The Blue Door

4



THE STUBBORN STREAK



A bent form scrabbled along a dank passage and slipped into a small chamber whose entrance was hidden in the cleft of a rock. “There’s a development, my lord,” he announced in a hoarse voice.

“What now, Dinge?” inquired a figure seated upon a heap of boulders in the center of the cave.

“I overheard some saying that a message has been delivered.”

His leader leaned forward, and a faint dissonance, like the sour note in a musical chord, echoed off of the walls. “To whom?”

“A fourteen-year-old girl.”

A misshapen shadow lurking in the pitch sneered, “Probably just a two-bit molly-coddler soothing away nightmares.”

“No,” snapped the news-bringer, drawing himself up importantly. “I would not waste our lord’s time on something so trivial.”

“What then?” prompted the leader on his tumbledown throne.

“A firsthand encounter,” Dinge revealed excitedly. “A message delivered in person.”

“Means nothing,” jeered the naysayer. “What’s a girl of that age going to do, huh?”

Dinge hissed his outrage. “Murque, you fool! Don’t you remember what happened the last time a message like this was dismissed?”

“Uhh … what?” he replied dimly.

“A virgin conceived,” smoothly replied their leader.

“What’re the chances that’ll happen again,” grumbled Murque, earning a scathing look from Dinge.

The central figure rubbed small circles against his temple with the tips of graceful fingers. “Which Messenger?”

“Harken.”

Their lord stilled. “Oh?”

“Yes, lord.”

“That definitely changes things,” he mused aloud.


The first Sunday of every month, First Baptist Church hosted a potluck dinner following the morning service. Prissie’s mother and grandmother were firm believers in bringing enough to feed your own family with some to spare, and since there were ten Pomeroys to account for, the procession from the parking lot to the church’s basement kitchen was always a long one.

Mr. Pomeroy and his three teenage boys were weighed down with piping hot pans wrapped in towels, and Zeke and Jude brought up the rear, swinging bags of Loafing Around’s famous dinner rolls. Grandma Nell took possession of the pie carrier, and Mrs. Pomeroy precariously balanced a platter of brownies on top of her Bible and notebook, though it was rescued by an usher and passed along to one of the efficient kitchen ladies as she walked through the door.

Milo was one of the greeters this Sunday, and he stepped forward with open hands and a warm smile. “Good morning, Miss Priscilla. Can I help?”

Prissie sailed right past him holding her nose and her rice pudding high. “I’ve got it, thanks,” she replied crisply.

The mailman let his hands fall to his sides as he bleakly watched her march toward the stairs leading down to the fellowship hall. Jayce, who’d been relieved of his burden by another kitchen lady, shook his head at his daughter’s stiff back, then strode over and casually addressed Milo. “Care to tell me what happened?”

“Sir?”

“I thought maybe the dinner at our place was a fluke, but my Prissie seems to have had a change of heart where you’re concerned.”

Milo winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I’ve disappointed your daughter,” he offered.

“In what way?” her father inquired. His tone was reasonable, but he looked every inch a man prepared to defend and protect his daughter.

“I believe she’s finally seen, well, sir, the age difference alone,” Milo offered uncomfortably.

“Sure, sure … I get it.” With a heavy sigh, Jayce dropped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It was kinda cute when she was little, the way she took a shine to you. Puppy love or whatever.”

The mailman shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Have you done anything you should be sorry for?” Jayce inquired, an edge back in his tone.

Milo quickly straightened and earnestly met the man’s gaze. “No, sir! Absolutely not.”

“Then stop looking so guilty,” Jayce urged. “Girls are just … girls. Naomi says it’s part of growing up.”

“I asked Harken for advice, and he believes everything will work for the good.”

“He’s a wise man,” Mr. Pomeroy mused. “The two of you kind of look out for each other, don’t you?”

“I rent a room over his shop, so we’re neighbors.”

“Love thy neighbor, and all that?” Jayce asked with a chuckle.

“And all that,” Milo agreed. “Sir, should I stay away from your family for a while?”

Prissie’s father absently tugged at his tie, his expression serious. “You’ve been a good friend ever since you moved to town, and I hate to see this kind of rift develop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, I don’t want you to suddenly disappear from our lives,” Jayce said decidedly. He glanced in the direction his daughter had disappeared. “Prissie’s a lot like my father; she’s not one to let go of a grudge quickly. If there’s any way to make up with her before her mind is set, I’d do it quickly.”

The strains of organ and piano drifted from the sanctuary, signaling the nearing of service time, and Milo smiled as he took a step back. “I will, sir. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“Your trust,” he replied, excusing himself with a polite nod.


In the kitchen, Prissie and Beau prowled the perimeter, assessing the other offerings with a practiced eye. The countertops were crowded with an assortment of glass casserole dishes and foil-topped pans, and crock pots vied for outlets. “Two kinds of meatballs,” she whispered.

