“It’s not what we want! It’s what has to be!”
“I don’t agree,” Samuel said, determined. “Why don’t we pray about it?”
Otis looked dismal. “What good is praying going to do at this point?”
Hollis stood up. “My leg’s seizing up on me. Got to move.” He took his cane from the back of the pew and limped to the front of the church. “I don’t know what’s happening in our country these days.” He pounded his cane on the floor. “I brought up all four of my children to be Christians, and not one of them attends church anymore. Only time they ever go is on Christmas and Easter.”
“Probably commuting to work all week,” Otis said. “It takes two people working to pay for a house these days, and then they have to replace the car every few years because they’re driving so much. My son puts 140 miles on his car every day, five days a week, and his wife about half that. And then it costs them $1,800 a month for child care. Plus insurance, and . . . ”
Yada, yada, yada. Samuel had heard it all before. The world stinks. The new generation has no respect for the older. The environmentalists are all hippies from the sixties and the politicians are all crooks, adulterers, and worse. “We know the problems. Let’s work on solutions.”
“Solutions!” Otis shook his head. “What solutions? Look, Samuel. It’s over. We have a congregation of what?”
“Fifty-nine,” Hollis said dismally. “On the membership roster. Thirty-three made it to church last Sunday.”
Otis looked at Samuel. “There. You see how it is. We haven’t got the money to pay the bills. We haven’t got a pastor to preach. The only child we have in the congregation is Brady and Frieda’s grandson, and he’s only visiting. Unless you want to take over, Samuel, I say we walk away gracefully.”
“Gracefully? How do you shut down a church gracefully?”
Otis reddened. “It’s finished. When are you going to get it through your thick head, my friend? The party was fun while it lasted, but it’s over. It’s time to go home.”
Samuel felt the heat well up from deep inside him as though someone were blowing softly over the dying embers inside his heart. “What happened to the fire we all felt when we came to Christ?”
“We got old,” Hollis said.
“We got tired,” Otis said. “It’s always the same people working while the rest sit in the pews and expect everything to run smoothly.”
Samuel stood up. “Abraham was a hundred when he fathered Isaac! Moses was eighty when God called him out of the desert! Caleb was eighty-five when he took the hill country surrounding Hebron!”
Otis harrumphed. “Eighty must’ve been a whole lot younger back in Bible times than it is now.”
“We came together in this place because we believe in Jesus Christ, didn’t we?” Samuel clung stubbornly to his faith. “Has that changed?”
“Not one iota,” Hollis said.
“We’re talking about closing down the church, not giving up our faith,” Otis said hotly.
Samuel looked at him. “Can you do one without the other?”
Otis puffed up his cheeks and scratched his brow. His face was getting red again. Always a bad sign.
“We’re still here,” Samuel said. “This church isn’t dead yet.” He wasn’t backing down, no matter how much Otis huffed and puffed.
“There was $102.65 in the offering plate this past week.” Otis scowled. “Not even enough to pay the utility bill. It’s past due, by the way.”
“The Lord will provide,” Samuel said.
“The Lord, my foot. We’re the ones paying all the time. Are you going to pay the property taxes again, Samuel?” Otis said. “How long can this go on? There’s no way we can keep this church going now, especially without a pastor!”
“Precisely.”
“And where are you going to get one?” Otis glowered. “Last I heard, they didn’t grow on trees.”
“Even with a new pastor, we haven’t got the money to pay the bills. We’d need more people.” Hollis sat down and stretched out his leg, kneading his thigh with arthritic fingers. “I can’t drive a bus anymore, and I’m not up to going door-to-door like we did in the old days.”
Otis skewered him with a look. “We haven’t got a bus, Hollis. And now that we haven’t got a pastor, we haven’t got a service to invite them to.” He waved his arm. “All we’ve got now is this building. And an earthquake would probably bring it down on our heads.”
Hollis laughed bleakly. “At least then we’d have insurance money to send Hank off in style.”
