Her Appearing: A Love Story

By Donald G. Hanway

Father Del Carnation, the only Episcopal priest in a midsize Midwestern community, is fighting his way back from depression after the tragic loss of his wife, when he suddenly finds a new love interest. In the midst of his people-rich work environment, he tries to secure some private space for courting Rachel, an African-American who stands out in this "white bread" setting, and not only for her looks. Her appearing in his life produces a ferment of hopes and difficulties. Is she the companion he has been seeking?
Del sees himself as living in three worlds at once: the world of relentless work demands, the world of God's empowering Spirit, and the world of his own unfulfilled longing. Are these worlds opposed, or may they join forces for blessing?
HER APPEARING is a story about the power of love at work in our lives. It is a tale not just about a man looking for love, but about the love that is looking for us, and how we come to recognize the love that is already here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595625604

Donald G. Hanway

Father Don Hanway is an Episcopal priest, mostly retired after 32 years of parish ministry. He is a movie buff, occasional golfer, incurable romantic, and observer of contemporary culture. A Vietnam veteran, he has three children, six grandchildren, and has been married for 42 years.

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PROLOGUE

O n a warm January Monday in 2007, at 11:30 a.m., I was sitting in my customary corner booth at The Autumn Leaf, my favorite café in Exeter, when the new waitress suddenly appeared, wheeling around the corner from the kitchen, looking sharp in her starched yellow uniform dress. She was tall, African-American, and swayed as she walked, comfortable with her striking physical presence. As she approached me, order pad at the ready, I could read her name tag: Rachel. Meanwhile she was reading mine—Father Del Carnation—as I, too, was in uniform: all black except for my white clerical collar, a silver cross chain around my neck and disappearing into a shirt pocket—traditional penguin garb for a more-or-less traditional 44-year-old parish priest in this growing Midwest community of 59,000 souls.

Rachel was light-skinned, attractive, her hair done up in a bun, and looked to be in her mid-30s. She smiled and said, Are you ready to order, Father?

I smiled back. I’ll have the smoked turkey and Swiss on whole wheat, with a large glass of iced tea—lots of ice, lots of lemon—and garden salad with Ranch dressing.

I’ll have that right out. She was not rushed, but did not linger. I enjoyed watching her exit as much as I had enjoyed watching her entrance.

When she returned with the tea moments later, she said, Father Del Carnation—you’re not Catholic, are you? I see you’re wearing a wedding ring. She was quick. I liked that.

Nope—Episcopal, I said. My wife died three years ago.

I’m sorry. I’ll get your salad. She was off again. When she returned, she asked: Are you a long-time resident here?

Ten years. And you?

I just moved here recently to look after my aunt. I’m trying to save money for graduate school.

I wanted to continue the conversation, but other customers were coming in. She dropped off my sandwich soon after that, and later the check, after confirming that I would pass on dessert. I left a generous tip at my place.

Mabel, the 60-ish manager who never smiled, rang up my ticket. I said, Good to see you have some help. She grunted, then surprised me with a cryptic observation: She’s going to be very popular.

CHAPTER ONE

I t was 8:00 Wednesday morning, and I was sitting on the capacious black leather couch in the office of Karen Rohrbaugh, clinical psychologist and for the past three years, my grief counselor.

When I had first sat here on Karen’s couch, overwhelmed by loss, images of Marcy’s mangled car and lifeless body flashing strobe-like in my mind, the loneliness of the quiet rectory where I spent my off-duty hours had become a whirlpool threatening to pull me under. The question I posed to myself these days was not How do I cope with the pain and keep going? but Will a new beginning ever be possible for me here? I was seen as highly marriageable, but maybe not on my terms.

My mind flashed back to a recent potluck dinner at the parish, St. Martin of Tours, when a few of the senior ladies had been teasing me about my single status. Ethel, the acknowledged leader, had said, Father Del, I have a niece you might like to meet. She’s about your age and comes to Exeter every now and then. I’d be happy to introduce you. My response was prompt and firm: Thanks, but I don’t have a lot of time for dating right now. I wonder if they have any idea that Amanda is on my trail? Amanda Colley was thirty, a single parishioner whose church attendance had greatly improved in the past year. Although she was gorgeous and sexy, her forwardness made me nervous. If anyone knew she was after me, then probably they all knew and were wondering why I hadn’t taken the bait.

Now I looked into Karen’s friendly face, as she sat in her swivel chair, professional in her tailored suit. She was about forty and married, not a love interest, but a reassuring presence in my life. There was no one else in Exeter to whom I felt free to talk about my feelings. I continued to see her twice a month, and there was always a lot to process in our hour together. I had great trust in her, but had resisted her suggestion to accept some pharmaceutical relief for my lingering depression. After all, I was still functioning at a pretty high level as preacher and pastor, and I had others to help me in running the parish.

