Ties That Bind by Marie Bostwick Read Free Book Online

Reverend Philip Clarkson, I already know all about bringing up the rear.
    I wondered if the search committee knew about my dad. Probably. I’ve met with seven pastoral search committees since May. In each case, the first thing they said to me after “Please, sit down” was “Your father is a wonderful speaker!”
    Translation? “Your father is a wonderful speaker, so we figured you must be too. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right?”
    Yes and no. There is so much I share with Dad—a love of the outdoors and good music, a tendency to tear up during sad movies, and a deep, abiding love of and desire to serve God. But I am not an apple from the Clarkson tree. I’m adopted. My parents, Philip and Joyce, look like an ad for Scandinavian Airlines—tall, blond, and Nordic—whereas I am short, dark, and Hispanic. My birth mother was Puerto Rican. Judging from the tight curls in my hair, my father may have been African American, but no one knows. Every adoptive child grows up wondering why their birth parents gave them up, but I was able to work through most of that. My career in social work helped me understand that, sometimes, the most loving and sacrificial choice a woman in dire circumstances can make is to release her child to the care of someone else. And, growing up in a caring, stable, faith-filled home helped too. My parents and I do not share even one drop of the same blood, but they love me like their own, and that has made all the difference for me.
    Another thing my parents, specifically my father, do not share with me is exactly what all those search committees were looking for—an inspired gift of oratory. He has it. I don’t. That’s why I’ve been passed over for so many pulpits.
    But finally, I’ve got a church and six months to prove myself. Dad assures me my preaching will improve with time and practice, but Dad is a very reassuring sort of guy. Very supportive. Almost too supportive, if such a thing is possible. Dad and Mom always told me that I could do anything I set my mind to. It’s a totally appropriate parental response when talking to a five-year-old, but after her teens, a person is looking for a more realistic assessment of her abilities and talents. It’s simply not possible for everybody to be good at everything, is it?
    They’re good parents. The best. I’m lucky to have them. And I’m lucky that this position opened up without time for the folks in New Bern to take me for a test run before deciding to sign on the dotted line. If I’d had to guest preach before getting the offer, would I have found myself driving south just two days before Christmas, my car-top luggage rack loaded down like Santa’s sleigh, carrying everything I would need for a six-month sojourn in New Bern, Connecticut? I doubt it. God moves in mysterious ways.
    But as I popped another cough drop into my mouth, I couldn’t help but wonder what God had in mind, giving me a cold just before my preaching debut? Then I remembered Second Chronicles 12:9, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
    I looked in the rearview mirror, caught sight of Clementine, who was half-asleep, head lolling against the backseat, and smiled, the way I always do when I look at her, the last gift Tim gave me before he died. I wonder if he knew how much she would come to mean to me? That the necessity of caring for Clementine would be the thing that would roust me out of my mourning and force me to rejoin the human race. I bet he did.
    â€œI know what he’d say if he were here. He’d say, ‘Gee, Pippa, if God is looking for a way to display heavenly strength through human weakness, who better than you to demonstrate the principle?’” I laughed, hearing his voice in my head, and looked in the rearview mirror again. “What do you say, Clemmie? Think he’s right?”
    She