Church Lady Chronicles: Devilish Encounters

By Terri Martin

A Disclaimer by Miss Bea Righteous
Well, my heavens! Where do I begin? First and foremost, while calamity may seem the result of my well-intentioned actions at the Gnarly Woods Senior Complex, I would like to make it clear that it is my mandate from above to protect the vulnerable, young and old, from taking that slippery slope into the devil's lair. Perhaps inadvertent collateral damage has occurred but I must preface the recounting of my struggles with the devil and his minions by declaring that I am held harmless from any and all such incidental damage or harm. Upon your wise purchase of this book (transformative!) and upon reading the chronicles within, I am fully confident that you will fully exonerate me from any wrongdoing and agree that I am on the path of righteousness. Though, of course, I do not expect any fanfare or meritorious recognition for my service.
"Bea Righteous sees Satan just about anywhere and especially on those smartphones. There is no limit to how much damage Bea Righteous can invoke by way of her misguided do-gooder activities... a whirlwind of chaos surrounds our heroine... If this raises a chuckle, you are a definite candidate for the Church Lady Chronicles."
--Victor R. Volkman, U.P. Book Review
From Gnarly Woods Publications

• Language: English
• Publisher: Modern History Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781615997169

Book preview

Beware the Devil’s Tool

I want to start out by saying that I, Bea Righteous, am blameless regarding the incident wherein Florence Dibble got her ample bottom stuck in the trash chute at the Gnarly Woods Senior Complex. And even if I were somehow responsible, which I am not, I could truly say, The devil made me do it. But, my heavens, I’m ahead of the story.

Now you may think of Satan as someone who forgot his sunscreen and carries a pitchfork with barbed tines, so that when he spears sinners, they don’t slip off. Such a ghastly image. In reality, Satan is a sinister shape-shifter who can be anywhere and everywhere. Ever have an odd feeling—and I don’t mean after eating Mexican—that somebody or something is in the room? Except nobody’s there! It could be Satan hisself, looking for his daily fix of soul extraction. The good and righteous will keep him behind, but he’s a tricky one and will try to get in front so he can trip you up. You may think you just slipped on that rug but more likely it was Satan grabbing at you, trying to get you through his trap door into You-Know-Where. Some folks claim it to be space aliens and Bigfoots and people with no sense of direction that causes mysterious disappearances. But I suspect otherwise. For example, I’m positive that my brother-in-law, Bill, (rest his soul) didn’t get lost hunting and he didn’t succumb to hypothermia, but rather fell into the clutches of Satan who craved his soul and made some cheesy offer to seal the deal. I have no doubt that Bill sold out cheap.

And about that barbed pitchfork. It’s simply a metaphor for Satan’s stealthy ability to snag victims and pull them into the underworld. You see, he has tools that appear innocuous, but, indeed, they’re not; they’re very dangerous and stored in the back pockets and handbags of the throngs, including youth. Especially youth. It’s those dreadful smart phones I’m talking about where you can look and—imagine!—take a photo of yourself. And you can do FaceNook and tell the whole world where you live, what you eat, what school your children are in, where you work, what you love and hate, your politics, your religion, your dog’s name and the last time you had relations. Some say that I’m old fashioned. Maybe I am, thank you very much. My niece called me a Luddite and I have no idea why. I’m a Methodist just as my family has been for generations. I pray for her.

Now Satan used to have to spend a lot of time doing research: watching children on the playground, peeking in bedroom windows and so on. Now he just sits hisself on his brimstone throne and thumbs through that so-called Face Nook, looking for selfies and such until he finds someone who looks appealing. Of course, they tell him where they live, when they’re home and what they had for breakfast, and they pretty much broadcast what they’re coveting, such as a tropical vacation or a new double wide. So now Satan can hot foot it on over to check out his prospective victim.

I had a direct experience the other day at the church where I was setting everyone straight about funeral protocol, including the minister who seemed preoccupied with the deceased’s family rather than the fact that one of our congregants had once again taken up two parking spots. Anyway, I was straightening the handles on the coffee cups in the fellowship hall getting it all ready for the bereaved for after the graveside, trying to make it proper (because an improperly set table reflects poorly on church standards) and I just about had the handles all facing the same way, when the ground shook and I felt a cold chill. Can you imagine? I was thinking it was either the Lord or the devil coming to call me away. Of course, I knew it would be the former but I was ready for the latter, just in case my soul had been compromised by our pastor. I had just been telling Pastor Goode about the parking issue and he was on his smart phone thumbing through some photos he had taken of the deceased before he died and I couldn’t be sure that he didn’t capture a likeness of me and transmit it out into the netherworld where Satan is known to lurk. I later determined that the rumble and chill had entered the hall when the fellowship door had sprung open when a logging truck went by and jake- braked, which shook everything up and let in a sweep of cold air. Still, I do not chalk it up to coincidence. Indeed! Doors don’t just pop open, truck or no truck.

