The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,19

as dwarfed as I do when I sneak into Deedee’s parish church (which isn’t even a cathedral). The big box is slung low to the ground, like a shopping mall or community college. What it lacks in height, though, it makes up for in sprawl.

I kind of hate it.

The past few years, as the church got bigger, its name was sliced smaller and smaller. For the past eighteen months, we’ve been The Community. My best friend on staff is Holly, the director of aesthetics. (I kid you not, that is her title.) “What’s next?” I asked her. “Are we gonna cut it down to just Unity?” She gave me a serious look. “Don’t laugh. And whatever you do, don’t spread that idea around.”

In the old days, I had a lot of friends in church. There didn’t seem to be so many barriers. Now my status is, at best, ambiguous. Being the wife of a pastor is one thing. You’re on a kind of pedestal, always scrutinized, which can be unnerving. There are advantages, though. You occupy a natural role in people’s lives. To borrow a metaphor, they have a pastor’s-wife-shaped hole inside.

All you have to do is fit in.

This changes when you’re the wife of the Men’s Pastor. No one is quite sure what to do with you. My husband is the one who keeps their husbands out at night, the one their men confide in, the one they share their problems with instead of sharing them with their wives (who are, after all, sometimes the problem). Even people who knew me before Rick’s title changed aren’t as open as they used to be. I’m still a part of their lives. I still go to their book clubs and buy their makeup and vitamin supplements. But I could never talk to most of them, not honestly. I’d be too afraid of what they thought.

Holly has a little cubby of an office in the admin wing. When Jed and I split up in the cavernous atrium, instead of heading for the adult Sunday school classes, I grab two coffees at the Sacred Grounds Café (“Sandal Removal Optional”) and walk them through the security door into the office corridor, where I find Holly’s door ajar. It’s only polite to knock, but have you ever tried knocking with a steaming cup of coffee in your hand?

“Knock, knock,” I say.

“Sister, get in here. I need that coffee stat.”

I slip inside, nudging the door shut behind me.

There’s no desk in Holly’s office, only a round table laden with architect’s sketches for the next build-out, swatches, paint chips, and cardboard file boxes bulging at the sides. She sits on an orphaned conference room chair wheeled down from the other end of the hallway, beckoning me to take the other. As always, she looks impressive in her uniform: a crisp white blouse, a wasp-waisted jacket, and sculpted jeans, her straight blond hair cut in a severe bob. She’s one of those people who decide young what they look best in and stick with it no matter what the occasion. The only real variety in Holly’s wardrobe is whether her sunglasses are on or off.

When she calls me sister, I melt. I never had a sister growing up, and until now never had a stand-in. There have been women I could confide in to one degree or another, but not like this. With Holly I am unguarded, never afraid of being judged, always confident that what I say will be understood. That’s the important thing, understanding. You need someone in your life who gets you. Holly gets me.

Behind her on the computer screen in the corner, the video feed from the auditorium shows the last lingerers filing out of the early service as the worship team wraps up for the thirty-minute break. The volume is muted.

“It was good this morning,” Holly says, popping the lid off her coffee to help it cool. “The sermon wasn’t bad—or the ‘talk,’ whatever we’re calling it now.”

“Don’t spoil the ending for me.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d make an appearance this morning. I saw Stacy just now and she told me the whole family was packing up for the month and moving to Florida. What’s up with that? You say we’re friends, and I have to hear it from her?”

“Maybe if you had a beach house in Florida, I’d keep you better informed.”

“I can get one, if that’s what it takes.”

She’s joking, but the fact is, she could. Holly’s an architect by trade,