“I’ve got an idea.” Otis’s tone dripped sarcasm. “Why don’t we turn this old place into a haunted house on Halloween? Charge ten bucks a head. We could pay off all our bills and have enough to give Hank a love offering.”
“Very funny,” Samuel said dryly.
Otis scowled. “I’m only half kidding.”
Samuel looked back and forth between the two men solemnly. “We still have thirty-three people who need fellowship.”
Hollis’s shoulders dropped. “All of us with one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel.”
Samuel stood his ground. “I vote we call that dean.”
“Okay.” Otis raised his hands. “Okay! If that’s what you’re after, you’ve got my vote. Call that dean. See what he can do for us. Nothing, I’m betting. Call whomever you want. Call God, if He’s bothering to listen anymore. Call the president of the United States for all I care. I’m going home and make sure my wife hasn’t set the kitchen or herself on fire.” Shoulders slumped, Otis walked up the aisle.
For all Otis’s bluster and protestations, Samuel knew his old friend didn’t want to give up any more than he did. “Thanks, Otis.”
“Just don’t go getting some hotshot who’ll bring drums and an electric guitar!” Otis called back over his shoulder.
Samuel laughed. “That might be just what we need, old buddy.”
“Over my dead body!” The front door of the church banged shut.
Hollis hauled himself to his feet, took his cane from the back of the pew, and sighed deeply. He looked around for a long moment. “You know . . .” His eyes went shiny. His mouth worked. Pressing his trembling lips together, he shook his head. Raising his cane in a faint salute, he limped up the aisle.
“Keep the faith, brother.”
“Night,” Hollis said hoarsely. The door opened again and closed firmly.
Silence filled the church.
Samuel put his hand on his Bible, but didn’t pick it up. He prayed, tears running down his cheeks.
Samuel drove up the narrow driveway, passed under the carport, and pulled into his garage. The back door of his small American bungalow opened, and Abby stood in the light waiting for him. She kissed him as he crossed the threshold. “How did the meeting go?”
He touched her cheek tenderly. “I’m going to call Hank’s friend tomorrow.”
“Thank God.” She crossed the kitchen. “Sit down, honey. I’ll have your supper warmed up in a few minutes.”
Samuel put his Bible on the white Formica table, pulled back a chrome chair, and sat on the red vinyl seat. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“At least they’ll listen to you.”
“Only because they’re getting too tired to argue anymore.”
Abby smiled over her shoulder. “Don’t get cynical this late in the game. Something like this can make us feel young again.” She punched in numbers on the microwave.
“Otis says I’ma dreamer.” He watched Abby put silverware and a napkin on the table in front of him. She was as beautiful to him now at seventy-four as she had been at eighteen when he married her. He took her hand. “I still love you, you know.”
“You’d better. You’re stuck with me.” The microwave pinged. “Your supper’s ready.”
“Otis was fit to be tied when he got to the church. Mabel is having a hard time of it again. Back on oxygen.”
“So I heard.” She set the plate before him. Meat lo
af, mashed potatoes, green beans. “I called her this evening. We had a long chat.” She took the chair opposite him.
He picked up his fork. “Was she behaving herself?”
Abby laughed. “I could hear someone talking about layered salads in the background; then Mabel turned the television down.”
“Poor old soul.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. Half her fun is frustrating Otis. She knows exactly which buttons to push to make him jump.”
“She doesn’t miss cooking?”
“Not as much as he wishes she did.”
“Women. You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.”
She left her chair and opened the old refrigerator. She poured a tall glass of milk, set it down in front of him, and sat again. She could never sit for long. It was against her nature. She tented her fingers and watched him. Despite his lack of appetite, he ate, slowly, so she wouldn’t worry. “Susanna will be relieved, Samuel. She’s wanted Hank to retire since he had bypass surgery.”
“They won’t have much to live on. It’s not as though they have a place to sell.”
