Chapter 2 - Luke

“Ruth? What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Luke. How are you?”

“Oh, fine, fine. And you?”

“Favour to ask.”

The Right Reverend Luke Bennett, Bishop of Southwell and Nottingham, smiled to himself. The archbishop never did answer such questions. “Yes?”

“Tom Carter. I’m concerned about him.”

Luke sighed and let the rosary beads slip through his fingers. “Ah yes. Obviously, it’s a horrible thing he's experienced. I’ve been keeping an eye on him, had a couple of phone calls, he’s keen to work through it – to maintain as much normality as possible - so I've been trying to respect that…”

“I met with him two days ago,” she interrupted, “and got the same attitude. I’ve been concerned since, which is why I decided to call you. He’s not been meeting to talk through things with you?”

“No...”

“I suggested that he needs to talk to someone, but honestly? This is Tom. He’s good at boxing things up, and bad at asking for help. And just between you and me, he’s not going to cope with being bishop of anywhere if he doesn’t take the time to sort out his relationship with God first. You can help him, you're good with this kind of thing...”

Once the phone was down, Luke leant back and swung on his chair. Was he good at this kind of thing? He didn't feel it. It was the kind of situation he’d been faced with in parishes, and it was always horrible, but in parishes it wasn’t senior clergy you were trying to comfort. You weren’t trying to persuade newly appointed bishops that God wasn’t evil, that God hadn’t abandoned them. And you didn’t have the added pressure of an approaching episcopal consecration.

Then again, you had all kinds of other challenges. And in the end, wasn’t grief always grief? Ordination didn’t change the basic facts of being human.

Two decades of the rosary, before he picked up the phone, found the number in contacts and waited.

“Hello, this is Tom Carter, Archdeacon of Nottingham, I’m afraid I’m unable to answer the phone at the moment but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Alternatively, you can send me an email at…”

Luke waited for the tone. “Hi Tom, this is Luke Bennett, I’d like to make a time to meet up in the next few days, give me a call back or drop me a text as soon as you can. God bless.”

And then sit back and wait, or rather get stuck into work and wait, until the ringtone broke through his concentration. He picked up and held the phone to his ear, once again thumbing through the rosary.

“Hi Tom.”

“Luke. I got your message. Something’s come up?”

“You could say that. When’s good?”

“Well, if it’s urgent, I keep time most evenings for family…”

“It’s not that urgent. How’s Monday afternoon looking?”

“Out until three. Then paperwork.”

“What time do you finish?”

“Usually out of the office at three, school run then work from home, stop around five to spend time with my daughter before dinner, do another hour or two from half seven or eight.”

“Could you replace that hour with a meeting?”

“Um… it’s nice… to be flexible. For the children.”

“Of course. How about around half three on Tuesday? I’ll be in the area, on a school visit, could I drop in?”

“Um… admin again. It’s a possibility. What’s it for, if I may ask?”

Luke sighed. “I had a call from Ruth Harwood. She's suggested I have a pastoral check-in with you.”

“Oh.” A short silence. “I see. I have some gaps next Friday, it can’t wait?”

“I don’t really like leaving things to stew. Also, I’m booked solid next Friday. And before you ask, Thursday is my day off.”

An audible sigh. “Tuesday it is, I guess.”

“Tuesday. Great. I’ll drop in as soon after half three as I can manage.”

“Okay. See you then.” Tired, lifeless agreement.

It was a similar level of enthusiasm that met him on Tuesday, when he knocked on the Archdeacon’s door. Well okay, great enthusiasm from the eight-year-old bouncing at the bottom of the stairs, not so much from Tom himself.

“Afternoon, Luke. Come in. Tea?”

“No thanks, the school gave me more than enough. Hello Mika!”

“Hello Luke!”

“You’ve grown! Again!” He was in the right mode for grinning at primary school children, having been doing it all afternoon. “I’m here to have a talk with your dad, I'm afraid, I’m sorry to be stealing him…”

“I’ll play with you later, okay?”

She hugged Tom eagerly, and he hugged her back then shooed her away. Luke waited until she’d run off to the kitchen and Tom had shown him into the sitting room before commenting.

