Not This One

by Donna Poole

Ivy willed her muscles to relax. It didn’t work.

The padded seats in the church auditorium were comfortable, but Ivy always felt uncomfortable here. And this was her first time being here without Zoe.

She’d hardly recognized Zoe’s voice on the phone. “I’m sick, Ivy, but please go to church without me.”

“I’m not feeling the best myself. I might stay home too.”

Ivy knew it sounded lame, but it was true. The thought of going without Zoe made her stomach churn.

At the last minute she’d run her fingers through her hair, pulled on a pair of jeans, and gone to church.

The sermon had been good, but she’d been unable to relax. This was still so new to her. At this time a year ago, she’d stumbled into the city mission.

Zoe, a counselor, had greeted her. “Welcome! It’s a beautiful first day of spring, isn’t it?”

Ivy had responded with a four-letter word, puked, and passed out. Zoe had caught her on the way down.

How many times has Zoe caught me on the way down since that first time?

Ivy’s thoughts wandered as she sat in church. The sermon had ended, and they were having a praise and testimony time.

Zoe hadn’t flinched when she’d told her about her years of life on the streets. Zoe had stuck with her through the ups and downs of the drug and alcohol rehab programs. And Zoe had introduced her to Jesus.

You’ve come a long way, baby, Ivy thought.

But Ivy didn’t feel proud of herself. She’d made it through withdrawal and hadn’t touched a drink since. Some people had said she’d never be able to kick the Big C, but with counseling and God’s help, cocaine wasn’t her master anymore. But there was one addiction she hadn’t been able to overcome.

She’d complained often about it to Zoe. “Why can’t I quit smoking? I’m a Christian now. I have the power of the Holy Spirit in my life. I should be able to do this.”

“Be patient with yourself, Ivy. How many perfect Christians have you met so far?”

“You. You’re close.”

“You know better. You heard me yell at Doug when you were at our apartment the other day.”

They’d laughed and hugged.

No, Zoe isn’t quite perfect, but I sure wish she was sitting next to me now instead of this stranger. I know I reek of cigarettes. She’s probably judging me.

Ivy had picked an aisle seat, so she’d only have to sit next to one person, and she hadn’t even looked at the woman. But she supposed she looked like most of the other people in this church, a throwback to the 1950s. Her seatmate had arrived quite late.

Ivy tried to pay attention to the testimonies. An older man was talking.

“I wasn’t sure I’d live to see the new building project completed. I’ve been praying for years for this. God is such a good God; isn’t he?” He paused, pulled out a hankie, and wiped his eyes.

He sounds sweet. I wish I’d had someone like him in my life instead of all the foster parents. I might be a different person. I should chew gum. It might help my nicotine breath.

Ivy reached in her bag for her gum and jammed her fingernail into the edge of her wallet. Two things happened. Her nail bent back causing excruciating pain, and Ivy swore.

The expletive wasn’t a cowboy swear word; it was a nastier one that had been part of her street life. Ivy hadn’t used it in a year, but out it came now. And it was loud.

A woman two rows ahead of her stood up and gestured to her three daughters to follow her. The four of them looked like ads for Mary Kay makeup, but the mother’s face was disfigured with anger.

She stopped and glared at Ivy. “I try to protect my daughters from language like that, and I don’t appreciate them hearing it in church. I hope the leadership here does something about you, or we won’t be back. Come, girls.”

And the entourage swept out of the auditorium.

The frail old man giving his testimony began praying and raised his voice louder. “And in addition to your grace in supplying the money for the new building, Lord, I want to thank you for loving sinners, because no one in this building is a bigger sinner than I am.”

Despite his kind words Ivy felt she must have offended everyone in the place. She wanted to get up and leave, but her shaking legs refused to move.

I don’t want to cry. I won’t cry. I will not cry.

But her face was wet, and she could hear her own sobs. The pastor was closing in prayer. She felt a hand cover her own.

When the prayer finished Ivy still sat there with her head bowed, praying.

Lord God, I don’t belong here in your church. This place is for good people. I’m not good people. I promise you I won’t come into your holy place ever again.

She kept praying. Suddenly, she realized the auditorium was quiet and empty, but a hand was still holding hers.

“Hey!” a voice said. “I’m Daphne. Want to talk?”