“I think Susanna will miss that old parsonage. She told me they have about ten thousand in savings. Thank God we have a retirement fund to give them. Otherwise, they’d be depending on their children to help support them.”
Samuel told her the bad news. Abby bowed her head, saying nothing. He set his fork down and waited, knowing she was sending up one of her desperate prayers again. When she raised her head, her face was pale, her eyes moist. He shared her shame. “I wish I’d been born rich instead of handsome.” The old joke fell flat. Abby reached over and put her hand on his. He shook his head, unable to speak.
“I wonder what the Lord is doing this time,” she said wistfully.
“You’re not the only one.”
Paul Hudson could hear the racket the moment he opened the front door of his rental house. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it in the hall closet. He laughed when he saw his three-year-old son, Timothy, on the kitchen floor, banging on the bottom of a pot with a wooden spoon while Eunice sang, “Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers . . . ”
Grinning, Paul leaned against the doorjamb and watched them. Timothy spotted him. “Daddy!” He dropped the spoon and jumped up. Paul scooped him up, kissed him, and swung him around and up onto his shoulder.
Smiling, Eunice put a handful of wet silverware into the drain rack and reached for a towel. “How was your day?”
“Great! The class went well. Lots of questions. Good discussion. I love seeing how on fire people can get.” He came over and kissed her. “Hmmm. Mommy smells good.”
“We made cookies today.”
“Can I have a horseback ride, Daddy?”
“If you go easy on your old man.” Paul got down on all fours. Timmy swung on and clamped his skinny legs against Paul’s rib cage. Paul reared up and made a whinnying sound. Timmy held on, shrieking with laughter. He kicked his heels twice into Paul’s ribs. “Easy, cowboy!” Paul glanced up at Eunice laughing at them, his heart swelling. How could any man be so blessed? “Good thing he doesn’t have spurs!” He allowed Timmy to ride him around the living room three times before he rolled over, spilling Timmy onto the rug. The child clambered quickly onto Paul’s stomach, bouncing none too gently. “Uh! Uh!” Paul grunted.
“There’s a call from Dean Whittier on the answering machine,” Eunice said.
“I haven’t talked with him in a while. What time is it?”
“Four-thirty.”
“Airplane ride, Daddy. Please!”
Paul took him by one arm and one leg and swung him around while Timmy made roaring sounds. “He never leaves the office before six.” He landed his son gently on the sofa. “Let’s play soccer, Timmy.” He kissed Eunice before heading into the backyard. “Give me a whistle at five-thirty, okay? I don’t want to leave the dean hanging.”
Outside, Timmy kicked the ball to him and he nudged it back. When Timmy tired of the game, Paul pushed him on the swing. When Eunice came to the door, he swung Timmy up on his shoulders and came back inside. She took him. “Time to wash up for supper, munchkin.”
Paul headed for the telephone. He pushed the button on the answering machine. “This is Dean Whittier. I’ve had a call and I think it concerns you.”
The cryptic message left Paul uneasy. He flipped open his address book and punched in the number. Dean Whittier had encouraged him through his college years. Paul had tried to keep in touch, but it had been six months since he last talked with him. He was grateful for the dean’s support at Mid-west Christian College, especially when he had felt the pressure of every-one’s expectations. Because he was the son of a well known pastor, some people thought he must have inherited a special kind of anointing. It would’ve surprised everyone to know he’d never been privy to the workings of his father’s church, other than understanding his dad held the reins. Paul had listened and watched parishioners stand in awe of David Hudson and jump to do his bidding.
Paul had worked hard to earn top standing in his classes. It hadn’t been easy, but he hadn’t dared do less from the time he was old enough to enter school. Anything less than excellence had earned his father’s contempt. His father expected perfection. “Anything less than your best dishonors God.” Paul had struggled to measure up, and had often fallen short of his father’s expectations.
Dean Whittier had recommended Paul for the position of associate pastor at Mountain High Church, one of the biggest churches in the country. Sometimes Paul felt lost in the masses on Sunday mornings, but as soon as he entered a classroom, he felt at home. He loved to teach, especially small groups where people could open up and talk about their lives and be encouraged in faith.
