7~A Bright, Shining Light

I had my hands up behind my head pulling my hair into a bun and I smiled

at the girl reflected in the mirror. She was wearing a blue shin-length

dress with a full skirt and a white apron tied over the skirt. The collar,

which should have been buttoned in modest country-girl style was unbuttoned

to the last button, just above my breasts, but no lower than a V-neck or

round collar shirt would be. The sleeves were elbow sleeves and the cuffs

were unbuttoned. It was a very proper kind of dress, in pure Tess

D'Urberville style, but was also like Mary-Kate Danaher's dress from The

Quiet Man. It was fitted to my waist and showed my young curves without

showing them off. It was one of several dresses from an 1800s-set movie in

which I played a farmer's daughter; the wardrobe people had let me keep my

outfits. They were actually quite comfortable and I liked wearing them, a

jeans girl though I was. Elizabeth laughed when I wore them and referred to

them as "the country girl get-ups."

I re-tied the apron strings and went outside to the garden where flower

and fruit seeds and grown flowers awaited me, waiting to be planted.

The sun was already high and the sky was clear blue. There was only the

faintest murmur of a warm breeze. I was in a bit of a dreamy mood and

danced lightly around the garden.

Until I saw the rugged green sprouts already taking over the soil.

"Damn," I muttered, my mood evaporating quickly.

I hate weeding.

And now, this gorgeous day would be devoted to…weeding. Lovely.

I shrugged and began. Loosen the soil, firmly grip the weed towards the

bottom of the stalk, then pull. Even though I hated weeding, I was actually

pretty good at it. I managed to get most, if not all, the roots out.

I bagged up the weeds and started to plant the flowers. The cool soil a

few inches under felt good as I dropped the seeds in. I was completely lost

in my own thoughts and my hands, accustomed to such work, automatically dug

a little deeper for the grown flowers. Somewhere in my mind, I was aware

that a car had pulled up in the driveway, but I couldn't tell, as the

driveway was at the front of the house and I was at the side/back. It was

probably Elizabeth. Perhaps Paul.

I smiled and was conscious of reddening a little as the memory of looking

up into his face when he caught me played in my mind. I was humming,

too---strange all the things you do when you're not paying attention.

My ears caught a light step on the graveled driveway, but I ignored it,

telling myself that I had things to do. Whoever it was could come and talk

to me if they had to.

Fruits, now. There were only a few of them: strawberries, watermelon and

tomatoes. I began with the watermelon plant first. My shovel made a faint

clinking sound that mingled with a slam of some sort.

Why did I keep feeling that someone was spying on me?

I turned quickly, but there was no one at the garden gate, no shadow

across the lawn and no footsteps.

I shrugged again and returned to planting.

The breeze picked up slightly and I lifted my head a bit and closed my

eyes, feeling it cool me. After that brief rest, I began planting the

tomato stalk. I finished the strawberries quickly and sat back on my knees,

my dirty hands folded in my lap.

Then I jumped up.

This time, I was certain someone had been watching me. It wasn't my

imagination.

I darted a glance around but didn't feel particularly like investigating.

I picked up everything and put it away and then began to water the garden.

"Hello, luv."

I turned to see Paul sitting cross-legged on the grass behind me.

"Hey, Paul," I returned, startled by his presence.

"I brought you something," he said, with a strange gleam in his eyes.

"And what's that?"

"Stay here. I'll get it."

Bemused, I watched him disappear around the corner of the house. He came

back presently, leading a snow-white lamb by a blue ribbon.

"Oh, Paul!" I exclaimed. "It's adorable! Boy or girl?"

"Girl," he replied, looking pleased that I was so happy. "She's my gift to

you, Lynne. You could use some animals around here."

"My pets are back in California," I said, laughing. "I've got eight

chinchillas."

Paul looked puzzled. "What's that?"