“But three people brought baked beans,” her brother replied in a low voice. Giving her a small smile of triumph, he added, “And I only saw two lasagnas.”

“So far.” With a significant nod at the fridge, she reminded, “There’ve been more Jell-O salads lately, so Jude might win again.”

It was a game of sorts, with pot luck predictions made in the car on the way to church. The tally wouldn’t be official until they actually walked through the line at lunchtime, because there were always latecomers whose contributions threw everyone off.

Beau peeked under the foil covering a pan and wrinkled his nose at a broccoli casserole before casually lifting the corner on the next pan, which contained cheesy potatoes. “Say, Priss, how come you blew off Milo?”

“I didn’t blow him off; I just didn’t need his help.”

“I’ve heard about girls playing hard to get and stuff, but did you see the look on his face?”

Prissie sniffed. “I can’t say that I did.”

“Hmm,” Beau hummed distractedly, gazing critically at a pot of meatballs. “You know that look Jude gets if a hen pecks him when he’s gathering eggs?”

Immediately, Prissie’s littlest brother appeared in her mind’s eye. Jude loved the whole farm, but the hens were his special favorites. When he felt he’d offended one, he’d follow it around the yard, wide eyes brimming with unshed tears, apologizing. It was sweet and silly, because he wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone one of their flock.

Beau watched her face, then nodded. “Whatever he did, even if it was nothing, he’s sorry, and he wants to make up.”

“Do you mean Jude or Milo?” Prissie asked suspiciously.

Her brother just shrugged and edged closer to the fridge.

Grandma Nell bustled around the church kitchen, quite at home in the midst of the potluck chaos. She gave her grandchildren a knowing look, then pointed toward the door. “Out you get,” she ordered. “Service is starting!”

Prissie had never been more grateful for an excuse to retreat. “Yes, Grandma,” the siblings chorused and took off.


Milo didn’t sit near the Pomeroys that morning, but Prissie could see him on the other side of the sanctuary, standing behind Pearl’s husband, Derrick, and making faces at their eighteen-month-old daughter, Amberly. The mailman wasn’t the kind of person to stake out a favorite spot and sit there every week; he was always there, but never in the same place twice. All throughout the first two hymns, the little girl waved shyly at Milo, and Prissie thought it was cute, but sort of unsettling. Did the toddler know that the smiling man she was reaching for wasn’t what he seemed? More important, was it okay for him to trick her by pretending to be normal?

While she made a halfhearted stab at the second verse of a chorus, Prissie watched Milo like a hawk, unsure if her resentment was directed toward him or the child who had claimed his attention. Amberly giggled, and Pearl smiled on indulgently when the mailman held up a hand so the little girl could pat it; but then Milo seemed to sense Prissie’s gaze and turned his head. His happy smile faded, becoming something uncertain, and the expression looked so wrong on her usually carefree friend that Prissie had to look away.

Muffled thumps of closing hymnals and the shuffle of feet signaled that the congregation was taking their seats. Prissie carefully arranged her skirt and crossed her ankles before idly scanning the bulletin as one of the elders went through the announcements. It didn’t take long for her attention to drift.

First Baptist Church wasn’t as grand as the Presbyterian church on Main Street, but to Prissie’s way of thinking, it was everything a church was supposed to be. Traditional white clapboard, double doors, polished wood pews, and a cross on the wall behind the pulpit. They didn’t have stained glass windows, but the lady’s guild made beautiful banners that hung between the windows along each wall. They were changed out every month to fit the seasons, and for August, everything was in summery shades of green with snippets from the Psalms on them: “He shall be like a tree,” and “His leaf shall not wither.”

The soft rustle of pages alerted her that Pastor Albert Ruggles, or Pastor Bert as he liked to be called, had already taken the pulpit and given the morning’s text, so she stole a peek at Tad’s Bible to see where to turn.

In spite of the heat of the day, their pastor wore a navy blue suit and greeted them with a smile as sunny as the yellow of his tie. “If you’ll recall, we’ve spent the last few weeks in a study of the life of Abraham. This morning, we pick up his story in Genesis 18.

“Whenever people tell this story, they like to skip to the end … cut to the chase … deliver the punch line, as it were. They’ll tell you that this is the story of Sarah, the woman who laughed at God, and how the Lord got the last laugh. Sarah gives birth to a miracle baby, and they name him Isaac, which means laughter!” Pastor Bert chuckled, and a few titters came from the audience.

“It’s a wonderful story, and one I’m sure Isaac heard many times when he was growing up. But today, I’d like to back up and slow down, because if you look at this section of Genesis in a different way, it’s the story of two men, each visited by angels.”

Prissie’s wandering thoughts jolted to attention.

As her pastor recounted Abraham’s generosity toward the strangers who appeared on his lands, comparing it to Lot’s treatment of his angelic visitors, Prissie glanced Milo’s way, only to remember that he was downstairs, teaching Zeke’s class. She wondered if they were having the same lesson and decided to drill her younger brother about it later. Who better to teach about angels than an angel?