She shook her head.

“You sure?”

She looked at Daphne’s face, expecting to see another perfect Mary Kay rendition. Instead she saw messy red curls that looked like they’d never been combed, a smudge of peanut butter on a cheek, and mascara smudged eyes.

It was too much. Ivy no longer had any control of her emotions. She laughed.

“What?” the puzzled woman asked.

“You…” Ivy gasped. “You have peanut butter on your face.”

“Oh,” the woman grinned. She was beautiful, despite a gap between her two front teeth. She wiped the peanut butter with a tissue.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk, I will. I had a wum dinger of a morning.”

Ivy was still giggling. “You mean a hum dinger?”

“Call it what you want, I had it! I bet my mascara’s a mess too, isn’t it?”

Ivy stopped laughing. “Maybe a little, but you still look nice.”

“In these clothes?”

Ivy’s eyes widened. The woman was wearing a denim skirt and what looked like a red flannel pajama top with snowmen on it, an unusual choice for the first day of spring.

“Yep. This is a pajama top. We have a new baby, and the laundry kind of gets away from me. I started a load of laundry this morning after I got dressed for church. The washer sprung a leak, and water ran all over the floor. I mopped that up; it took every towel we had. Then I decided to finish my coffee and somehow managed to spill it down the front of my shirt. The baby is teething; he was screaming, and I was crying. Mom stopped by and told me she’d stay with the baby, and I should go to church. I told her I couldn’t; I didn’t have anything clean but one pajama top.

“‘So?’ Mom says, ‘you think God cares what you wear? Go to church.’ So here I am. Why don’t you come home with me for dinner. I’m sure Mom’s fixed something good, and I think my husband’s getting hungry.”

She nodded toward the back.

Ivy looked. The only man standing there was the pastor, looking professional in a suit. She looked again at Daphne’s messy hair, smudged mascara, and pajama top.

The words came out before she could stop them. “You two don’t look like you go together.”

“Oh, we do, believe me. We make a great pair.”

“But aren’t pastor’s wives supposed to dress to impress?”

“Not this one.”

“And aren’t they supposed to sit in the front of the church?”

“Not this one.”

“And why would they invite such a terrible Christian as I am to dinner?”

Daphne smiled. “How would I know what kind of Christian you are?”

“Oh, come on. I know you can tell I smoke. And don’t pretend you didn’t hear the word I said.”

“Oh, I heard it. I think everyone did.”

Tears sprang to Ivy’s eyes again. “Then how can you say you don’t know I’m a terrible Christian?”

“Look, I don’t know your story. For all I know it might take more of God’s grace for you to keep from shouting a four-letter word every Sunday than it takes for my husband to get up there and preach his sermon. And if anyone in this church is a terrible Christian, I’d bet it’s a certain person who walked out, not you.” Daphne snapped her fingers and sighed. “Now I’m judging. Please forget I said that. I don’t know Mrs. Mary Kay’s background either. But I have a hard time with pharisee people. I’m more of a publican one myself.”

“What’s a pharisee? And if you’re a republican and all political, forget me. I haven’t voted in years.”

It was Daphne’s turn to laugh. “I said I was a publican, not a republican. I could explain over dinner. Are you coming or not?”

“You want your house to smell like cigarettes?”

 Daphne shrugged. “There are all kinds of addictions. I eat too much chocolate. Hey, did you know Charles Spurgeon smoked?”

“Who?”

“He was a famous Baptist preacher.”

“In this church?”

Daphne laughed again.

“We have lots of interesting things to talk about. You really should come home for dinner. You can tell me your story if you want. If not, I’ll tell you about pharisees, publicans, and why Spurgeon quit smoking. And be glad Mom fixed the food. I’m a terrible cook.”

“Aren’t pastor’s wives supposed to be good cooks?”

“Not this one.”

The man in the back hollered, “Daphne, bring your new friend and come already! I’m about to die of hunger.”

“We’re coming,” Daphne called back.

She looked at Ivy. “Aren’t we?”

Ivy hesitated only a moment longer. “We are.”

Daphne pulled her to her feet. Ivy noticed there was still a smudge of peanut butter on Daphne’s face.

I’ve regretted accepting some invitations, but I have a feeling I won’t today. Not this one.