Well, my heavens, I finally got a grip on myself and fixed the last couple of coffee cup handles before I went on out to pay my final respects and, oh Lord, what did I see? A tiny man wearing a peculiar red coat actually leaned over the coffin, which still had the lid up, and snapped one of those selfies of him and the deceased. Nobody seemed to think it odd, but I am certain that it was The Evil One in disguise coming to collect a soul. Maybe he was running behind schedule and didn’t get the soul before the body went to the funeral home for embalmment. I’m not sure what happens to the soul during all that macabre stuff that goes on in the embalming room, but I’m quite certain that the soul is supposed to leave the body IMMEDIATELY upon the actual passing. It’s highly irregular for Satan or the Lord for that matter, to come during a service or even a visitation in order to collect a soul. However, I’m quite certain that’s exactly what Satan was doing: using his devil’s tool smart phone to take possession the defective soul of Albert Feeblefester and take it on down to You Know Where. It doesn’t surprise me that Albert is going south because more than once I caught him dozing off during the sermons and he was stingy when the collection plate went around even though he was quite well off. Yes, for certain, he was good material for the devil and I surmise that he likely traded his soul for a new hunting shotgun or bass boat. He always did seem to have plenty of money for fancy men toys and now I know why.

Shortly after Albert’s soul was snatched, the lid on the casket went down and everyone trickled out of the church to get in their cars and head to the cemetery for the interment. They were all looking at their wicked phones, talking in them or running their fingers over them like they were actual LIVING THINGS. Well, they headed out toward the cemetery but I cut out of line and drove to the Gnarly Woods Senior Complex where I live. I didn’t dare speed though, oh no, not with the police having nothing better to do than write Christian ladies tickets for going a little fast or driving on the sidewalk.

Anyway, when I stepped out of the elevator on my floor, I was practically mowed over by Florence Dibble who is always wandering the halls. Well, she wasn’t paying attention and didn’t even notice me trying to get around her ample-ness. I said excuse me and she looked up then and grinned like a fool and held up something for me to see. Then she said, Got it! My first sail-free! It took me a second to realize I’d once again fallen victim to the devil’s tool, and that Florence, the idiot, had taken a selfie of both of us and I had to think quick before it got passed on to Satan. There was nothing to do but grab that smart phone and toss it down the trash chute for incineration. I think you can figure out the rest. I will say that Florence’s weight problem paid off because by the time the fire department got there to pull her out, I had time to pack a few things and be on my way to Branson to pay my sister, Ida, a surprise visit.

The Devil In Disguise

As usual, it wasn’t my fault and, as usual, everyone blamed me. How was I, Bea Righteous, to know that Tillie Thudbottom was feeding the gosh darn things again—even after our maintenance man, Crisco Motley, sacrificed his soul to get rid of them? And all of this when we were getting ready to have our annual Fall Frenzy at the Gnarly Woods Senior Complex to raise money for underprivileged youth.

It started with a distinct odor just outside the service door of the Gnarly Woods Senior Complex where I live with 54 other elders, none of whom give a whit about simple rules. Now I mentioned our maintenance man, Crisco Motley, who, due to a lack of simple obedience to scripture that correlates cleanliness with godliness, emits a less than pleasant aroma. But he was not the cause of the new, more pronounced smell that emerged. And, giving the devil his due, Crisco is handy at fixing things and keeps the grass mowed and the snow plowed at Gnarly Woods for a reasonable wage. The musky odor that precedes him makes it less likely he’ll sneak up on the hard of hearing, too, which is a plus among the elderly. His real name is Chris, but he was branded with the nickname Crisco when someone saw him using a popular vegetable shortening to slick down his hair.

On the other end of the spectrum is his wife, Petri, who is neat as a pin, always wearing a clean apron, aggressive hairnet and sensible shoes while managing the Gnarly Woods dining services where she pursues an infinite variety of chicken dishes.

Oh, my heavens, I’ve wandered totally off the subject of the distinct odor—not Crisco’s—that was wafting into the service entrance. Tillie Thudbottom claimed that she saw a stray cat with kittens lurking around and, being a soft touch, purchased some cat food and began setting bowls of kitty kibble out on the back stoop of our complex. Unfortunately, the kitties were not feline at all—at least I don’t think skunks are considered feline—and we now had a mother skunk and several skunkettes—well I guess they’re called kits, but that’s too confusing— coming for a handout at the back door every night, leaving their unmistakable scented calling card. The odor worked its way into the kitchen and made the chicken de jour even less appealing.

Petri told Crisco to dispose of the vermin immediately before the health department came in and