“She's growing up well, isn't she? Not the shy little thing I baptised two years ago.”

“She is. More confident by the day, almost. Do take a seat, you’re sure I can’t get you anything?”

Luke took possession of the sofa, waving Tom to sit down. “I’m fine, thanks.” He looked across. “So. I'm here to check in with you, I'm afraid, because someone has to. How are you actually doing?”

Tom shrugged, not looking at him. “It’s hard. Obviously. I just… keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep busy. It’ll get easier.”

The answer which Ruth had refused to accept.

“And how’s it affecting you? In terms of faith, prayer..?”

Tom shrugged again. “I’ll get there.”

Right. Oh dear. “Talk to me.”

“I told you, it’s hard, it’ll get better.”

Luke kept his mouth shut. Tom tried to look nonchalant but ended up examining the floor.

“I mean… I haven’t been saying the daily office… felt too hollow… don’t want to talk to God right now… I know… canon. I always… before… except in hospital… Sorry. I’ll try…”

“Go on.” Luke had already spotted the strategically located box of tissues, and now he pushed them across towards Tom, who studiously ignored them.

“Every day I think… I should. But I just… can’t. You know? I just think… I’m too empty…” He leant back, staring at the ceiling. “I know, it sounds terrible. I’m trying…”

Luke thumbed the rosary in his pocket. What to say now? The obvious answer, offer comfort? It’s okay? “God let it happen?”

“Free will?” Tom shrugged. “God knows best? God has his reasons?”

“Bullshit.” Luke shook his head. “Those explanations have never provided any real comfort to anyone. They exist to make the hearer feel guilty about being angry.” He leant forward. “Are you angry? Really?”

Shrug. The only response Tom seemed to have to anything. “I’m not anything, really.”

“Really?”

A long pause. “Yeah. Just… sad, maybe? But mostly nothing. Like nothing matters. Like… God’s not there.”

Empty silence. Asking without an answer. The impossible question: why was God there for some and absent for others? And it couldn’t just be that some weren’t looking, because Tom believed, his whole life showed that.

“Like… when I need… like… now that… I don’t…” Tom shrugged. “Why now? Why leave… now?” He looked down at his hands, knotted in his lap.

“Why don’t you ask?”

Tom traced a finger across his palm. “I just did.”

“Not me. God.”

“Because God’s not answering.” Tom’s hands shook, and he stared determinedly over Luke’s head. “Because God doesn’t care. God’s not here. After everything, when I need him…” he waved his hands. “Poof. Nothing. Silence. God let it happen, and didn’t do anything to help. Because God doesn’t care.” He sank back into his seat. “And I know he does. And I know I shouldn’t doubt that. And I know in the end he’ll pop up… just as I’ve… dug this hole as deep… as I can manage. And then I apologise… for doubting… Sorry, I didn't mean to… say all this.”

Luke moved another bead along before answering. “It’s okay to doubt. And to be angry.”

Tom leant back, eyes closed, silent for a long while. “Do you ever feel,” he said in the end, “like God’s just playing a game? Amusing himself, with our lives?”

Hail Mary, full of grace… “I’ve wrestled with that one, yes.” The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women… A flashback, sitting at a bedside on a hospital ward. He held the memory for a moment and then set it aside, just as he had so many times before. “But in the end, I don’t believe it’s just a game. Because of the incarnation, and the cross.”

Tom sighed. “The cross. Always the cross. What if Jesus was just an elaborate part of the game?”

…and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. “Then our faith is in vain. In the end we have to decide: do we believe in the Gospel truth, or not?”

“And if I’m not sure I do?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

Tom looked at his hands. “Do you think I should quit?”

Luke pretended to think about it for a minute. “No. I don’t think so. But I think you need to take time and deal with this, properly. Everybody questions their faith at times, especially in the kind of situation you’re currently going through, but you have to rebuild - until you can say the creed and mean it, and until you can say that you love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your mind, and with all your strength - else you won’t survive in your current job, let alone as a bishop. Besides which, it’ll make you whole again, which is worth far more than any job.”