Karen leaned forward in her swivel chair and waited expectantly for me to indicate where we might be going in our session. When I didn’t respond right away, she said, You look like you haven’t had your coffee.

I was the only Episcopal priest in Exeter, and Karen knew that my pastoral concern extended beyond the boundaries of my parish membership. That made for some pastoral demands that were above and beyond the strict call of duty. I sighed in response to her observation.

Yeah, I almost rescheduled. Got a call at 2:00 a.m. from Frank Adams. Chris hasn’t been home in a couple of days. Frank and Mary are worried.

Isn’t Chris a junior in high school this year?

Right. I went over to the house after Frank called, and Mary was still sitting up. We agreed that if Chris doesn’t show up today, it’s time to talk to the police.

So you didn’t get much sleep, but you still dragged yourself out of bed this morning to see me. Is it your concern about Chris?

No, actually it isn’t. I’ve met someone—sort of. And it’s churning in my head.

What do you mean, you’ve ‘sort of’ met someone?

I had put my feet up on the couch for comfort, but now swung them back to the floor. I said, It’s the new waitress at The Autumn Leaf. Her name is Rachel, and I would guess she is in her mid-thirties. She’s African American, which really stands out in this town. I don’t know much about her yet, but she is very attractive, and I think very smart. She has a nice sense of humor.

I flashed back to Tuesday lunch. Once again, I was just ahead of the noonday rush. It was only her second day, and already it was Rachel’s turf. Here she came, moving with grace and confidence. Referring to my name tag, she had said, "I see Carnation is in."

In the flesh.

And the Word to be made flesh today is…? she coaxed.

The word today is pasta, with a sauce of thanksgiving for your kind ministrations.

Hey, I’m flirting! It’s lame—I’m so out of practice.

She parried, Why don’t I bring you a salad first—and iced tea with double lemon?

Perfect.

Karen brought me back. What do you mean, ‘very attractive’?

She’s tall and curvy, and has a kind of sensual quality.

You mean you think she is sexually appealing.

The thought had crossed my mind.

What are you going to do about it?

What do you mean, ‘do about it’?

You’re not just going to daydream, are you? Are you going to get to know her better—maybe ask for a date?

Come on, Karen, it’s tough enough for me, just flirting! You know that even though I get up in front of people every Sunday, I’m really very shy!

Yes, and you’re also very lonely. I know you’re not averse to taking a risk now and then. How risky would it be to ask her for a chance to get better acquainted? Maybe you could find out what she likes to do—hobbies and so forth. It’s time for you to move from the world of fantasy to the world of reality.

As she said that, I flashed backward again, this time to our previous therapy session, when I had verbalized perhaps more clearly than ever my struggle to balance my outer life with my inner life. I had told Karen that I was daydreaming a lot, alternating between work immersion and mindless diversions like TV. I had said, I live in three worlds, and I often wonder which one is most real—or whether all three are part of a larger truth.

The three worlds are…. Karen had prompted.

The world of reality, as most people think of it, where people are hurting, chores have to be done, and someone is always after me to do something; the world of the Spirit, where God reigns, intersecting with this world in prayer, sacrament, and other forms of grace; and the world of fantasy, the world of unfulfilled longing, of dreams that probably can’t come true, because they may not be God’s dreams.

I snapped back to the present, and rose to the challenge of Karen’s question.

Oh, boy. I’d like to, I said, but I’m chicken.

O.K., let’s talk through your fears a little bit. What do you think she might say if you said something like this: ‘You know, Rachel, I enjoy talking to you, and would like to have a chance to get to know you better’?

I think she’d look me over and say to herself something like this: ‘He’s ten years older than I am, starting to lose his hair, would barely be able to look me in the eye if we were dancing, and he’s not that powerful or cute.’

What do you mean, ‘not powerful’?

I mean, not a man’s man—just an average guy.

"You might be a ladies’ man," Karen joshed.

I wish!

What if the things she is looking for are not superficial things? Karen pressed. What do you think a guy like you might have to offer?

I could help her with her prayer life. I could answer some of her questions about the Bible. I could be supportive if she were going through a crisis. But suppose she is just looking for a good time?

Do you think you could make her laugh?

I think I almost did.

That could be a clue.

A clue?

As to how to get on her wavelength.

I’m sure lots of customers flirt with her or drop hints that they’re interested. Why should she pay any attention to me, beyond trying to keep a customer happy?

You’re not going to do your ‘Poor Del’ number on me now, are you?

The question stands: Why should she seriously consider me?

Because you’re not just looking to get her in the sack. You can offer her some depth and maybe some real companionship—if you decide she’s someone who wouldn’t bore you. Maybe your inner worlds are compatible.

"I would like to get to know her better."