Prissie flipped through Genesis, skimming for more details about the angels and not having much luck. She was frustrated that the text didn’t go into more detail about the most interesting part of the account. When she finally tuned back into Pastor Bert’s sermon, he was wrapping things up. The pastor looked out over the audience and smiled. “To close, I’d like to remind you of the admonition in Hebrews 13:2 — ‘Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels.’

“That’s exactly what happened to Abraham and Lot, and it ties in nicely for us today. I believe this is a call to God’s people to be genuine in their generosity. Reach out to those around you, be they friend or stranger, and give them a smile, a helping hand, a listening ear, a kind word, a shared meal. You never know when you might be entertaining angels unaware.”


Afterward, Prissie followed Jude through the line, carrying his plate as he pointed to the foods he wanted to sample. Once he was perched on a chair next to Grandpa, she watched carefully, waiting for Pastor Ruggles to get into line and slipping into place behind him. He chatted amiably with one of the deacons, but when he finally picked up his silverware, she saw her opportunity. As he spooned chicken and rice onto his plate, she spoke up. “Excuse me, Pastor Bert?”

He glanced up and smiled. “Hello, Prissie. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you could answer a few questions, since you’re an expert on God and things.”

The pastor’s brown eyes warmed, but he didn’t laugh, for which she was grateful. “Well, let’s see, I don’t know about the ‘expert’ part, but I’ll do my best, young lady. What’s on your mind?”

“Angels, mostly,” she admitted, cutting a glance in Milo’s direction. “I guess I’m a little confused. I thought they mostly lived in heaven.”

“I’m sure they call heaven home,” he agreed. “But I suspect they leave from time to time, carrying out the Lord’s work.”

“They have jobs?” Prissie asked. “Like working in a store or as a teacher or something?”

He laughed softly. “Wouldn’t that be something? No, I meant that God has given them responsibilities. Some may spend their lives in heaven, singing the Lord’s praises, but others serve as messengers or guardians.”

“And observers?”

“Well, let’s see,” he mused aloud. “It does say in First Peter that they’re eagerly watching God’s plans play out in our lives — ‘things which angels desire to look into.’ I wonder what they find so fascinating, don’t you?”

“So they’re really real?” she whispered, half to herself. It was harder than she expected to mesh the Bible stories she’d grown up hearing with real life.

“Why, yes,” Pastor Bert said as he took a scoop of spaghetti hot dish, not noticing the way Prissie paled. “As real as you and me. They’re referred to throughout the Scriptures in a very matter-of-fact way, and those who encountered angels knew they were dealing with supernatural beings.”

Her questions felt stupid, but she needed to check. This was too important, too close to home to leave to chance. “Do you think they’re here in West Edinton?”

“Of course! They’re probably all around us — the unseen armies of heaven!” he replied enthusiastically.

“Oh,” she murmured, hugging her empty plate to her chest. “But wasn’t that mostly in Bible times? Nobody sees angels anymore, right? That would be strange.”

“Messengers from God may be rarer now because all we need to know can be found in the Scriptures,” speculated Pastor Bert. “Or maybe we’re like Elijah’s servant, and we don’t have eyes to see what’s all around us.”

The man reached the end of the serving table and picked up a glass of iced tea. “Anything else, Prissie?”

“One more question,” she begged. “What would you do if you saw an angel?”

“That’s a puzzler,” he said, gazing upward. “If I was face-to-face with an angel — or face to floor come to think of it,” he interjected with a wide smile. “There must be a reason they always introduce themselves with the words, ‘Fear not!’ “

“Yes they do that,” Prissie mumbled, trying not to fidget as she waited for his answer.

“From what I’ve read, angels don’t turn up without a reason,” said Pastor Bert. “If I had the incredible privilege of meeting an angel face-to-face, I believe I’d want to know if they had a message for me.”

She blinked. “Is that all?”

“All?” her pastor echoed incredulously. “Think for a moment! The messenger may be a dazzling angel, but the message is God’s! Whether it might be encouragement, direction, correction, or a call to action, I would definitely want to hear a personal word from the Lord!”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Prissie managed.

“One thing’s certain,” Pastor Bert concluded. “In the Bible, whenever someone met an angel, their life was never the same again!”

She wondered why he seemed to think this was a good thing.

“Well, little lady, if that’s all, I think you’d better give it another try.”

“Wh-what?” He chuckled and nodded at her empty plate. “Those are mighty slim pickin’s!”

“Yes, sir,” Prissie murmured, tacking on a belated, “Thank you.”

She returned to the end of the line, but only lingered for a moment. Confusion robbed her of her appetite, so she ducked into the kitchen to see if she could lend a hand. If what Pastor Bert said was true, she had nothing to fear from angels. On top of that, she’d already received a rare and precious message. The only problem was it didn’t make any sense.