Tom dug his nails into the arm of his chair. “And if I can’t sort it out?”

“You will.” Luke held his gaze. “You will, and I will do what I can to help. Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About anything. Your daughter, perhaps.”

“Mika?”

“Not Mika. Or Liza. Your other daughter.”

Tom stared out of the window. “Grace?”

“Grace? Go on, tell me about Grace.”

“Tell you what? She was never born, there's nothing to tell.”

“Tom. You’re questioning the very nature of God. Because of this child.”

“Not just her.”

“Well, we can talk about the rest later. Grace.”

Tom sat staring straight ahead for a couple of minutes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything. I know she’s important, tell me about her. Why did you choose her name?”

Tom stared a little while longer, and then blinked, his eyes roving across Luke's face for a moment. “Because she was a gift. Because we’d decided… we didn’t expect a child. We agreed we’d quite like one, if… we conceived. Left it in God’s hands. And we didn’t get our hopes up until… sixteen, seventeen weeks? Because we knew with our age it was risky. But we started to think… it started to feel like an answer. You know Megan was rejected at selection conference? Well it was like… maybe this was why. And it felt like… a gift. And impossible gift. Another member of our little family – a child of our own, who we brought into the world – not that Mika or Mars or Liza are any less our own. Or Charley, if she wanted to be. We were going to be very careful, that they didn’t feel any different. But a baby, our own baby, a free gift… so we agreed, Grace. Weren’t sure about a middle name, we had time to decide. But we knew she was a girl, and we both loved Grace, and it felt so… right. You know, we didn’t know then… and when we did… yeah, she was already Grace.” Tom fiddled with his cuff. “You remember when I called you? That day, you remember?”

Luke nodded. Like he could forget.

“I’m taking my wife to the hospital. We’re worried about the baby. Prayers would be appreciated. Yeah. And then you told me not to worry about anything to do with work, and assured me of your prayers, and told me to call you if I needed anything, and asked if I’d like to be on the cathedral intercessions list for that day, or not. And I said yes. Because… anything. Anything for a miracle. Not that it made any bloody difference. Except for making it easier to reveal… after.”

“I’m sorry, Tom. Not every prayer gets the answer we want. Or indeed any answer at all.”

“I’m glad you clarified that. Because if God’s answer was… that…”

“I would never say that God let Grace die for a reason. God is not a monster.”

Tom sniffed. “Whatever you ask in my name…”

“I know.”

“God could have saved her.”

“I know.”

Tom ignored him, pulling out the tab from his collar and flicking it onto the table. “God could have saved her. She died for nothing. No reason. Just… because. The most stupid, pointless end. She could have lived, she could have been fine. She died. No real reason. Just bad luck. Megan could have had a healthy child. Could still have a healthy child. But Grace died. For no. Fucking. Reason. And God could have stopped it. And it’s not like we didn’t ask, so God ignored us. Or God chose to let it happen. And God… let it happen… and then left… us alone… And now she’s dead… And God. Doesn’t. Give. A. Shit.”

The last word, half-shouted, was followed by a shuddering breath, as Tom sat with jaw locked and eyes fixed on the ceiling, rocking gently. Luke prayed a decade of his rosary as Tom fought for breath. What else could he do, when there were no answers?

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Luke cut off the muttered apology. “I feel like you have a lot of yelling at God to do.”

A slight laugh, choked off.

“Seriously.”

“I think I might as well pack my bags and start looking for a change of career.”

“I think that would be bad for everyone, especially you.

“Why does God get a free pass for everything?”

Luke tapped his fingers against his leg. He had an answer, but it was one Tom would have to find for himself. “You’ll have to take that up with God.”

“And if God ignores me?”

“Remember the old widow, demanding justice from the unjust judge?”

Tom stared through him silently, and Luke occupied himself with a couple more beads of his rosary. The more beads he got through, the more listening he’d done. It was a good way of handling meetings, he found - and indeed life in general.

“I never…” Tom shuddered to a halt and took a deep breath before trying again. “Can I..?”

“Go on.”