“Dean Whittier’s office. This is Mrs. MacPherson. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Evelyn. How’re you doing?”
“Paul! How are you? How’s Eunice?”
“She’s as gorgeous as ever.” He winked at Eunice.
“And Timmy?”
He laughed. “He was just playing drums in the kitchen. Future music minister.”
Evelyn chuckled. “Well, that’s no surprise, considering Eunice’s talents. The dean has someone in his office, but I know he wants to talk with you. Can you hold? I’ll slip him a note and let him know you’re on the line.”
“Sure. No problem.” He flipped through the mail while he waited. Eunice had already opened the bills. Ouch. The gas bill had gone up. So had the telephone and utilities bills. He set them aside, and sifted through the junk mail from various charities pleading for money, and then flipped through the CBD pastors’ catalog.
“Paul,” Dean Whittier said, “sorry to keep you waiting.” They exchanged greetings and pleasantries. “I talked to Pastor Riley the other day. He gave me a glowing report on your progress. He said your classes are always full and have waiting lists.”
Paul felt uncomfortable beneath the praise. “There are a lot of people hungry for the Word.”
“And areas that are dying for lack of good teaching. Which brings me to the reason for my call. An elder from a small church in Centerville, California, called me this morning. Their pastor’s an old friend of mine. He had a heart attack and isn’t up to coming back. The elder said the church will fold without someone in the pulpit. The congregation is down to about fifty members, most over sixty-five. They have some assets. They own a hun-dred-year-old sanctuary, a fellowship hall built in the sixties, and a small parsonage where the pastor can live rent-free. The Lord immediately put you on my mind.”
Paul didn’t know what to say.
“The town is somewhere in the Central Valley between Sacramento and Bakersfield. You’d be closer to your parents.”
The Central Valley. Paul was familiar with the area. He’d been reared in Southern California. Every summer, his mother had driven him north to visit his aunt and uncle in Modesto. Some of his best memories from child-hood involved those weeks with his cousins. His fathe
r had never come along, always claiming work at the church that demanded his attention. When Paul had gotten up the courage to ask him why he avoided his aunt and uncle, his father had said, “They’re nice people, Paul, if all you want to do is play. But I don’t have time for people who have no interest in building up the kingdom.”
The summer after that, Paul’s mother had headed north without him, and Paul had gone to a Christian camp on Catalina Island instead.
Sometimes Paul wondered about those cousins who had long since grown up and moved away. They were the few relatives he had on his mother’s side. His father was an only child. Grandma Hudson had died long before Paul was born, and Paul could remember very little about Grandpa Ezra, who had spent his last years in a convalescent hospital. The old man died when Paul was eight. Paul remembered feeling relieved that he would never have to go back to that foul-smelling place, or see the tears running down his mother’s face every time they walked out of the depressing facility.
Odd how the mention of an area of the country could bring such a flood of memories washing over him in the space of a few seconds. He could almost smell the hot sand, vineyards, and orchards and hear the laughter of his cousins as they plotted another prank.
“You’d be a staff of one,” Dean Whittier said. “And you’d be stepping into the shoes of a pastor who shepherded that church for forty years.”
“Forty years is a long time.” Paul knew a loss like that could cause a fire-storm in a church, enough of one to incinerate the congregation before he even got there. Or incinerate him if he did feel called to head west.
“I know, I know. Losing a long-standing pastor can kill a church quicker than anything else. But I think you may be the man God is calling there. You have all the qualifications.”
“I’ll have to pray about it, Dean Whittier. They may be looking for someone much older and far more experienced than I am.”
“Age didn’t come into the conversation. And this is no time to be faint-hearted. The elder wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He called for advice more than anything. But it struck me after ten minutes of talking to this gentleman that he wants to do more than keep the doors open.”
And the Shofar Blew Page 2
