that her condition had become obvious and the congregation was reacting to her as it always did to those who had strayed. Pastor had removed her from the choir and relieved her of her duties as minister of music. She no longer led prayers at youth hour, though she continued to give a cautionary testimony that moved all of us teenagers to avoid lasciviousness. Like me, Peachie was determined to regain that special relationship with God that she had lost.
As a further show of forgiveness, I asked Peachie and Barry after service that night if there were anything at all I could do.
“Play the organ at our wedding,” said Peachie.
“I’d be honored to, Peachie.” I embraced her, careful not to disturb the unborn child, who seemed to kick, she said, especially hard when I was around.
Barry said, “Remember, Elwyn, this is a wedding. None of that boogie-woogie stuff you like to play.” Barry was a tall man, broad with thick limbs, whose little head seemed wrong for his Goliath body. When Barry shook his head back and forth, it reminded me of those wobbleheaded dogs people decorate their dashboards with.
“Don’t be silly, Barry,” said Peachie, standing between us, holding one of my hands, one of his. “Elwyn’s always done a fine job at weddings.”
“I’m just making sure. Things are bad enough as it is without the musician going boogie-woogie on us.”
“Things aren’t that bad,” responded Peachie, who was five months pregnant.
“I’m just making sure,” Barry said, looking straight at me. “I’m not flexible on this point.”
“I promise I won’t play boogie-woogie at your wedding, Brother McGowan,” I said, smiling up at him. “Especially since I don’t play boogiewoogie. It’s called gospel.”
Peachie shot me a warning look, but Barry didn’t seem to take notice or offense.
“Well that’s settled,” he said, nodding his little head. “Now how much is it going to cost? You know we’re on a tight budget with me trying to build the church up in Lakeland and all.”
Before I could even answer, the groom-to-be added, “And we’ll pay you $20. If you want more than that, my mother will get one of her other students to play.” He glared at me with his little eyes. “I’m not flexible on this point, Elwyn.”
The nerve of him. Sister McGowan, his own mother, wouldn’t play at a wedding for less than $350. My usual fee was $100. There was no musician in the whole church who would take $20 to play at a wedding. But—Praise God—the Holy Spirit bridled my tongue. Twenty dollars?
I did him one better.
“Barry, there’s no charge. Think of my music as a wedding gift.”
As the bright college boy Barry McGowan struggled to figure out how I was getting over on him, his eyes grew large in his little head. “A gift?”
“Thanks, Elwyn,” Peachie said quickly. She gave me another hug and then flinched. “Ugh. The baby just kicked. Isn’t that funny? Every time you’re around, Elwyn.”
Barry stuck out his hand to seal the deal. We shook.
“Thanks a lot, Brother Elwyn. And no boogie-woogie, right? I’m still the groom.”
“Anything you say, Barry. Praise the Lord.”
I had asked God for grace, wisdom, humility, and strength. And He had given them to me. A little more than a month after my transgression and already I had gotten over Peachie. I had stomached Barry, even Barry. My faith was stronger than it had ever been. I was well on my way to becoming a great man of God, a beacon unto the Faithful.
There was but one thing I had left undone—my confession—and with my renewed faith I was willing to do even that.
Of late, I had ceased avoiding the widow’s eyes. I had greeted her quite pleasantly last Sunday as I stood usher and she passed through the doorway amid a trio of Missionary Society sisters. I had addressed her by her name, Sister Morrisohn, and cast a friendly smile her way. She had seemed surprised, but smiled back, waving with her fingers. Is this the same Elwyn who had offended me so foul?
Yes, I was he, that vile, weak creature, but now I had thrown off my mantle of iniquity and had been reborn. Christ lived in me.
Yes, if the widow so desired, I would even confess my secret sin.
Peachie married Barry the second Saturday in October, and the entire congregation was there.
The members of the bridal party were Peachie’s thirteen-year-old sister Gwen, who stood as maid of honor; Ricardo, Brother Al’s fouryear-old Nicaraguan son, who was cute and precocious as the ring bearer (we all laughed when he loudly echoed the “I do’s” of the bride and groom); and Brother Philip, Barry’s roommate from Bible College, who stood as best man.
Peachie wore a powder blue dress that was tailored to hide the obvious. Oh, she was beautiful, my Peachie, despite the somewhat desolate expression she wore throughout the ceremony. Then again, who could be truly happy marrying Barry?
At his own wedding, he sang a solo, “O Perfect Love,” which drew tremendous applause. He sang on his knees, troubadour style, earnestly peering up at Peachie. His mother accompanied him on piano while I sat at my silent organ musing. They hadn’t told me about the solo and it wasn’t in the program, so I didn’t play it.
I suppose I could have played it by ear, but I didn’t want to.
Barry and Peachie’s reception was the first gathering held in the church’s dining hall since we had renamed it the Buford Morrisohn Dining Tabernacle three Sundays earlier in honor of our late benefactor and founding member.
The Faithful ate home-baked pastries and drank grape juice beneath pink and blue wedding streamers and Brother Morrisohn memorabilia: photographs of him from childhood to adulthood, the plaques we had given him over the years, his degrees from Tuskegee and Oberlin, even his birth certificate, dated February 1, 1901.
He had been our greatest saint.
He had been my friend. It was he who had purchased the old upright that stood in the hallway of our home, the piano upon which I had learned to play. It was he who had bought the used Mazda for me to drive when I turned sixteen. It was he who had taught me what it meant to be a good Christian man.
I had no appetite. In my mind, the Buford Morrisohn Dining Tabernacle that afternoon was divided into three zones. Peachie and Barry controlled the middle zone, surrounded by food, drink, well-wishers, levity. I occupied the zone at a far end, away from the commotion. At the other remote zone sat the widow. She seemed more interested in the pictures of her late husband than the overflowing joy of the newlyweds. She still grieved, as did I, for Brother Morrisohn.
Passing through the throng of well-wishers gathered around the bride and groom—“Congratulations, Peachie. Good luck, Barry, though I know you won’t need it, ha, ha, ha”—I made my way to Sister Morrisohn’s side of the room.
“Hello.”
“Elwyn!”
I got right to the point. I bowed my head and said, “I have to tell you how sorry I am.”
“For