“It’s just… so unfair. So unfair. I… I held her. So small. So… small. But still... an actual baby. And like… she should have been alive. She rolled around, and kicked, and was so alive. And then we actually held her, and she… wasn’t. And then…” Deep breath. “They took her away. Forever.” He sat hugging his arms around him, as if trying to fill the empty space.

“And the funeral? Did that help, or make it harder?”

“I want her back.”

Luke just nodded. “I know.”

“I just want her back.”

“Which is something you won’t get. In this life.”

“What if...” Tom swallowed. “She never lived. What if…”

“You said she even moved and kicked. She was alive, just not outside the womb. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“So she lived, and God knows her by name, and one day you will see her again.” Luke glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Tom didn't look like he could handle much more in one go. “We’re going to have another meeting. In the meantime, will you try to pray?”

Tom shrugged helplessly, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’ve tried.”

“Let me phrase that differently. You’ll try to pray.”

Shrug. “I guess.”

Luke paused, considered carefully. “Can I ask, have you tried talking to Mary?”

“Like..?” Tom shook his head. “Never been into it. “

“Can I suggest it?”

“I’ve always kind of felt… why talk to Mary when you can talk to Jesus? You know?”

“I know.” Luke swallowed, phrased it carefully in his head. “It’s just that… we’re talking about a woman who saw her child die and held his lifeless body in her arms. Not an instruction, just an idea. When you need a break from cursing God.”

“Her child came back.”

Luke exhaled heavily. “Okay. Stick to the psalms. You don’t need your own words, plenty of people have come up with good ones we can crib from.”

“You’re not going to tell me like Job’s friends did, curse God and die?”

“Curse and let God answer.”

“And if God curses me back?”

“Like that’s bothered you so far…”

Tom snorted. “I’ve always hated Job.”

Luke shrugged in return. “It has its merits. Some find it helpful.”

“Everything that sucks is because God’s gambling with Satan?”

“Clearly not you.”

“No.”

Luke took his hand out of his pocket, wrapping the rosary around his fingers. “Would you like me to set you homework?”

“Pray the rosary?”

“No. Unless you want to.” Luke leant back on the sofa, looked up at the cross on the wall. “Read the passion narratives, properly. Find some psalms you relate to. Daily Office, including Compline. Ten minutes of silent meditation at some point during the day. Examen before bed. Keeping a journal would be a bonus.”

Tom groaned. “I can’t even do Morning Prayer right now.”

“Yes, you can, and you will. Most of what I have said might be recommendations, but I expect you to say Morning and Evening prayer daily, and for your remaining time in my diocese I would like you to tell me if you fail to do so - not because there will be consequences, just because I want to know if you need more support, and because I do not want this to become a source of guilt for you.” He gave Tom a minute of silence, to reflect and come out with anything else on his mind, before sitting up straighter. “I’d like to pray and ask God’s blessing on you, if I may.”

Tom nodded, and Luke closed his eyes in a moment of silence while he found the words.

“Father… I ask you to be with Tom now and in the weeks and months to come, as he struggles with grief and loss. Loving God, send your Holy Spirit, the comforter, to be with him. Let him, and all who mourn Grace’s death, know your love which is beyond all telling, and lead him as he struggles to discern the path ahead. I ask this through Jesus Christ, who died for us and who reigns with you now and forever, Amen. Tom, may God’s blessing be upon you now and through the challenges to come, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” He traced the cross in the air, the greatest gift he could bestow, that promise of God’s love... if only Tom could feel it.

Once he'd left the house he called Ruth, and she picked up almost immediately.

“Luke?”

“Good evening, Archbishop. I just wanted to let you know, I’ve had a conversation with Tom.”

“And?”

Straight to the point, as always. "I got him to talk. Your concern was well placed.”

“I’ve known him a while.”

“Obviously.”

“You’ve made plans to follow up?”

“Yes, and I've got some monitoring in place.”

“Good. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Will do.”

“Sorry, I’m at this thing, supposed to be socialising…”

“Of course, sorry to disturb you…”

“No, thanks for calling. Anything else?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Good. God bless.”

“And you.”

He hung up the phone and shook his head. What would they do without her?

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson