who nodded and smiled, too, and soon the entire family knew Dutch was singing. When the hymn ended, Gage gently squeezed his grandfather’s shoulder, and the old man reached out his gnarled hand shakily and patted Gage’s knee.
Meanwhile, up in the pulpit, Melinda closed her hymnal, set it to the side, and looked up. “I will never forget the first time I met Jack Tennyson. It was my first week as the new minister here, and a tall gentleman walked into the office. ‘Welcome, pastor,’ he said. ‘I never thought the search committee would go through with it, but they surely did!’ And after some pleasantries, he left, and I asked Jeannie—our faithful church secretary—what he’d meant, and she laughed. ‘I think he meant he didn’t think they’d ever hire a woman!’
“‘Oh!’ I said in surprise.
“Not long after, I learned that Jack was the patriarch of a family with six sons and the proprietor of a famous nearby farm with over five hundred dairy cows—or as Jack would say, ‘five hundred head of cattle,’ and I thought, holy cra . . . cow! That’s a lot of sh . . . manure!” Her words immediately broke the somber tension in the room and everyone chuckled. She smiled and continued, “But I also learned that, above all else, Jack Tennyson was a man of God . . . and a man of his convictions; he was always willing to lend a hand, no matter what the task . . . or how busy he was—whether it was serving communion, drying dishes, or . . .” she looked up and smiled—“donating and serving his family’s ice cream at our church suppers.
“In fact, whenever there was a project, Jack was the first to volunteer . . . the first to arrive . . . and the last to leave. He was every minister’s dream in a parishioner and in a fellow servant.” She paused and searched the faces of his family. “But that isn’t to say Jack was without some faults . . . because he was also definitely old-school. Jack’s interpretation of the Bible was literal, and he would defend his position by quoting countless verses from both the Old and New Testaments. But this didn’t mean that Jack couldn’t evolve . . . because he did! God threw some hard lessons Jack’s way, and through it all, he kept the faith, learned from those lessons, and persevered. He was the proverbial, pliable clay, and he allowed his master craftsman to mold him into the man we all loved so much.” She smiled. “Jack Tennyson was indeed a great man . . . and no one knows that better than his family.” She eyed Chase and smiled. “Now, I’d like to invite Jack’s youngest son up to read from scripture and share some memories that only a Tennyson boy would know.”
Chase—who was sitting on the far end of the second pew—smiled and stood up, and all the other Tennyson boys breathed quiet sighs of relief,