I explained as best I could that a chinchilla was a small, furry creature

in the rodent family, but not in the least like a rat or mouse. ("They're

so cute and lovable and soft!") I also explained, with a bit of anger, that

chinchilla fur was also used for coats.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I didn't mean to make you listen to my

rambling about my pets, but it's just so wrong to have coats made out of

them! They're my pets---I see them run around in their cages and I hold

them and feel their love and trust in me. And when I pick up things for

them, I see a pelt tumbler---" Here I stopped for a breath.

"It's all right, Lynne," Paul said gently. "You forget, I'm against any

kind of wrong-doing to animals. I quite agree with you." He looked down at

the demure little lamb and handed the ribbon to me. "If it doesn't work out

for some reason, I'll take her back. I won't get mad about it. But if it

does, she's yours."

"Does she have a name?"

"No. I left that to you."

I petted the lamb's head in thought. "I don't know. I'll have to think of

one. I'll turn her loose in the orchard in the meantime."

"If you like, I'll build a stall for her."

"No! I couldn't ask you to do that."

"But you didn't. I offered."

We both exchanged grins and inwardly, I marveled at how nice he was. How

nice, thoughtful, and kind. "He is," I told myself, "a very lovely man."

*****

It was Sunday. I was driving into London to attend the morning service, as

I did every Sunday I could.

The first time I went, it caused quite a stir, but I found that if I left

immediately after it was over, no one bothered me. I had security lined up

when I was in town, but never so that I felt cloistered in bodyguards.

After the first time I went, the congregation seemed to accept that I was

just a fellow worshipper and no matter my stature and wealth, we all shared

the same God. Besides, I wasn't the only celebrity in there! Elizabeth

attended and many new rising stars were there.

I put on an above-the-knee dress of blues, yellows, soft greens, and faded

purples. It was stylish and it was decent. Layered at the hem, two-inch

straps and an innocently low neckline. It was really nice; I had designed

it and Elizabeth had gotten it done for me.

I got in my car and drove off, Elizabeth too tired from being out the night

before to accompany me.

Along the way, I thought of names for the little lamb Paul had given me.

Lammy? Posie? Flower? Or how about "Lamb"? Or how about, I thought with a

grin, "Pauline"? Right now, Elizabeth and I referred to the lamb as "Paul's

lamb."

London in sight, I studied it as I drove closer. It had been my dream to

live in England as a star someday, and now I was. Rich accents followed me

everywhere and even if it were often cloudy, just being there made up for

it.

I approached the parking lot and parked, my bodyguards (who had been

driving behind & in front of me) parked as well and helped me out,

escorting me in and then sitting quietly in the back as I made my own way

to my usual pew.

I talked with Mrs. Lanyer, who shared my pew and was one of the very

"involved" members. She was always happy to see me at church and from what

I understood, she thought that my presence, as a much admired and

successful young lady, proved to the world that God still dwelled in the

young and hoped that I would be able to influence people into coming

church. She never said this, but she hinted at it often. I rather liked

talking with her little granddaughter, Rachel Anne. She was four years old

and very sweet and seemed to be very much in awe of me, having seen my face

on the billboard outside church. She lisped a little and called me "Mith

Lewith" until I asked her to call me Lynne. She and I often had nice talks

before the service began and sometimes I would hang around a few minutes

after church to finish talking with her.

"Lynne," she began earnestly, as soon as Mrs. Lanyer and I finished

talking, "that bad little boy in Thunday Thool came o'er to my houth

yetherday and when hith mummy wath'nt looking, he ate my cookie!" She

folded her little arms crossly. "He thaid he did it becauth you liked me

too muth and you would give me another cookie if I athked. Can I, Lynne?

Can you give me one?"

"Sure," I said, hugging her. "I'll take you out sometime and get you as

many cookies as you can eat."

Rachel Anne stood up quickly and gave me a happy hug and shy kiss.

"I like you," she said solemnly and then sat back down as the pastor came

to the pulpit and called church to order.

"I like you too, m'darlin'," I whispered to her and squeezed her little

hand in affection.

The first hymns were sung, Rachel Anne's little voice blending with mine

and her hands clutching at her grandmother's and mine. The pastor called

out for the teachers of Sunday School so that they would take the little

ones to class. Mrs. Lanyer and Rachel Anne departed and I was almost alone

in the pew, except for the two couples on either ends of the pew.

Announcements were made and my mind wandered a bit, but in the midst of

the respectful quiet, I heard the church door open and someone, with a

light, confident and yet shy step come in. Stragglers, I thought with a

smile, recalling my own tardiness to church when I was younger, back in

California.

The church rose as the pastor gave out the final hymns before the sermon.

I harmonized automatically, with half of my attention, as I drifted back to

being fifteen and my regular attendance at a Filipino-American church with

my mother and sister and brother and how the pastor's wife and I used to

harmonize.

I heard the step of the late person again, but it came to me that whoever

it was was coming to my pew. I didn't even look around, but just kept

singing, leaning against the pew in front of me, my hands resting on it

without a hymnbook, as I knew the hymns by heart. As I continued singing, I

noticed the all the church members fidgeting and looking towards me, yet

trying not to.

Without warning, a soft, warm hand laid itself on mine and an arm was

across my back and the owner's other hand held a hymnbook in front of me

and whoever the person was. Startled, I turned my head and met the side of

a clean-shaven male cheek, with long, graying brown hair falling across his

brow. He wasn't looking at me, but was intently studying the hymnbook and

singing with the voice of a person who didn't know the songs very well. But

his voice was sweet, all the same, and his hand applied slight pressure to

mine.

It was Paul.

*********

"Last hymn, number 186, " 'Amazing Grace,'" the pastor announced.

A faint smile played about Paul's lips as he closed the book and sang

clearly, knowing the song well. He still had his hand on mine, though his

other had dropped to his side.

My voice rang out as strongly as his did and I looked at him, wanting

violently to laugh. I knew at last what he had been up to, with all his

questions at dinner the other night.

He had thought about what I'd said, and now he was here and that was what

was important.

Singing was over and everyone sat, though I seriously doubt if anyone

listened much to the sermon with Beatle Paul sitting next to Lynne Lewis.

But they all seemed to pay the deepest attention and no one turned around

again.

The sermon was, coincidentally, on how and why you needed to be saved. The

pastor was very good and there was a lot more emotion and caring than I'd

seen previously, except for the day Elizabeth and I came to church.

Paul sat relaxed next to me and his eyes had that intelligent gleam to

them I'd seen often when we talked of intellectual things. He was soaking

up the information; learning. His arm rested on the back of the pew, across

my back, but his hand dangled over the pew and not my shoulder, making it

not some sort of "Ooh, they're in love!" gesture, but one of relaxed

friendship. His legs were crossed and he occasionally rubbed his chin or

ran a hand through his hair and his expression was of deep interest.

As soon as I got used to his presence, his being there beside me, I sat

comfortably in the pew and gave the pastor my full attention. The sermon

was preached so earnestly and with so much truth that tears ran down my

face and my heart and soul felt like bursting with love. By this time, I

had leaned forward a bit, with the posture of a

sitting-down-in-class-but-listening teenager; my head was propped up by my

fists and my elbows rested on my knees. The pastor finished his sermon with

fire and vim and bade us all to stand and sing, "All Breathing Life, Sing

and Praise Ye the Lord," a song I'd taught the accompanist and choir, which

had been a song for my high school concert choir. The church choir had

learned it well and soon had everyone singing in four parts, just the

beginning of the song.

"And now, my brothers and sisters," the pastor called out into the strong

singing, "come forth if you wish to be saved by our Lord, Jesus Christ!"

The singers kept on and many people had left the pews and were standing by

the pastor for the prayer of salvation. Many were crying.

Paul touched my shoulder and when I looked up at him, I realized that he

was crying too. He smiled at me, a gentle, beautiful and peaceful smile,

and went up to the altar, where the pastor was. He led them in prayer. I

stood up with them and reconfirmed my faith before the world and my hand

and Paul's were linked together. Softly we both said, at the end of the

prayer,

"Amen."

On toChapter 8