The Scoutmaster

by B. H. Moore

Thanks to Brother Carswell, I “rose” to a challenge that once had me baffled.

Church attendance for my folks was very infrequent, but every Sunday Mom prodded me out the door. After she buttoned me into a crisp, ironed, white shirt, she lounged about while my dad watched TV.

That second Sunday of September should have been no different from any other. The first counselor in the bishopric had just finished the announcements as I slipped in the door. I noticed my usual seat on the front row was already occupied, and the only spot left was in the middle of the second row. I tried to wiggle past Tom Bennington’s long legs, but he pinned me against the pew. As I struggled harder to get past, we both giggled quietly. Suddenly a dark hand rested on Tom’s shoulder. That’s when I noticed him, the man sitting in the third row.

He was old, judging by the wrinkles lining his face and the amount of white in his hair. However, his eyes were what froze my levity—a deep blue that bored right into me. A cold chill ran through my body. Tom straightened up as if shocked by electricity. Quickly freeing myself, I sat down.

When the opening song started, I slouched as usual. I hated singing of any kind, but as the congregation sang the first few words the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. From behind, the stranger’s deep, resonant voice intoned the first verse of the song. I was hypnotized by that voice. Many men croaked off key, but he hit every note with a bass clarity that was beautiful. Then, as the second verse began, a rough, sunburned hand reached past my shoulder with a hymnal turned to the proper page. Out of surprise I took the book and mumbled through the song.

“I’d like to take care of one piece of business at this time,” the first counselor announced following the invocation. “Brother Carswell, would you please stand?”

I heard a rustling noise directly behind me and saw those rough hands grip the back of my seat.

“We have extended a call to Brother Merle Carswell to be our Scoutmaster, and he has accepted. All those who can sustain Brother Carswell in this calling signify by the uplifted hand. Any opposed by the same sign. Thank you.”

What? I thought to myself. This man? Our Scoutmaster? Bishop, you’ve got to be kidding! That’s a young man’s job.

Early the following Thursday while shuffling down the sidewalk delivering newspapers, I spotted Brother Carswell walking briskly in my direction.

“Good morning,” he said in a voice that garnered instant attention.

It was disgusting how some people could be so cheerful at 5:30 in the morning.

“You walk like a man heading for the gallows.”

I had been staring at my feet but glanced at him to answer. “Yeah, sort of.”

“Let me guess. It’s the widow lady at the end of the street.”

“How’d you know?” I shot back, startled.

“I heard her scold you yesterday morning.”

“Oh. I’d sure like to know what her problem is. It’s like that every day. I just can’t do anything right.”

So why was I suddenly baring my burdens to a complete stranger? What was it about this man that prodded me to open up? He was old. He was all wrinkled and harsh looking. His eyes pierced through body and soul like Superman’s X-ray vision, yet, there was something, an invisible feeling of … I didn’t know what.

“Let’s walk,” he suggested, turning around. “You know anything about her?”

“No, except she hates kids and can’t seem to get along with grownups either.”

“Husband died about 11 years ago. Hasn’t had much contact with her children. Feels sort of, well, abandoned. Just kind of bitter at the hand dealt her.”

“That’s no reason to take it out on me.”

“Oh, you’re not the only one to catch her wrath, just the handiest this time of day.”

Brother Carswell stopped in front of a house several doors down from Mrs. Webster’s. Pulling out a well-worn pocket knife, he cut off a beautiful rose bud.

“Gee!” I whispered in panic, looking up at the house, fully expecting the owner to come flying out, shotgun in hand. “You’re gonna get us in—”

“Nah. Burt won’t mind. We go way back. Now, take this,” Brother Carswell replied with a chuckle. “Remember, you can drag a mule to water, but just out of orneriness it isn’t going to drink unless you sweeten the pond. Why don’t you slip this in her newspaper?”

Brother Carswell trimmed off the thorns and placed the rose in my hand. Without further comment he strolled away whistling a merry tune. I couldn’t believe it. This man snips off a flower, tells me to give it to one of the crankiest people in town, and walks away—in the opposite direction. The whole idea seemed so stupid that I was about to chuck the flower into the thick bushes surrounding her yard.

“Oh, why not?” I snorted to myself and tucked it carefully under the rubber band as I laid the paper on the brick ledge next to her door, just where she demanded.

That afternoon, as I rode my skateboard down the street, I saw Mrs. Webster standing on the front porch. I could tell she was gunning for me, and there was no way to ignore that screeching voice calling my name.

Everything in my being prompted me to keep going, but I slipped off the board with a stop that flipped it into my hands. Taking a deep breath, I shuffled toward her.

“My, my, you seem quite good at riding that, that thing. What do you call it?”

“A skateboard.”

“Oh, yes, a skateboard. It’s terribly hot today. Would you like some lemonade?”

One minute I hated everything about this house. Now I was sitting in the cool shade of its porch sipping fresh lemonade and munching the best cookies ever. The most puzzling thing was the fact that this grouchy woman and I were amiably talking about nothing really important. But we were talking. Soon I was fixing her stubborn lawnmower.

Brother Carswell was a rarity at 67. His wisdom and the way he taught precepts were remarkable. My first lesson had been to never give up on people just because they were different or seemingly unapproachable. With simple kindness people can open the lines of communication and begin to understand the “hand” others have been dealt.

Mrs. Webster really was a sweet lady. And I didn’t mind putting the paper on the window ledge. Arthritis made it difficult for her to bend over. Maybe that’s why I spent a lot of time weeding her flower garden and mowing the grass. Then it could have been the pay—the best cookies, cakes, and pies ever. And the friendship.

Illustrated by Scott Greer