It was their first time together outside the chapel meetings. He wore the same thing he always wore: semi-dress casual. Her long wavy hair was pulled back on the sides, flowing like her simple, loose-fitting dress. It was conservative, down to the knees, and she wore flat shoes. Rather than hide her natural beauty, her attire only served to compliment it.
As they passed through the park, she suddenly turned her head, released his hand and squealed as she ran toward a figure rising from a bench. This fellow was quite large and muscular, barely concealed by the bright yellow t-shirt emblazoned with “Semper Fi” on the chest. He stepped forward to meet her as she nearly tackled him. But he was rock solid, simply grabbing her in his arms and swinging her around.
When she touched ground again, she turned to where she left her escort. “Charles, this is my cous…”
Charles was gone, nowhere in sight.
In a panic, she looked around, steadying herself with one hand on her large cousin. He pointed with his index finger. “Is that him? You better go catch him, Cuz!”
As she started to run, she half turned back, “I’ll call you later, Bronson!”
He shouted, “Go!”
She caught up with Charles as he rounded a splashing fountain. Grabbing his arm, she stopped him. Weeping profusely, almost blubbering she said, “I’m sorry Charles! You didn’t give me a chance to explain. That was my cousin; we thought he was dead…”
She tried to cling to his neck, but he held her off just a bit. His face was relaxed in that same friendly demeanor he wore most of the time. He tilted his head slightly to one side, raising one hand with the fingers spread, pointing to his jaw. “Is this the face of an angry jilted lover?”
She sobbed, drawing out the word, “No.”
He glanced around, then gently led her by the hand under the shade of a huge maple tree. On one side was an old iron trellis. Between the climbing vines and shrubbery against the frame, it was a fairly private alcove. Charles sat down on one end of the bench, turned himself sideways and rested one knee on the seat. He leaned his elbow on the back and indicated the other end of the small bench. She sat demurely, crossing her ankles and tucking them under the bench seat, half-turned to face him.
He hadn’t notice her makeup earlier, but something with color was mixing with her tears, making a mess on her cheeks. He pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it to her. With less dramatic sobbing, she began dabbing her face.
She manged to get out, “Did I embarrass you?”
“Well, it was a pretty extravagant PDA,” he said, gesturing with an open palm.
Under her breath she mumbled, “public display of affection.”
He continued, “But that was another matter.”
Still wiping tears away, she looked at him. “What did I do wrong? I don’t understand.”
Her plaintive tone was heartbreaking, and it showed on his face. Still, he managed a typical comical sarcasm. “Do tell.”
There was faint huff of laughter behind her dabbing.
“You don’t understand because we haven’t gotten to that part yet. Look, Babe, let’s recover the context here.”
He resettled himself, dropping his leg off the bench but still somewhat facing her. He raised his hands palms up, fingers spread. “During that first meeting in the chapel, the first thing you said was something about how very different I was.” She nodded slightly. “For several weeks after I took over the leadership, you clearly absorbed what that difference was, in part because you are so very different.”
She managed half of a smile.
“You didn’t say much, but it was obvious you were sucking it all up. What I was sharing was obviously what you needed to hear, an affirmation of all the things you knew instinctively, but had never heard in words.” He paused a moment, turned and took her hand. “Then you found out I was a widower. So for the past two weeks you have actively campaigned as successor. Despite your being so much younger than me, you managed to prove yourself a valid candidate — sober minded, generally calm and determined, not a silly political feminist, but committed to…” He gestured with his free hand for her to finish the sentence.
“The message,” she said quietly.
“Yes, the message. You understood that my sole drive at all times was the message. Not just the words, but the entire presentation of my human presence in this world. It’s not that I have no feelings, but I don’t let them show when they conflict with the message. So during our long talks these past two weeks, you have given good evidence. Despite my concern with the cultural gap between our ages, I wanted to give you a chance. I really don’t like working alone.” He glanced at his watch. “Some twenty minutes ago we left your apartment, headed to the Museum of Art. I told you there was something else I had to make sure you understood about that message, and among the exhibits were a good collection of positive and negative examples to dramatize critical elements in my message presentation.”
She nodded, then looked down at the handkerchief in her lap, pulling at it with her hands.
“We didn’t get there,” he continued. “So you don’t understand yet how you shot huge holes in that message.”
Tears started in her eyes again as her lip quivered.
“If you are going to become my ministry partner, we must be a team. We are a single entity; we are the message together. We’ve discussed this often enough you should know it’s not about my fragile ego. I’m not Conan the Barbarian, and I wasn’t going to let you make me appear a neutered nice-guy back there.”
She looked up as the tears renewed their flow. He reached out and wiped some away with a gentle touch. “Were I angry, you would properly assume it was impotent jealousy. It was plain to me that big studly guy was a relative or close friend, so that didn’t bother me. Nor am I concerned with how it might look to people who had no idea what was going on. I don’t get embarrassed that easily.”
He sat back. “Think about this. We walk along and you take my hand. It’s appropriate, a confirmation you intend to be on the team. Most people passing by didn’t pay much attention to us. But some did. What do you suppose those few saw?”
She looked up at him. “They probably thought I was young enough to be your daughter.”
He grinned. “Not only that, but despite your demure presentation, you are hot stuff.” She blushed. “The guys looking at us were mostly looking at you. I could see it in their eyes; they were thinking what a lucky guy I am with such fine arm-candy. The women who noticed us were also looking mostly at you. It was envy, not so much because I’m such a fine catch, but because in our society, women are inherently competitive.” She nodded knowingly. “We’ve discussed this in the past.”
He scanned the people outside the little alcove. “But these people aren’t exactly conscious of all that. Most of them are decent, but they’re TV addicts. This is the Ricky Lake crowd here, for Pete’s sake.” She almost laughed. “While we have a message for their conscious minds, we know the most important part — if it’s going to work at all — is going to work on some less conscious level. We have to make our message consistent. We are the message.”
He turned back to her, and lifted the hand he held, gripping it firmly but gently. “Your part of the message is devotion to me. Not so much adoration like a demigod, but a conspicuous persistent devotion. When you show that as your message, you empower me to extend my covering over you. I’m neither a childish brute nor a neutered nice-guy. I’m a shepherd who protects you. When I extend my covering over you, my part of the message is how utterly precious you are as my greatest treasure. We are a team; we are one. We are the message.”
He lowered their hands. “Your action broke that message. Had you simply dragged me over to meet him, that would have been on the message. It’s not about my ego, nor so much about constrained behavior in a social setting. It’s the context of who we are together. Your actions must advertise at all times my central place in your attention. That’s how God works through us. I wasn’t ditching you; I was keeping my message intact. My intention was to simply give you time alone with that fellow and wait for you at the museum. I’d have called you when I got there to see when you were coming.”
He turned and grasped both of her hands. “I can’t take responsibility for your feelings. I can only encourage you to trust me, as I intend to trust you. My commitment to the message isn’t fragile, and the place you hold isn’t fragile either. But you really do have to learn how to stay on message, because I can’t afford to break that.”
He picked up the handkerchief she dropped. “Can you get hold of Bronson again?” She nodded. “We can’t salvage what happened back there, but we can redeem what’s left of this time together. Do what you can to recover yourself now so we can continue this journey. The first part of today’s lesson was painful, and I’m sorry for that. Let’s make the rest of it as pleasant as possible.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently and briefly on her lips.
She smiled and pulled a compact from her purse. It took only a few minutes of expert artistry and she was ready. They rejoined hands as they left the alcove headed for the museum.