What time of day do you usually go to The Leaf? Karen asked.

I eat my dinners there, three or four nights a week. I often eat lunch there, and sometimes breakfast.

When is her shift?

I think it must vary. I’ve seen her there both at lunch and at dinner, but not every day. I didn’t see her there the two times I recently went for breakfast.

Did you go for breakfast just to see if she was there?

Busted.

Karen laughed, then turned serious. She was sitting up very straight now, not leaning on the arm of her chair. I don’t usually coach you like this, but why don’t you try dropping in for coffee, maybe around three in the afternoon?

Why?

It should be slower then. She might have more time to visit when she waits on you.

It’s awkward when she’s standing up, and I’m sitting down. I don’t know if Mabel would let her sit down.

Aren’t there seats over at the counter?

Yes, but then Mabel might wait on me.

Start in your booth, then move to the counter. Say you want to look at the pie. Won’t Rachel go with you then?

She might.

Ask her what she likes to read. Ask her if she has had any time to go to the movies lately.

Then what?

You like movies. Invite her to see one that you’re excited about.

Do you know what it’s like for a guy like me to try dating in this town?

No, what’s it like?

I haven’t tried it yet. But I have a vivid imagination. You know what the grapevine’s like around here!

Karen agreed: "Interracial dating with a younger woman would give them a lot to talk about. But what about going out of town—say, up the road to Parkersville? They have a new multiplex."

Wow! First date, and she’s already out on the road alone with me? What if she has a kid at home?

Babysitters—you pay.

You’re closing all the exits, aren’t you?

I’m not letting you off the hook. When you walked in here this morning you were dragging. Now your feet are on the floor, and you have more energy, more excitement, than I’ve seen in you in three years. I’m just giving you a little encouragement. Don’t talk yourself out of this one, Del.

You’re going the extra mile for me today.

The journey of a thousand miles….

Begins with my first step—I know. I’m not going to insult your effort by saying ‘You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about.’ These last words I spoke in a phony voice, just to get the laugh I knew was coming.

"See—you can make me laugh."

Thank you, I said. I’m glad I dragged myself over here this morning. Of course, I’m always glad to make the effort. You’re a good person, Karen, not just a good therapist.

I appreciate your kind words, she smiled. And I’ll be eager to hear how it goes.

"Sometime I’ll have to ask who you dump on."

She was serious now. As all therapists should, I do see someone. And yes, I do my share of dumping. But it’s my stuff, not your stuff.

I shifted into exit mode, saying It looks like my time is up today.

That’s one more thing I like about you, Del, Karen said. You’re so conscientious, and you do most of the work. Makes my job pretty easy.

You still have to ask the tough questions, every now and then. And I’ve never seen you have a down day.

I’m glad to be able to be here for you. Have a good two weeks!

Is that an order?

Just a suggestion.

CHAPTER TWO

I t was after 9 a.m. when I got to the office, and Sally Mae was at her command post in the front office. Short in stature, long on memory, she had eyes like Bambi and missed nothing.

You look wide awake, I observed.

A 6:30 a.m. phone call will do that for you, was her wry yet not uncheerful response. I’m on the prayer chain, as you may recall. I believe you called Paula at the crack of dawn to get that going. Anything you want to add to that cryptic prayer request, ‘a family in distress’?"

Not right now. I trust you were already awake when that call came in?

Right! she snorted. And the Pope is a closet Protestant!

Sally Mae Beaufort, age somewhere around forty, had been church secretary and administrative assistant for almost eight years. It had been a fortunate hire. She was the right mix of cordiality and toughness, professionalism and Christian concern, to sit at the nerve center of the congregation, adjacent to the war room, my office. By this time she knew all the skeletons in the closets, but knew also how to avoid making a tense situation tenser, and when to offer a sympathetic ear. There was never any debate in the vestry meeting when her salary was steadily bumped up each year.

Anything I should know about? I asked.

The exterminator will be here this morning for the monthly application, bringing that aroma we so cherish. Arnie’s already making a mess in the lounge. Bob Pence stopped in, looking for you—I’m sure it’s about the roof. Haven’t checked the e-mail yet. Oh, and someone would like the church to buy him a bus ticket out of town.

A normal day, in other words.

Aren’t they all?

As I grabbed the memo slips from my inbox and moved to the inner sanctum, the phone rang, and a moment later my intercom was buzzing. Amanda Colley on Line One. There was an arch inflection in Sally Mae’s voice.

What are you smiling about? I barked, knowing that she was smiling.

And also with you was her sweet liturgical sign-off.

Good morning, Amanda. What can I do for you today? I pictured her on the other end—tall, buxom, sultry, her face framed by long brunette hair. She had been calling more frequently the past year.

Where shall I begin? she said. "It’s probably more than we