One True Love

The congregation grew quiet as Maypo, the prodigal husband, staggered toward the preacher.

I remember a woman who prayed a lot. It was because of her husband. His name was Mark Alfred Poland, but everyone called him Maypo.

And he needed prayer because it seemed to me that Maypo loved two things—his wife and his beer. Only one loved him back. The other caused him nothing but trouble. It was clear which was which to everyone but Maypo.

Mrs. Maypo—her name was Mary—found solace at church. It was there that she had friends and a community that didn’t love beer—at least not that they would admit.

No matter how Mrs. Maypo urged, cajoled, or scolded her husband, he would not go near a church. Instead, Maypo rose early, made breakfast for Mrs. Maypo and himself, then sat and read the newspaper while she got ready. Before she left the house to go to Sunday School, he would put on his work clothes, gently kiss her, say, “I’ll see you soon,” and go out to the workshop attached to the detached garage. His workshop housed his collection of hand tools and a full-sized refrigerator well stocked with beer. He was usually drunk by 10 am, give or take half an hour.

She smelled the beer, too, but took his hand and smiled. The church buzzed with an almost electric shock.

Sometimes, the church would invite a different preacher for the service on Sunday. One crisp, nearly perfect fall day in the middle of October, a guest preacher stood at the pulpit. It began well. The preacher was kind. There was no hellfire, not even a whiff of brimstone. The potluck-covered dish lunch was good. Food was abundant, and much of it I liked. Men loosened their ties, and the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. The preacher was warmed up and well into his sermon when the door opened with a soft, pneumatic thud. Walking down the far left aisle in a suit, and even a tie, was Maypo. Behind him trailed a brewery-scented haze that made eyes water and mothers cover their children's noses. He found Mrs. Maypo and sat down beside her. She smelled the beer, too, but took his hand and smiled. The church buzzed with an almost electric shock.

The preacher kept preaching. He never raised his voice, repeated himself, or dragged on. He made his points with care and brevity. I watched Maypo. Instead of nodding off, squirming uncomfortably, or leaving early, he sat attentively, leaning forward in focused attention that many thought beyond him.

Though he swayed a little every few minutes, Maypo remained engrossed. When the preacher finished and said, “Let’s pray,” Maypo was the first to bow his head and close his bleary eyes.

The preacher closed with a soft “Amen,” and then walked to the back doors of the church to say goodbye to his temporary flock.

Most people gathered around Maypo to express their surprise at seeing him and to learn if he truly was drunk, as many suspected. But Maypo quickly shook hands and made his way to the preacher standing by the doors.

The crowd parted for him just as the Red Sea parted for Moses. Mrs. Maypo followed close in his wake. The congregation grew quiet as Maypo, the prodigal husband, staggered toward the preacher.

“Pastor,” he began, pausing to take a deep breath, “that was one hell of a sermon!” Though the compliment stung everyone’s ears, the preacher smiled delightedly and said, “Thank you.” Maypo nodded, swayed a little, then reached for Mrs. Maypo’s hand. She took it, smiled, then they both walked out the door.